The Morning River

by W. Michael Gear

  "Fat cow," Travis said under his breath, slowly lifting the heavy rifle.

  The long wait continued.

  Step by step, the buffalo moved into range. Rosebushes and grass screened most of the animal. All Richard could see was the humped back nearly seventy paces away. The stubby tail flipped and swished with a manic passion.

  "We'll die of starvation," he muttered as he twitched to unseat the flies.

  "Hold still, coon," Travis warned. "Ye'll have every critter from hyar ter the Yellerstone a-running."

  Richard barely noticed when the cow turned sideways.

  Pffft-boom! At the report, blue smoke obscured everything ahead.

  "Hit her in the lights,'' Travis chortled.

  Richard started to rise, only to have a strong hand pull him down.

  "Yer a damned Yankee pilgrim, Dick. Hold tarnal still and listen."

  Richard glared in hot reply, but cocked his head. ''I don't hear anything."

  "Uh-huh." Travis slipped the rifle down beside him and rolled onto his back as he fiddled for his powder horn. The sunlight accented the white lines of scar tissue crisscrossing his face. As he poured powder into his measure horn, he gave Richard a sideways glance. "And if'n they's a-running, ye'd hear 'em, eh?"

  Richard grabbed fruitlessly at the fly. ''You mean you shot one . . . and the rest are just standing there?"

  "What's a buffler ter be a-feared of? Maybe a griz, but no bear's a gonna take a full-grown buff on fer the fun of it. Nope, men's about the onliest thing they's a-feared of. We don't stand up, they'll figger it's just thunder or some such. Buffler don't savvy gun shots."

  Richard swiped at the flies and ran his dry tongue around his mouth. "They'll just stand there and let us shoot them?"

  "Reckon so." Travis extracted a ball from his bullet pouch and placed it on a patch. He short-seated the bullet and used the keen blade of his patch knife to trim the cloth. With careful motions, he pulled the ramrod and sent the load home before priming the pan and snapping the frisson shut.

  "Hyar now, coon," he handed the heavy rifle to Richard. "Crawl up aside me. Slowly, now. Oh, don't mind the damn hushes, them little scratches will heal. Hell, look at my face and tell me about scratches.''

  Nevertheless, Richard winced as the tiny thorns scored his skin. He inched forward until he could see more humped backs. The buffalo remained unconcerned.

  Travis continued to whisper in his ear, "Slow, pilgrim. Now, pull yer rifle up. That's it. Get a good brace and set the stock in yer shoulder. Thar ye be. Now, put yer hand under the forestock; that's it. Ye want solid bone under the gun. Don't wobble that way."

  Richard settled in and nestled his cheek against the stock so he could squint down the lights.

  "Hold up, now. We'll wait her out."

  Richard waited, his left arm slowly going numb under the weigh! of the rifle. He blinked to clear his right eye.

  "Don't sight all the time, coon. Keep both yer eyes open till yer ready to shoot. What damn fool larned ye to close yer eye?"

  "You did."

  "Eh? Oh well, guess we never got this far."

  "Shoot good," Willow whispered from behind.

  Shoot good? Richard took a deep breath. What if he missed? This was his first buffalo, his first hunt. Don't bungle it, Richard. He could imagine the disgusted look in Travis's eye. Worse, Willow would think he was a complete doof. Anything but that.

  "Cow's coming up," Travis hissed. "On yer right. Now, don't shift. She'll come ter ye."

  Richard swiveled his head, seeing the animal through the masking grass. Close ... so close. What? Forty paces?

  If I miss from forty paces. ... He'd never survive Willow's disdain. Please, God Just this once, let me do it right!

  And then his heart began to pound with a terrible vengeance; excited blood boiled bright in his veins. Never in his life had he experienced this heady rush. Each nerve tingled, breaths coming in quick succession.

  "Easy, coon. That's the fever a-coming on ye. Breathe easy, now. That's it, slow and careful. Relax, hoss. Take yer time and think."

  Richard swallowed hard and watched the buffalo. His electric heart refused to still its pounding. The cow took a step, lowered her head, and continued grazing. Richard could hear the grass tearing, the grinding of her jaws, and the puffing of her breath.

  Another step, and another, and he could see most of her above the mat of grass and flowers.

