by Tim Champlin
"Look at all those steaks!" I whispered near Curt's ear. "Think they're within range?"
"Not really," he whispered back. He glanced up at the darkening sky. I rubbed my eyes; they seemed to have a smoky film over them as I looked down from under our tree into the shallow valley. Then it suddenly dawned on me that it had started to snow again. The air was filled with tiny snowflakes drifting down on our silent, gray-white world. Except for the Winchesters in our hands and our woven clothes, we might have been ice-age cavemen ready to strike a herd of mammoths with our flint-tipped spears.
The millions of small flakes created an indistinct haze, but they would help muffle the sounds of our moving toward the herd.
We squirmed forward, trying to keep our weapons out of the soft snow. When one of the herd lifted his head, we immediately froze. Their eyesight was not keen, and even if they noticed our creeping down the white hillside, they might mistake us for wolves, which healthy adult buffalo don't worry about.
I was certainly no expert on buffalo, or on hunting, for that matter, so I was relying on Curt to lead the way. We plowed slowly forward down the steep slope, trying to move only when the animals weren't looking our way, but we were now out from under the protection of the trees and were highly visible, even through the falling snow.
We had managed to work our way almost to the bottom of the slope and to within a hundred yards of the buffalo when one of them jerked his head up, snorted loudly, and all of them began to move unhurriedly away from us along the base of the low bluff opposite, a big bull breaking the trail for the others in the foot-deep snow. Finally, about a quarter-mile away, they encountered deeper snow and all came to a halt and began to swing their lowered heads from side to side, burrowing down to the buried grass.
Disgustedly, I stood up, brushing the snow off. Curt and I looked at each other.
"Couple of great hunters!" I said.
"I don't think we spooked them," Curt replied. "Takes a lot to really scare 'em off." He slipped off one glove, raised the earflaps of his hat, and scrubbed a hand over his face and ears, rubbing the snow from his short, dark beard and mustache. His ears, nose, and cheeks were rosy. "Probably should have taken a couple of long shots when we had the chance," he admitted.
"Want to go after them? They look like they may be stopped by that deep snow up there."
"Don't be fooled by that. They got into this valley somehow, and they'll be able to get out."
"You don't think they might have been in here when it first started snowing and trapped them?"
"Possible, I guess. I'm as new to the Hills as you are. I thought most buffalo herds migrated south on the plains as winter began to set in."
"A few strays who waited too long, maybe."
"Could be. What say we give it one more try before heading back?"
"I'm with you."
We plowed on clumsily toward the opposite bluff in knee-deep snow, ignoring the even clumsier snowshoes that hung by rawhide thongs down our backs. My toes, fingers, and nose were again hurting from the cold. We reached the partial shelter of the fifteen-foot bluff and then turned and walked due north toward the distant herd, with no attempt at concealment. The snow had begun to fall thicker and faster now, and a fresh north wind was blowing it directly in our faces. We were approaching them from downwind, with the heavily falling snow to mask us from their weak eyes, and with the deeper drifts behind them to hinder their escape.
My eyes were watering from the stinging blast of wind-whipped snow being driven straight at us. We walked slowly and deliberately, and in this way were able to approach to within fifty yards of the herd before they apparently noticed us and began to move around nervously, as if looking for a way to escape. They were no longer attempting to graze. Mostly, they stood with their backs to the storm and their great, shaggy heads with the short, curved horns hanging low. They moved their heads from side to side to see us better.' Curt motioned for me to move off to one side, away from the bluff and into deeper snow.
"Don't shoot at the head," he cautioned me in a low voice. "The bone and that matted hair are too thick. Let's take that big one in front who's turned a little away from us."
I dropped to one knee in the two-foot-deep snow, threw off my gloves, levered a round into the chamber, and brought the ice-cold wood of the stock to my cheek.
"Aim just behind the hump," Curt said, preferring to shoot from a standing position behind and just to the left of me. I heard him throwing the lever.
"Ready?"
I nodded. The buffalo still had not moved.
"On the count of three. One… two… three!"
Our Winchesters roared as one. The bull buffalo at the head of the herd jerked slightly sideways, staggered several steps, and fell forward, rolling onto his side. Even then, the rest of the herd didn't panic, but did begin to move slowly away from us and plow up the gradual slope at the end of the valley.
We jumped up and struggled to our kill. One or both of us had apparently hit him in a vital spot.
"We'd better signal the others in case they didn't hear our shots," I said.
Curt immediately fired three quick rounds into the air. There was no ringing crash or echo. The soft, swirling atmosphere seemed to absorb the sound like a feather pillow.
We stood for a few seconds without speaking. I believe both of us were wondering how far the sound had carried. Even if it was heard, it would be at least an hour or two before any of the hunting party could reach us. Intent on making our kill, we had not noticed how heavy the snow had become.
"Think we ought to backtrack and meet them?" I asked. Even as the words left my mouth, I knew it was a ridiculous suggestion. What had started as a light snow had become a full-sized storm. Moreover, the wind had picked up. It was impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. Not only could we not go back to meet them, but they would never be able to find us, at least until the storm abated. Curt didn't laugh at my suggestion.
