“But to take a scalp!”
“Indians and whites have been doing it for decades,” Zeke said. “Why, at one time bounties were paid for Indian scalps in New York. And the Mexican authorities have put bounties on Apache scalps. Almost every tribe I know of takes the scalps of their enemies. A scalp is a symbol of success, nephew, nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I won’t do it.” Nathaniel reiterated.
Ezekiel struggled to his feet. “Oh, well. I can’t expect you to see the light yet. I’ll do the scalping.” He shuffled to the nearest body and sank onto his right knee, then drew his hunting knife.
Nathaniel watched, aghast, as his uncle took hold of the warrior’s hair and sliced the knife into the skin at the top of the forehead. Blood started to flow, and Nathaniel turned away and gazed to the west, in the direction they were heading, wondering if he had made a major mistake in agreeing to accompanying Zeke into the wilderness. After all, how much did he truly know about the man other than the fond memories of his childhood? Or was he merely becoming agitated over nothing? If scalping was a way of life out here, and if he intended to stick it out for the whole year, then he should try and accept the practice. He glanced at the scalping in progress, then shook his head.
Accept such a savage custom?
Never!
Chapter Fifteen
For someone who had been shot with an arrow, Ezekiel remained in exceptionally high spirits. He recovered quickly. For two days he required frequent stops to relieve the pain, but by the third day he could ride for six hours at a stretch without seeming to be bothered by the discomfort.
Nathaniel became subdued, often riding in silence for miles, moodily reflecting on his situation. He wished he had never departed New York, never left his loved ones, especially Adeline. All he could think about was her. He saw her in his mind’s eye in the beautiful splendor of every sunrise and in the radiant hues of each sunset. He felt her gentle touch in the lingering caress of the westerly breeze. And at night he gazed at the sparkling heavens and remembered the many hours they had shared together. He longed to see her again, and only one inducement served to keep him riding ever westward, only one lure drew him like a fish to a hook away from the woman of his dreams.
The treasure.
He thought of the gold often, and idly speculated on the amount he would possess after Zeke gave him his share. On several occasions he attempted to sound his uncle out about the treasure, but Zeke always responded in the same fashion: “Once we’re at the Rockies, you’ll see the treasure. Be patient.”
Easy for him to say.
After five days Nathaniel began to shake off his troubled disposition. They were encountering more and more game the farther west they progressed, and he besieged Zeke with questions about the habits of each animal. He also pestered his uncle to teach him sign language, and he readily learned every gesture Zeke knew. They would practice by conducting conversations in sign language. On one such occasion, a week and a half after the battle with the Kiowas, they were riding over a knoll when Ezekiel abruptly reined up.
“Supper!”
In the act of signing a question concerning White Eagle, Nathaniel halted and stared straight ahead, his eyes widening in astonishment. “I never would have believed it!” he exclaimed.
“There’s your buffalo, Nate.”
Buffalo there were, thousands and thousands of them, covering the plain for as far as the eye could see. The males stood six feet high at the shoulders, the females slightly less. They were dark brown in color and possessed shaggy manes and scruffy beards. Black horns curved out from their broad, massive heads, with a spread of three feet from horn tip to horn tip. There were a score or so of calves in evidence, distinguished by their diminutive size and their reddish hair.
Nathaniel gaped at the great humped beasts, flabbergasted by the immense brutes and the magnitude of the herd. He saw several of the herd gaze in his direction, but none of them displayed any alarm.
“You’re in for the treat of your life,” Zeke said. “Leave the pack animals here and come with me.” He started forward, his Hawken in his right hand.
“You could pick one off from here,” Nathaniel commented, riding on his uncle’s left.
“I could, but I won’t. Where’s your sense of sport? Taking a buffalo from horseback is the thrill of a lifetime.”
Nathaniel glanced at a huge bull standing proudly at the front of the herd. “Isn’t it dangerous?”
