The Last Buffalo Hunt

by J. R. Roberts

  EIGHT

  When they saw the buildings in the distance, they reined in. It had been two weeks since they left Walton, Nebraska.

  “Not supposed to be any towns around here,” Crapface said. “Southwestern part of Kansas ain’t supposed to have no towns.”

  “Maybe it’s not a town,” Clint said.

  “That many buildings?” Crapface asked. “That high? We can see ’em from here—they’re two stories high.”

  “Doesn’t matter much,” Clint said. “After all, we’re just going to be passing through.”

  “We was passing through Walton, too, wasn’t we?” the buffalo hunter asked. “Found us some trouble there, didn’t we?”

  “Well, you did,” Clint said.

  Crapface looked at him and grinned.

  “Couldn’t keep your big nose outta my business, couldja?”

  “I never can,” Clint said, “when I see a friend of mine being a damn fool.”

  “What?”

  “You could’ve backed down some from those guys,” Clint said.

  “And let them dunk me in a trough?”

  “Well, not that far,” Clint said. “But some.”

  “I don’t back down from fools like that,” Crapface said. “If that makes me a fool, I can’t help it.”

  They sat their horses and stared at the buildings in the distance.

  “We could go around,” Crapface said.

  “We could use some supplies,” Clint said. “And I could use a beer and a steak.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Crapface said.

  “So let’s ride up ahead and see what we find,” Clint suggested.

  “But just to eat and stock up, right?” Crapface said. “I don’t wanna be there long enough to stir up trouble.”

  “Crapface,” Clint said, “since when did it take you more than five minutes to stir up some trouble?”

  “What happened in Nebraska waren’t my fault!” the buffalo hunter complained as they started forward…

  When they reached the buildings, they saw that there were only a few of them. The rest of the town was made up of tents and shacks. Clint had seen many boomtowns start this way—Dodge City, Leadville, and many others. As they rode down the pitted main street, there were people all around them.

  “What’s booming around here?” Clint asked. “There are no mines, no buffalo, no rail…”

  “Maybe we can find out while we get a drink,” Crapface said.

  “Good thought.”

  They found a saloon housed in a large tent. There was a crudely erected bar inside, with two bartenders working it. There were barrels and crates being used as tables, some wooden chairs and stools around them.

  Clint and Crapface walked to the bar.

  “Ho, friend,” one of the bartenders said to Crapface, “that’s a pretty ripe scent you’re carryin’ around with you.”

  Crapface looked aggrieved and asked, “How do you know it’s me?”

  “I think those skins might have been a good tip-off,” the man said. “What can I get you gents?”

  “A couple of beers,” Clint said.

  “Comin’ up.”

  When he put them down in front of them. Clint was surprised to see they were ice cold.

  “Can you tell us where we are?” Clint asked.

  “Sure thing. The town is called Woodsdale.”

  “And it is a town?” Clint asked.

  “Well… almost. We haven’t been officially recognized yet, but that’s bein’ worked on.”

  “By who?” Crapface asked.

  “Well, I guess you’d call them our town fathers,” the bartender said.

  “But why would someone put a town—” Clint started.

  “’Scuse me,” the barman said, and went off to serve another customer.

  “Sounds like he may not wanna talk about it,” Crapface said.

  “Maybe not.”

  Crapface sniffed the air.

  “You don’t have a problem with the way I smell, do ya?”

  “Not really,” Clint said. “But then I’ve been around buffalo before.”

  “You sayin’ buffalo stink?”

  “I’m saying,” Clint said, “that everybody’s smells take getting used to.”

  “But—”

  “Drink your beer.”

  NINE

  They nursed their beers, watched the comings and goings in the saloon. They heard some conversations, mostly about some list of names that was being prepared. Men were being asked if they had signed their names yet. Others said they had just come from signing.

  They ordered a second beer each when a man in a suit and bowler hat entered. He started flitting about from table to table, man to man, asking the same question.

  “Have you signed… have you signed… have you signed?”

  Eventually, he reached Clint and Crapface. He recoiled from the buffalo hunter for a moment, then held his sleeve up in front of his face.

  “Have you gents signed?”

  “Signed what?” Clint asked.

  “We’re asking all the citizens of Woodsdale to register as citizens.”

  “Why?” Crapface asked.

  “It will help us when it comes to being named the county seat.”

  “If you’re the only town around here, why would there be a problem being named the county seat?” Clint asked.

  Now the man made a face that had nothing to do with Crapface’s scent.

  “We’re not the only town,” he said. “Hugoton is also trying to get named the county seat.”

  “And this is a new county?” Clint asked.

  “Ain’t even been named yet,” the man said. “How about it, gents? We need as many names as we can get.”

  “But we ain’t citizens,” Crapface said.

  “That’s okay,” the man said. “All you have to do is sign. And if you know some other names, like friends or family, you can put them down, too.”

  “That doesn’t sound legal,” Clint said.

  “Well, since there isn’t any law here yet, that really doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “I don’t think I’m comfortable with that,” Clint said.