  "Cock the hammer," Travis whispered.

  The click should have deafened God.

  "Take aim," Travis continued. "Set yer sights right ahind the shoulder joint. Low down ... way down. Buffler hearts sit low in the body."

  Sweat trickled down Richard's flushed face. The heavy rifle seemed to waver like a snake in his grasp.

  "Shoot!"

  Richard flinched and jerked the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  "Figgered that," Travis grunted. "Now that ye got all the foolishness outa ye, pull the back trigger to set the front one. And remember, when ye gets yer shot, she'll Hash in yer face. Don't move a breath. Recoil ain't gonna hurt ye, and it all comes after the bullet's been shot."

  Richard settled himself, watching the front sight blade in the V of the rear. It settled behind the cow's shoulder. There, right there . . .

  Pffft! Fire erupted in his face. Boom! The Hawken butted his shoulder. Spat! He heard the bullet hit home.

  "Don't move!" Travis growled, his heavy hand already on Richard's shoulder.

  "Are they running?"

  "Nope. But ye hit her high, Dick. Lung shot."

  "Lung shot.''

  Travis reached out and slipped the Hawken back from Richard's grip, then slowly raised himself, heedless of the vicious prairie rose.

  Richard eased up, barely aware of the needling thorns tracing angry patterns across his flesh. Travis was reloading, a crooked grin on his face. Several calves who were close grunted and turned to look at them. Willow reached out to pat Richard's leg, the action more rewarding than a chorus of huzzahs.

  The buffalo cow trotted off a few paces and stopped, head down, the shod tail up.

  "I didn't kill her?'' Richard asked frantically.

  "Reckon ye did, coon. But listen close, Dick. Larn this. If'n ye shoots a critter and she don't drop dead, ye settles down fer a second shot. The last thing ye do is go a-charging down there like a runaway stallion, 'cause if'n that animal gets its blood up, it'll run halfway to Mexico afore it falls over."

  ''So you wait?''

  "Yep. Let the critter lay down and stiffen up. Hell, I seen a feller chase a gut-shot antelope nigh onto five miles once And if'n he'd just set tight for a short spell, that prairie goat would a been dead in minutes."

  "So we're waiting?"

  "Yep. Not long, Dick. Ye hit her plumb solid."

  The other buffalo switched their tails and watched the wounded cow for several minutes before dropping their heads to graze. From where he sat, Richard could see bright red blood draining from the cow's nose. She grunted, took another wobbling step, and dropped to her knees before sinking onto the grass.

  "Good shot," Willow whispered happily, and took Richard's hand "First buffalo?"

  "The first." And Richard watched, torn with remorse and an unquenchable pride. "But, Travis, shouldn't we shoot her again?"

  "What? And waste the powder? Dick, she's dead. Ye gotta larn, thar ain't no store around hyar no place. Use only as much as ye needs ter get the job done. There's times a mite of powder has to last a coon fer a long spell."

  The cow lifted her head, then dropped it.

  "She's nigh gone under, Dick. Ye done made meat."

  The fever had drained away to leave him oddly empty.

  The cow's last hoarse gasp carried to his ears; then she was still.

  Travis rose to his feet, and as Richard and Willow stood, the other buffalo turned to stare, some raising their tails and defecating.

  "That's a warning," Travis said. "Watch their tails. The more nerv
ous a buffalo gets, the higher it puts its tail. Like a warning flag that there's trouble."

  As Travis spoke, the animals whirled, charging away with a pounding of hooves. How many were there? Seventy? A hundred?

  Richard followed Travis forward. To one side lay the mounded shape of Travis's buffalo. It had pitched forward and fallen on its side.

  Reverently, he walked up to his cow.

  "Careful, coon," Travis warned. "Foller me. Cain't never tell when a critter's dead. I remember old Jonas Farb. Why, he walked up and grabbed ahold of a bull's head that he'd shot. That bull come to, flipped his head, and old Jonas, he had no place to go so he jumped right a-straddle that bull's back. Let me tell ye, that bull stood up and took off lickety-split fer parts unknown ... and there was old Jonas, a-hanging on that hump fer all he's worth. By the time he got shut of that bull, he's five days' walk from camp."