I think the gravity of the situation had suddenly hit him also. Instead, he leaned near my ear and half shouted over the wind, "We'd better find some protection to weather this storm. I don't think this is just a hard flurry. We'll have to ride it out."
"Shall we gut this buffalo before he freezes stiff?"
"No time. We have to get to shelter—fast!"
"What's the rush?"
"I've been caught in blizzards like this before on the plains. I've seen men freeze to death only a few feet from safety. Went out of camp to feed the stock. Didn't hold onto a line to find their way back and got confused."
"Where to, now?"
"If we could get back to the top of that last ridge, there are some big pines with limbs that form a tent with the ground."
"Think we can find the ridge?" A cold feeling was in the pit of my stomach. The snow was swirling thicker than ever.
"I think it's back that way, and I usually have a pretty good sense of direction. But the only way I'm sure is in relation to the way that bull pointed when he fell."
"Let's go, then."
But Curt grabbed my arm. "Hold it. We wouldn't get ten yards before we'd be completely lost."
"What do we do, then?" I tried to keep the edge of fear out of my voice. I noticed I couldn't even feel my feet, and my fingers were paining me, even though I had quickly pulled my gloves back on after shooting.
"Quick! Get your knife!"
While I was fumbling for my knife beneath my coat, he already had his out and was crouched by the belly of the dead buffalo. The wind and snow were causing my eyes to water so badly I couldn't see anything distinctly.
When I finally joined him, knife in hand, he had already slit open the belly, and blood was staining the snow.
"His body will stay warm for a while!" he shouted in my ear. "And it'll provide some protection from the wind."
I looked at him blankly, partially numbed by the bitter blast.
"Come on! Scoop out this snow and make a pit. We're on the lee side."
> I followed his example, using a snowshoe as a shovel, and the effort helped drive some warmth back into my chilling shoulders and arms. The wind was cutting right through all my protective clothing.
In only two or three minutes we had a snug trench about two feet deep, and had piled the snow up another foot or two around us, with the body and legs helping to form three sides of the pit. Once we were down out of the wind, it felt almost comfortable in the soft shelter.
"Get those sealskin overshoes off and put your feet and hands inside that carcass," Curt said. "It'll keep 'em from freezing."
"Right."
I had to use the heels of both hands to get the overshoes off, since my fingers wouldn't grip. But I finally managed. We had left a narrow ledge of packed snow next to the body so we could take turns lying on our sides with hands and feet thrust into the slippery, visceral, abdominal cavity of the great beast. It didn't take long for the animal's warmth to penetrate right through my boots and wool socks. The sensation of returning feeling, even though painful, was the most welcome feeling I believe I had ever experienced.
After a few minutes we switched, and Curt warmed his extremities the same way.
I lost track of time. Minutes became hours, yet the leaden afternoon overcast quickly faded into night.
I thought I had experienced wind when I lived in Chicago, but I had felt nothing but a breeze compared to the howling, sub-zero blast that tore over our heads that night.
Our speech became slurred from our numbed chins, and we sounded like two drunks. We laughed at the ridiculous similarity. When we weren't trying to capture the fading heat from the dead buffalo, we were rubbing each other's hands and toes—in an effort to keep awake as much as to restore circulation. We did no violent exertions, so as to preserve the strength that was being expended rapidly enough by our bodies in fighting the cold. We dug out our remaining biscuits and bacon and ate them, then sipped some of the unfrozen water from our canteens.
The trench was big enough for us to stretch out almost full length side by side, but for what seemed like hours I resisted the temptation to lie down.
But finally, my mental processes began to break down. More than once, I came to my senses with Curt slapping my face. But I slid right back into lethargy. I was so fatigued that I wanted nothing in the world so much as a good, satisfying sleep.
"Dammit, Matt, wake up!" The stinging blast of a snow-covered glove hit my face, and instinctively I fought back. But Curt took my weak swings on his arms and shook me violently.
"Hang on, Matt! Talk to me!"
"I'm warm now, Curt," I mumbled irritably. "Let me take a little nap. Won't sleep long. Just a few minutes."
"Wake up, or you'll die! Do you hear me?" the voice shouted next to my covered ear, "You'll die!"
By a mighty effort of will I brought myself partially alert again when the shaking and the words finally penetrated. I moved around in the hole and worked my arms and legs. The storm was still roaring horizontally overhead in the blackness, and I thought, in a rational moment, that it was very ironic we had matches in our pockets, but nothing to build a fire with.
But then the deadly fatigue encircled me with its comfortable arms again and the steady roaring of the wind gradually faded into nothingness.
CHAPTER 13
It was only after I had been at Mrs. Hayes' house for three days that I fully realized how close to death I had come. Even then, I could not remember the details of the rescue; it came back to me in intermittent flashes of scenes when I recalled feeling intense pain and being carried on an improvised sled of fresh-smelling pine limbs and brilliant flashes of blinding sunlight on snow.
Curt wasn't in quite as bad shape as I was. Although he had two frostbitten toes, he was able to help the rest of the hunting party who had been searching for us. In fact, he was the one who was able to signal them with rifle shots the next morning when the storm had abated. Three or four of the others had suffered some slight frostbite when they were also caught by surprise in the blizzard.