  “Me neither,” Crapface said.

  “Well, if you change your mind, come on over to the City Hall. We’ve already erected a few buildings, and that’s one of them. I’m Mitch Fielding, by the way, and I’m one of the town fathers. I work with the colonel.” The man extended his hand to Clint.

  “We’ll keep it in mind,” Clint said, shaking Fielding’s hand.

  “Have a good day,” the man said, not extending his hand to Crapface. Then he moved on, stopping to talk to others along the way.

  “Whataya think of that?” Crapface asked.

  “I’ve seen it done before,” Clint said, “in other towns. Battles over being named the county seat have gotten very ugly.”

  “Why? What’s the difference?”

  “It’s all political, Crapface,” Clint said. “Being the mayor of the county seat is supposed to be very prestigious.”

  “Politicians,” Crapface said. “And they say I stink!”

  TEN

  The day dragged on, then suddenly a couple of saloon girls appeared to work the floor of the tented saloon. With the girls circulating among the customers, business began to pick up. Finally, a couple of poker games broke out on some hastily constructed larger tables. Basically, the games were being played on top of large sections of wood balanced on some barrels.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Crapface said.

  “What?”

  “I know how you are with women and poker, Clint,” the buffalo hunter said. “We’re only supposed to be here to get something to eat and some supplies, and we ain’t ate yet.”

  “Well then, we better get a move on,” Clint said. “Let’s go find some steaks, and then pick up a few supplies.”

  They finished their beers and set the empty mugs down on the bar.

  “Leavin’ so soon?” one
of the girls asked, coming up to Clint. She was a pretty blonde about twenty-five, with blue eyes and beautiful smooth, pale skin.

  “Just to get something to eat,” Clint said. “Do you know a place that can do a good steak?”

  “Just go next door,” she said. “It’s owned by my boss, and it’s got good food. I eat there all the time. Make sure you have some pie after.”

  “Okay,” Clint said. “What’s your name?”

  “Penny.”

  “I’ll come back and let you know how we liked it, Penny,” he said.

  She was a little short so she reached up to pull his ear down to her.

  “When you come back, leave your smelly friend outside,” she whispered, and then flicked his ear with her silken tongue.

  He smiled at her and followed Crapface outside.

  “What’d she say?” the buffalo hunter asked.

  “She told me to eat next door.”

  “I heard that part,” the smaller man said. “What’d she say about me?”

  “What makes you think she said anything about you?” Clint asked.

  “Come on,” Crapface said, “she said somethin’ about the way I smell.”

  “She said they had steaks next door,” Clint said, “and I’m going over there to find out.”

  Crapface hurried after Clint, still demanding to know what the girl had said…

  “Well,” Clint said later, “she was right about the steaks.”

  Crapface had been pretty quiet during the meal of steak and vegetables.

  “Come on,” Clint said, “stop worry about what the pretty girl said about you.”

  “I mean,” Crapface said, “I know I got a smell, but it ain’t that bad… is it?”

  Clint looked around them. The other people in the tent had moved away from them, so there were empty tables around them.

  “No,” Clint said, “it’s not that bad.”

  That seemed to mollify Crapface a bit. Clint waved at the middle-aged waitress until she reluctantly came over. She stood on his side of the table, next to him.

  “Sir?”

  “I’m told you have great pie.”

  She brightened up and said, “Yes, sir. My husband makes several kinds a day.”

  “What kinds do you have today?”

  “Apple and rhubarb… oh, and peach.”

  Clint smiled. “My favorite! I’ll have the peach.”

  “Rhubarb for me,” Crapface said.

  “And coffee,” Clint added.

  “Yes, sir.”

  She grabbed their empty plates and went off for the pie.

  “Rhubarb?” Clint asked.

  “What? I like it.”

  “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  Crapface decided to change the subject.

  “We gotta get some supplies after this and then get goin’,” he said.

  “Well, I want to go back next door for a little while.”

  “What for? Poker or the girl?”

  “I just want to tell her she was right about the food here.”

  “Clint,” Crapface said, “I’m surprised you ain’t been killed by now because of some woman.”

  Clint laughed and admitted, “It’s not like I haven’t come close.”

  ELEVEN

  They left the restaurant tent, completely satisfied with their meal, right down to the pie and coffee.

  “We need to find the supply tent,” Crapface said.

  “I’ll look in the saloon,” Clint said.

  “There ain’t no supplies in there.”

  “Maybe the girl, Penny, will know where to go,” Clint said, heading for the saloon tent.

  “Clint—”

  “I’ll meet you in here,” Clint said, “after you pick up some supplies.”

  “Which I’m payin’ for?”

  “Hey,” Clint said, “the whole buffalo hunt was your idea, right?”

  Crapface said something, but Clint didn’t hear it as he went into the saloon.

  The place was much busier than it had been before. Three girls were working the floor. He walked to the bar, where the same bartender stepped up to serve him.