  Richard nodded soberly, failing to see the twinkle in Travis's eyes.

  The cow lay dead, eyes wide, her nose planted in a pool of foamy blood.

  ''My God, look how big she is!" Richard spread his arms and gaped.

  ''Reckon yer a gonna find out just how big she is, all right. Now the work starts." Travis poked the cow in the side with his rifle. "Let's get her guts out. Hump roast and boudins fer dinner tonight!"

  Willow placed a caressing hand on the buffalo's back, then raised her arms to the sky and sang softly, the Shoshoni words lilting in the air. When she finished, she walked over to Travis's animal and repeated the gesture.

  ''What’s she doing?'' Richard asked.

  ''Praying fer the buff, or this child don't know sign. Injuns figger that critters got souls. They thank 'em for the gift of meat."

  "I guess there's something to that."

  Travis gave him a sidelong look. "Rational, huh?"

  Richard grinned and looked away. But inside, he, too, said a prayer for the animal.

  ''Now what

  Travis handed Richard his knife. "Slit her around the neck just back of the ears and horns. Then cut her right down the back to the tail. No, not that way. Yer just a-cutting hair. The edge has to be under the skin, that, or ye'll dull yer blade till it won't cut a dry fart."

  Willow had already begun work on the cow Travis had shot. Glancing over, Richard couldn't help but admire the way she used a knife, so practiced and efficient. Bent like that, her buckskin dress emphasized the roundness oher hips and the slender lines of her back.

  ''Uh, reckon ye wouldn't mind watching what yer a-doing? She's a right smart woman, I'll agree, but I'd rather ye kept yer eyes on what yer cutting ... my fingers being so close to that blade. Dick." Travis pulled the thick hide down while Richard blushed and severed the tissue.

  "Easy, coon. Cut along the hide, not into the meat like a Yankee would."

  "I've never done this before." The exposed flesh was hot against his skin, the muscles still quivering. White patterns of fat contrasted to the warm red of the meat.

  When they had peeled the hide down, Travis took the knife and began slicing cuts of meat. These he placed on the grass until only strips of meat hung on the bloody bones.

  "I'm gonna fetch the hosses and a hatchet," Travis said before he turned and trotted away.

  Richard picked at the clotted blood drying on his hands. The flies buzzed in excitement around the carcass. How ephemeral life was, the scavengers drawn so quickly to the dead.

  He walked over to Willow, who still labored on the other cow.

  She gave him a radiant smile, and he noticed blood on her lips. "Meat!" she cried. "You are a hunter now, Ritshard. You have killed a buffalo. Today is a special day for you."

  "Special?"

  "Special among my people." She sliced another thin strip of meat and handed it to him.

  He shook his head and she shrugged before popping the treat into her mouth. He watched her jaw muscles working under smooth brown skin. The sparkle in her eyes, the happiness reflected in the set of her mouth, made his soul sing. "You don't cook it?"

  "Of course." With a dainty pink tongue, she licked a bloody morsel from her finger. "But for now, it is food."

  He bent down to help her. Unlike Travis, who cut across the grain, she severed each muscle individually, cutting it loose from the bone. Her deft abilities had already stripped the backstrap, hump, and ribs.

  She glanced at him, a curious smile playing along her lips. "Do you always help women butcher?"

  ''No ... I mean, this is the first time."

  "Why?"

  "Why not? I like to help you." He fidgeted, oddly uneasy. "You prayed for the animals. Sang to their souls."

  The wind teased her long black hair. "White men do not?"

  "Most don't. But, well—I did."

  She paused, the bloody knife hanging. "I do not understand. White men do not thank the animals who die to give them life? Ritshard, are White men without respect? Do they not understand that everything is related?" She shook her head. "I think your people are rich in many things . . . like knives and guns and pots. But in your souls, I think you are all empty."

  He took a deep breath, meeting her dark eyes and the certainty expressed there. The memory of the woman on the steamboat surfaced, her voice shrill as she smacked her child. "Many are, I guess. But not all. Some men spend their entire lives seeking to understand the soul."

  "Some men?"

  "Anselm. Augustine. Meister Eckhardt. We have many men in our history who have sought God and the soul. It's an old quest in our society."

  "What is quest?''

  "The search.''