No doctor had wintered in Deadwood, so I was taken to the charitable Mrs. Hayes' house to be cared for.
"You're damn lucky you didn't lose any toes, Matt," was Curt's greeting as he helped me out of bed the third morning and walked me around.
"He's right," Mrs. Elvira Hayes chipped in, slipping a copper teakettle onto the hot iron stove. "Lucky they got you here when they did. If I hadn't been able to soak the frost outta them toes gradual-like, they'd 'a' probly mortified and pizened your blood. You coulda died. Seen it happen b'fore. It's either cut 'em off or die," she finished succinctly, with her usual humorless expression.
Curt laughed. "Nothing like laying it on the line."
We pulled straight chairs up to her rough pine table, and she set two tin cups in front of us.
"I thought you were supposed to rub snow on frostbite," I said, slipping one foot out of the doeskin moccasins and examining my toes.
"Humpf!" the old lady snorted. "Shows what you know. Don't know where that idea ever got started. That don't make no sense atall. Just freezes whatever's frozen all the more. Gotta use warm water."
I watched Mrs. Hayes greasing her skillet to fry us some thin-sliced strips of venison and wondered again what manner of woman she was. She was of indeterminate age, anywhere from fifty to sixty-five, tall and lean, wearing a sack-like dress that reached nearly to the tops of her heavy shoes. Even though she was spare, had salt-and-pepper gray hair pulled back in a severe bun, she had a whip-like hardness to her body and motions that suggested a life of hard work. Curt was of the opinion that she was from Missouri, since he didn't believe her dialect was like an Appalachian Mountains woman. How she came to be in a place like Deadwood was a mystery to everyone. But gold rushes, like floods, deposit some unrelated flotsam in strange places. During the first rush in the spring of '76, she had appeared on the scene alone and had almost immediately begun to attract attention with her selflessness—an unusual trait in a town founded on greed.
Just now, K.J. and I were the only two staying at her stout log house on Williams Street. It was built on a terrace above Main and connected to it-by steep wooden stairs. Curt was also occupying a cot here, to help look after me until I could get on my feet again for good. Mrs. Hayes still had upwards of two dozen visitors each day. They were usually the miners, the prostitutes, the storekeepers, rather than the self-styled elite of the new town—the bankers, the city officials, and their wives.
"Sorry I can't offer you boys some eggs to go with this venison," she growled, setting our tin plates on the table, "but the chickens ain't been layin' lately." She didn't crack a smile, but I chuckled.
"Well, the least you could do, then, is give us some fried potatoes and bread to go with it," I complained in mock seriousness, knowing full well there were no potatoes in town and very little flour, which was being rationed out.
She didn't reply, but only grabbed the corner of her apron, opened the door of the stove, and raked a poker around in the fire before slamming the door shut again.
All of us in the hunting party were the heroes of the town, and could have anything we wanted merely for the asking. We had literally saved the town from starvation by bringing in one buffalo, three deer, and an elk. There was still some food and some frozen beef left.
"You know, it's really kind of scary when I think of how suddenly that storm hit us," I remarked to Curt as Mrs. Hayes sat down to eat with us.
"I recognized the signs, but almost too late," he answered. "A blizzard like that can be more vicious than a tornado. At least a twister passes quicker, and it either gets you or it doesn't."
"Sorry I wasn't much help in hauling that meat back."
"I wasn't much help, either. The rest of the party had gotten caught out like we did, but most of them were able to get sheltered under trees or in windbreaks where there was firewood. Good thing that storm passed over in a few hours. I've known 'em to last for a couple of days without letup."
"My mem
ory's pretty hazy. How long did it take someone to find us?" -
"Well, I couldn't rouse you, so I just kept firing my Winchester every few minutes, and they got there about three hours after daylight. 'Course our backtrail was wiped out, but they found us by the sound. Our mules had jerked loose and gone back toward town. They found 'em on the road."
"Were you able to stay awake all night?"
"Just barely. When they got to us, I collapsed and they had to carry me back, too."
"How long did it take? I remember fading in and out. It seemed like forever."
"Most of the day. But they got some help when they got us to the road. More men came out from town to help."
"They musta had a helluva time with that buffalo carcass."
"They did. Burnett went out to help bring it in, and it was frozen hard as granite. They had to saw it up into smaller pieces to be able to drag it out over that deep snow."
"Maybe they should have waited a few days. It looks like a spring thaw is setting in out there now," I commented, glancing out the window at the brilliant sunshine and the icicles dripping from the eaves.
"Yeh, it started really warming up yesterday, and today's started out the same. Must be the Black Hills' version of the Chinook wind."
"What's that?"
"A warm west wind that blows for a few days and causes a midwinter thaw."
"Nature's way of saying, 'I'm sorry,' I guess."
"Or of letting us know that warm weather will eventually be back."
"Where's K.J. this morning?" I asked Mrs. Hayes, who had finished her meager breakfast and was picking her teeth with a broom straw as she sipped her coffee.
"Down in town, I reckon. He generally leaves early, even before I get up."
"Where did he come from, anyway?" I asked.