  “Beer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s your friend?” the man asked, setting the beer in front of him. “Not that I miss him. Sheesh, what a smell. I’m just curious.”

  “He’s buying supplies.”

  “Gonna be on your way?”

  “Pretty soon.”

  “Headin’ where?”

  Clint decided to be vague.

  “South, I guess. Who knows?”

  He turned with his beer and saw that the same man with the suit and bowler was working the crowd again.

  “Is he still looking for signatures?” he asked.

  “Oh, yeah,” the barman said. “He’s one of them town fathers. He works with the colonel. The more names he can get, the better, ya know?”

  “Even if he has to make them up?”

  “He don’t make ’em up,” the bartender said, “but he don’t care if other people do.”

  “Ah.”

  Clint looked around again.

  “Lookin’ for somebody?”

  “Penny,” he said, just as he saw her across the tent.

  “Oh,” the bartender said. “You like her?”

  “I don’t know her.”

  “That can be fixed,” the barman said. “For a price.”

  Clint looked at him.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Brent.”

  “Well, Brent, I don’t pay women to have sex with me.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  Brent studied Clint for a few moments, then said, “Well, maybe you don’t have to.”

  Clint looked at Brent, who was fairly young, kind of gangly, with a mop of unruly blond hair.

  “No,” Clint said, “I don’t. Not usually.”

  “You’re a lucky man.”

  The bar was busy, so Brent had to move along, which suited Clint. He turned and saw Penny waling toward him. She had changed from the simple dress she’d been wearing earlier to a red gown that showed off her pale shoulders.

  “You came back.”

  “I wanted to tell you that you were right,” Clint said.

  “Good steak?” she asked.

  “And pie.”

  “See? I would never steer you wrong. Are you lookin’ for a place to stay?”

  “No,” Clint said, “my partner and I figure to move on.”

  “Today? It’s gettin’ late.”

  “We’ll camp along the way.”

  “You’ll miss out on all the comforts we have to offer,” she warned.

  He looked her up and down and said, “I’m sure the comforts are impressive, but we really do need to be on our way.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “We need some supplies,” Clint said. “Not a lot, just a few things.”

  “Well, just go out the front, make a right, walk two blocks, and then cross over. There’s a tent there with everything you’ll need.”

  “Much obliged.”

  “But finish your beer first,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Don’t rush away.”

  “I’m not rushing,” he assured her.

  She rubbed his arm and said, “Maybe I can even convince you to let me freshen that with a cold one.”

  He looked at the half a mug of beer he was holding in his hand and said, “Maybe.”

  TWELVE

  Crapface Jones entered the general store tent and began to prowl the makeshift shelves. He’d shopped for supplies in boomtown stores like this before. The prices were usually high, but negotiable. He and Clint didn’t need a lot, just some coffee, bacon, flour so he could make some biscuits, sugar, beef jerky—small things that added up. Crapface was not well educated, but he did his sums very well. When he knew how much he was buying and how much it would cost, he approached the counter and prepared himself to dicker.

 
; There were two men at the counter already, and they were not only dickering, they were arguing.

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me,” one of them said. “We’re buyin’ coffee, not gold dust.”

  “Sorry, gents,” the clerk said, “but that’s the price. There are lots of folks hereabouts buying coffee.”

  “And how can you be selling these penny stogies for a nickel?” the other man asked. “These sure as hell ain’t nickel cigars.”

  “They are around here,” the clerk said. He was a tall, slender man in his forties, wearing a white apron that covered him almost from neck to toe.

  The two men arguing with him were wearing trail clothes, and looked as if they had just recently ridden into town.

  Suddenly one of them raised his chin and sniffed the air.

  “Jesus, what is that smell?”

  “It ain’t my store,” the clerk said.

  The two men looked at each other, then turned and looked at Crapface.

  “Christ,” the other one said, “what the hell are you?”

  “I’m tryin’ to buy some supplies, if you fellas would get on with your transaction. Or stand aside.”

  “Stand aside?” one of them asked. “Who you tellin’ to stand aside? We was here first.”

  “Fine,” Crapface said, “then finish doin’ what you’re doin’ so I can get outta here.”

  Now the two men turned to face him. They towered over him, which did not intimidate him, but emboldened them.

  “Look, friend,” one of them said, “why don’t you wait outside so you don’t stink up the place.”

  “This is how you let folks talk to your customers?” Crapface asked the clerk. “What if I decide to buy my supplies somewhere else?”

  “Good luck,” the clerk said. “There ain’t no other place in town.”

  “So you want my money?” Crapface asked.

  “Sure, I do. But these gents were here first.”

  “I got no problem with that,” Crapface said. He took a deep breath and made a decision that went against the grain. “Why don’t I just wait outside ’til their done?”

  “That’s what we’re sayin’,” one of the men said.

  “Yeah,” the other one said, “take the stink outside.”

  Crapface thought about getting out of this situation without any trouble. He didn’t want Clint saying he couldn’t go anywhere without starting trouble.