  "Men again. Women do not seek?''

  "Not very many. Some do. It has been suggested that women do not have the same capacity for understanding the infinite that men do."

  She lifted an eyebrow, then bent to her work. "In some ways, White men and Snake people may not be so different."

  ''For every Heloise there are twenty Abelards."

  "I don't understand."

  "No, you wouldn't But it's—"

  "I quest." she told him as she sliced another thick slab of muscle from the buffalo. "Does that bother you?''

  He reached down, pulling on a rubbery muscle as she severed it from the bone. "What do you hope to find?"

  She glanced up at him. "In your words—understanding. Of everything. You did not answer. Does that bother you?"

  Richard glanced up at the sky, aware of the spiraling wings of a hawk far overhead. "No. I mean, after all, that’s what I've spent my life studying.''

  "Studying?"

  "Uh... larning."

  She nodded, that secret smile on her lips. "Isn't that all anyone can do? Try to larm?"

  He looked into her gorgeous eyes and his soul floated. Her lips parted, and he reached for her, barely conscious of taking her hand. At the sound of approaching hooves she lowered her eyes, the connection severed.

  Richard turned away, self-conscious, as Travis rode up out of the drainage, sitting his horse like a lord. On a lead rope, the tail-hitched cavvy followed with heads up and manes flying. At the smell of blood, the horses snorted, backing and pawing. Travis handled his animal with a firm hand until the mare settled down. He landed lightly on his feet, soothing the horses.

  The hunter dragged the mare forward, tying her off on the last of the man-sized cedars at the edge of the gully. He pulled a hatchet from his possibles and stalked across the grass. Richard pushed to his feet, ears burning redly, but Travis seemed oblivious.

  "Now, what's left?" Travis asked absently before using the hatchet to separate the ribs from the gut cavity. Richard dodged flying chips of bone and stared at the organs as Travis and Willow cut the last of the muscles loose and lifted the ribs off.

  Travis chortled as he reached into the wet mass to tug out the heavy liver. From this he sliced long strips and handed them around. Willow immediately sank white teeth into the bloody stuff. Richard stared as Travis asked, "Ye gonna eat? First meat, coon."

  "It's not cooked."

  "Y
er a Yankee Doodle if'n I ever saw one. Eat'er, child, or I'll whack ye one."

  A quest? A search for understanding? Richard made a face and bit into the rich, hot liver. He tried to ignore die hot blood dripping down his chin.

  Travis hunched over his horse's neck as the toiling line of men leaned into the cordelle. Like some curious caterpillar, they splashed through the rippling shallows in the river below him. Willow sat placidly on her horse, fingers tracing the handle of the Pawnee war club. The horses stamped at the few flies brave enough to dare the weather.

  Gray clouds had settled in; drizzle fell in fits and spits, coupled with gusts of cold wind. Thunder growled out of a mass of black clouds rolling in from the western plains.

  The river had a sullen look, as if resentful of the progress the line of men made as they pulled the Maria into the strengthening current. Travis picked out Richard Hamilton as he struggled along, sloshing and wet, the heavy cordelle over his shoulder. Farther up the line, Baptiste bent his powerful body to the thick rope, his black skin contrasting with that of the white engages.

  This particular passage was deadly, the worst they'd encountered yet. Richard hadn't wanted to go back to the cordelle, but here they needed every hand to pull the boat through the fast water.

  "So much work," Willow said. "In all the world, only White men and ants work like that."

  "Reckon so," Travis agreed. "It's a bad spot, Willow." He pointed to the embarras of twisted logs and splintered branches that had dammed half the river. Water spilled around the end of the obstacle, but against that rush Maria was hauled inexorably forward, Whitewater foaming at her bow, the cordelle pulled tight enough to bead droplets. Under that weight, the mast bowed perilously. On the cargo box, Green raced back and forth like a desperate mouse, shouting orders, watching fearfully as disaster loomed. Face twisted, Henri braced his feet and leaned against the protesting steering oar to keep Maria out of the tangled wood.

  "If anything goes wrong, there'll be hell ter pay," Travis said softly. "Painter crap, I otta be down there with 'em."

  Maria gained a few feet against the rush of the water, each inch made at the expense of tearing muscles and straining joints.