“Only if you’re careless. Buffalo are the dumbest brutes in creation. They’ll let you run them in circles or off of cliffs. But they’re also fierce when riled, and they can gore you or your horse to death in the time it takes to spit.”
“I see some of them looking at us.”
“They know we’re coming, but they haven’t figured out what we are yet. We’re about three hundred yards away, and buffao have pitiful eyesight.”
Nathaniel checked his Hawkin, experiencing an odd commingling of excitement and dread.
“These critters supply everything the Indian needs to live,” Ezekiel mentioned. “If the buffalo ever die out, the Indians are finished. Not that it will ever happen. There are millions of the brutes. Did you know that each one of those big males weigh about two thousand pounds?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“That’s a lot of meat on the hoof, and the best-tasting meat on God’s green earth.”
“What if they charge?”
“Get somewhere else right quick,” Zeke said, and angled toward the foremost bull. “There’s a trick to killing a buffalo. Their skulls are so thick that trying to shoot one in the brain is a waste of time. Your best bet is to always go for a lung shot. Aim just behind the last rib.”
Nathaniel stared at the bull, noting the thickness of its hide. “How do I know where the last rib is located?”
“Once you’ve skinned and butchered one, you’ll know exactly where to find the ribs.”
“What do I do in the meantime?”
“Guess.
“Oh. There’s one other thing to remember. If you ever come across buffalo that have been butchered by Indians, don’t take one of the hearts. The Indians will be extremely upset, and the last thing you want is for a tribe to be out for your blood.”
“I don’t understand. What do the hearts have to do with anything?”
“Some of the tribes leave the hearts behind. They think that if they leave the hearts where the buffalo have fallen, it helps the herd to grow so they’ll have more buffalo to kill later on.”
Nathaniel envisioned a green field littered with buffalo bones and hearts, and shook his head. Was there no end to the wonders of the West?
“We’ll take this bull together,” Zeke stated. “You ride on the left, I’ll stay on the right. Remember, go for the lungs. And try not to shoot me or my horse by mistake.”
“Are you sure you’re up to this?”
“I wouldn’t miss your first buffalo kill for the world.”
“But your wound hasn’t healed yet.”
“It will eventually. For now, I’ll act as if it’s already healed,” Zeke said, grinning. He glanced at Nate. “Out here, nephew, when you’re knocked off a horse you get right back up in the saddle.”
“Meaning?”
“If you roll over and whine and moan every time you’re hurt, you won’t last a year. You’ve got to be tough, to think tough. This kind of life is no life for a quitter. I know back in the States a lot of parents spoil their youngsters to the point where the children grow into adults and can’t do much of anything because the parents didn’t teach much of anything worthwhile. Spoiling breeds weaklings, and out here a man and a woman have got to be as strong as catgut.”
They were drawing nearer to the herd. Some of the bulls snorted and fidgeted nervously, while the cows began to move away.
“The herd will likely stampede as soon as we cut out after that bull,” Zeke said. “Keep a tight rein on your horse. If you go down, you could be tramp
eled to death.”
Nathaniel licked his lips. “Do you do this often?”
“Every chance I get.”
“And this is your idea of fun?”
“It beats wrestling a grizzly.”
More and more of the herd were moving to the southwest, lumbering rapidly, the calves struggling to keep up with their mothers. The bulls, always more belligerent, gave ground reluctantly.
“Are you ready, Nate?” Zeke asked.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Then let’s get us some buffalo steak,” Zeke said, and uttered a piercing shriek while urging his horse toward the bull he’d selected.
Nathaniel kept abreast of his uncle, his heart seemingly pounding in rhythm to the beating of his mare’s hooves. He gripped the rifle and concentrated on the bull, which had suddenly spun and was racing to the southwest with the rest of the herd.
“Get as close as you can before you fire!” Zeke shouted.
Nathaniel barely heard him. Hundreds of buffaloes were now in motion, fleeing mindlessly from two riders they could crush in an instant, and more joined the general rout every second. Evidently if one buffalo bolted, they all did, and the sound made by the drumming of thousands of heavy hooves resembled the booming of thunder during a spring storm. The din climbed to a throbbing crescendo, and the passage of the buffaloes sent a billowing cloud of dust into the air.
Whooping and hollering like an Indian, Ezekiel closed on the bull.
They were fast approaching the herd, and Nathaniel could see the thick haunches and the swaying tails of the tremendous beasts. He inhaled the swirling dust and coughed, then squinted to prevent his eyes from watering. As they narrowed the distance his mare became difficult to control. The sight and noise of so many strange creatures terrified her, but she sped gamely onward.
Ezekiel was cackling and waving his rifle.
Bewildered, Nathaniel continued the chase although every instinct told him it would be infinitely safer if he simply stopped and let Zeke enjoy all the “sport.” The bull was now at the trailing end of the herd, but there were other buffaloes bolting along on both sides of him. To get close enough for a shot, Nathaniel would have to ride in between the bull and a cow on the left, and with his mare already excitable and balking at drawing any nearer to the fearsome beasts, maneuvering her was a challenge that demanded all of his attention and riding skill.
Zeke had no such problem. His roan readily plunged into the herd, apparently trained for just such a hunting tactic, and Zeke tried to get a bead on the bull while racing at full speed, a difficult task in itself.
The pounding roar of the fleeing buffaloes and the increasingly dense cloud of dust, combined with the ever-present prospect of being pitched from his horse and gored or trampeled, made the initial minutes of the chase a nightmare for Nathaniel. As the pursuit continued, though, he began to think less of the danger and more about the job at hand. After all the trouble he was going to, he wanted that bull, wanted to put a ball into that huge bulk and see the brute crash to the ground. He focused on the beast’s body, trying to estimate the point he should aim at.
For over half a mile the chase continued. The major part of the herd was obscured by the dust cloud, but the thudding of the thousands of hooves could be clearly heard.
Ezekiel rode into position first, his roan only four feet from the bull and abreast of its rear legs. He suddenly released the reins, pressed the Hawken to his shoulder, took but a moment to sight the rifle, and fired.
The ball had no effect.
Nathaniel barely heard the crack of the Hawken above the thundering of the herd, but he saw the smoke discharged by the shot and knew his uncle could hardly miss at such close range. He was astonished that the bull appeared to be unaffected, and he goaded his mare closer, held his rifle as tightly against his shoulder as he could under the circumstances, and tried to hold the barrel steady long enough to squeeze the trigger.
The bull gave no sign of slowing.
Although he was impatient to snap off a shot, Nathaniel forced himself to stay calm, to wait for the right moment. So engrossed was he in aiming, that he failed to detect any movement to his left and had no idea the cow had changed position until he felt something brush against his left leg. He glanced down.
The cow was within an inch of his foot!
Nathaniel almost panicked. His mare had edged to within a hand’s-breadth of the bull, and now he was riding between both buffalo, hemmed in, trapped with no room to turn or evade those wicked horns if either brute tried to gore him. And sooner or later, if he didn’t do something, one of them was bound to go for him or the mare.
What should he do?
The urgent question brought an automatic response born of desperation and intuition. Nathaniel simply lowered the Hawken barrel to the bull’s side and squeezed the trigger at the same instant that he kicked at the cow and hauled on the reins, bringing the mare to an abrupt stop.
Without breaking her stride, the cow raced onward.
The bull, however, suddenly slowed to an unsteady walk and shook its massive head from side to side. It tottered, then halted as the rest of the herd sped to the southwest.
Nathaniel sat on his mare not 30 feet from the beast, wondering why the bull had stopped. Maybe, he reasoned, one of the balls had finally taken effect. Only when the buffalo turned toward him did he realize his time would be better spent in reloading than in speculation. He groped for his powder horn.
Too late.
The bull lowered its head, elevated its tail, and charged.
Move! Nathaniel’s mind screamed, and he wheeled the mare and took off, unsure of the direction he was going and not really caring. The horrific vision of over two thousand pounds of enraged buffalo bearing down on him filled him with dread and he fled for his life, glancing over his right shoulder.
Amazingly, the bull was gaining!
Nathanial clutched at one of his pistols, doubtful the smaller piece would have enough stopping power to deter the bull. As his hand closed on the walnut grip a shot rang out, and he looked to his left to observe Zeke and the smoking Hawken, then back at the buffalo in time to see the bull go down.
Its bearded chin sagging and tucking underneath its head, the buffalo executed a forward rolling flip, its legs and tail flying, and came down on its left side. For a few seconds . the beast thrashed and kicked feebly, raising its head and snorting, and then it went limp and collapsed.
Nathaniel rode back toward the bull slowly, astounded he had survived, feeling keenly thrilled at their success. He stared at his uncle, who was riding over, noting Zeke’s beaming smile and gleaming eyes.
Any vestige of the former cultured New Yorker was gone. His features flushed from the stimulation of the pursuit, elated at the slaying of the bull, his long hair tousled, his face covered with dust, Ezekiel threw back his head and laughed uproariously. He indicated the buffalo with a jab of his Hawken while looking at Nathaniel. “Ain’t this the life, nephew! Out here, a man can be a man!”
“Provided he lives long enough.”
The comment caused Zeke to laugh even harder.
Chapter Sixteen
The next couple of weeks passed without any life-threatening incident occurring.
Ezekiel skillfully guided them on a northwesternly bearing, going from one watercourse to another. He seemed to know the location of every stream, river, and spring on their route. Game at times was scarce, but they never went hungry thanks to the buffalo meat Zeke had carved from the bull and dried.
Nathaniel used the opportunity to question his uncle more about the wildlife on the plains and in the mountains, as well as to elicit information about the various Indian tribes inhabiting the country. When they stopped to rest the horses or eat he would invariably practice with his Hawken, and he became quite adept at hitting small targets, such as clumps of earth or thin twigs stripped from the brush, at considerable distances. His best shot, though, entailed the downing of an antelope at 150 ya
rds. He killed the animal with one shot through the head, and Zeke praised him highly.
Three times they came across Indian sign. Each time Zeke examined the ground carefully and announced that the sign was a day or two old. He taught Nathaniel the basics of reading tracks, of judging the weight from the depth of the impression and determining the age by the consistency of the soil and the degree of erosion.
One night, eight days after the buffalo chase, a strange incident transpired that Nathaniel would have reason to recall and regret later. They were seated around their fire, and Ezekiel was discoursing on the relative beauty of the women in the various Indians tribes, when he abruptly ceased speaking and straightened. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Nathaniel responded, tensing, his right hand creeping to his Hawken.
“I don’t know. A faint noise.”
“What did it sound like?”
“Like the snap of a twig, only different.”
“I didn’t hear anything unusual.”
Ezekiel stood and scanned the prairie to the southeast. “I’m sure I heard it.”
Puzzled, Nathaniel also stood, his rifle at his waist. They heard so many sounds at any given time of the day: the cries of birds, including the piercing calls of certain hawks; the growls and snarls of the predators, including grizzlies and panthers; the howling and yipping of wolves and coyotes; the whistles and chattering of ground squirrels and prairie dogs; and, infrequently, the far-off war whoop of an Indian. In addition, at times the wind intensified and rustled the grass and the tumbleweeds. So why would Zeke become concerned at the snap of a mere twig?
“I must be getting jumpy in my old age,” Zeke joked, and sat back down.
Eager to learn more about the Indian women his uncle had known, Nathaniel sank onto the ground, forgetting about the queer noise. The next day, though, he noticed that Zeke kept looking to the southeast, as if there might be someone or something out there, but Zeke never expressed any undue concern. Nathaniel dismissed the matter as unimportant.
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