by S. F. Wood
The car was over half full. Jackson looked at the sage flashing by and said, “The speed these locomotives can reach! Must be travelling what? Close on to 20 miles an hour!” The Preacher showed no interest in this remarkable feat of modernity. While Jackson was enjoying the sensation of having his head stuck out of a window and his hair blown by the slipstream, the Preacher remained silent, still. He took to reading his Bible. Jackson inevitably got some grit in his eye and had to withdraw to the calmer confines of the car. Having cleared his eyes, he once again attempted to engage the Preacher in conversation. “What will you do with the bags from yesterday?” As there were other people in the car he thought it prudent to avoid the word ‘money’. Even so, he kept his voice low. “Given that the contents are worthless. In fact, worth less than worthless, if you see what I mean.”
“Do you use puns such as that in your articles, Mr. Beauregard? If I were your editor...”.
“Don’t tell me that you are saving the… contents, in the expectation that The South Will Rise Again?”
No answer.
Maintaining his low voice Jackson continued, “If that were to happen it would make you a wealthy man. Very wealthy indeed.”
“We all know, Mr. Beauregard, that that will never happen. Indeed, I sometimes would that it had never happened in the first place. Things would be so different.” Here the melancholy in the Preacher’s voice was palpable. After a pause, he closed his Bible and placed it inside his valise where it sat uncomfortably with the money. “Would you care to accompany me to the rear platform Mr. Beauregard? There is a ceremony I wish to undertake.” And without waiting for the response, the Preacher stood, straightened his hat, picked up his valise, made his way to the back of the car, and stepped outside onto the platform.
“What’s the matter?” asked Jackson joining him.
“It is time to cast yesterday’s riches to the wind.” With that, the Preacher placed the bag by his feet, bent down, opened it, and removed two of the - newly re-wrapped - oilskin packages. He passed one up to Jackson, then stood. Holding his package in this left hand, he tugged at the string and opened the parcel. Taking hold of the sides of the oilskin he cast the notes overboard. They exploded into the air, caught in the vortex of the train’s wake, and flew all over the prairie and railroad track. “Some fell by the wayside, some fell on stony ground, some fell among thorns...” But the Preacher knew nothing would fall upon good ground and nothing would spring up and bear fruit. He turned to Jackson. “Well, what are you waiting for? Better to throw away a thousand dollars in this manner than at the tables.”
And Jackson did just that. Only he threw the money overboard with a Whoop! The pair continued with the remaining bundles, watching the notes fly and flutter and spin away. As he removed the last bundle Jackson saw an old, but neatly folded, newspaper, half-wrapped in an oilskin. He pulled it clear. “Who are these men?” The Preacher turned and saw immediately what had grabbed Jackson’s attention.
“Be so good as to replace that as you found it.”
“Looks like a good story. ‘Three to hang for Oaklands massacre.’”
The Preacher stepped over and took the newspaper. Maybe it was time to throw that over the side too. Five years. Long ones. The trail had not so much gone cold as just gone. He had stopped looking. But what was it that was preventing him from moving on? He picked up his bag and passed back into the car. Jackson followed.
“You’re not going to tell me who those men were, are you.”
They reached their seats and sat down.
“One of them has a big cross over his picture. What’d that mean?”
The Preacher took his Bible from the bag and settled it on his knee. The page fell open at Hebrews, 10:17. And their sins and iniquities will I remember no more. “It means that maybe I have been in Kansas for far too long. Maybe time to head on to California.”
“What do you think the explanation is for the money being just old rebel banknotes?”
“Maybe it was on its way to being incinerated at the fort. Maybe it was some other reason. We will never know, Mr. Beauregard. But I guess it explains why only one soldier was involved in its conveyance. No need for a whole troop to guard something that has no worth.”
Jackson agreed. “I guess the clues were there, only they didn’t register with Williams and this Pickens.”
“Nor with me, Mr. Beauregard, nor with me. Maybe the whole experience was the Lord reminding me that no rich man ever went to heaven.” He turned his face to the window.
“You are a southerner. Own a plantation before the rebellion?” Jackson was in no mood to give up. “Did you own slaves? Must’ve been a rich man at some time. How would you have gotten into heaven then? Rich and an owner of fellow human beings. You are, if I may say so, something of an enigma.”
“Been called an anachronism before now. Enigma is new.” The Preacher took his pipe from his pocket.
“A man of God, who mixes with whores.”
“There is a precedent for that. Read your New Testament.” He lit the pipe.
“A gambler then.”
“I do not gamble, Mr. Beauregard.” The Preacher paused while he drew on his pipe. He took three or four puffs, then removed it and turned to Jackson. “I challenge Satan wherever I find him. And that is not a gamble, given I have the Lord on my side. And more often than not, Beelzebub can be found at a saloon, sitting at a gaming table.”
“And what would this Beelzebub make of an owner of slaves?”
“Former owner, that I admit.”
“Former owner. That I concede.”
“Mr. Beauregard, I have long understood the arguments. But is this really the place to point out that you northerners got slavery all wrong? I had but 40 working for me and I guarantee their lot then was a sight more hospitable and welcoming than it is now. Plenty of work to keep hands from becoming idle, which as you know, is something the Devil is always on the lookout for. And a form of education for their children, enough for them to learn their Scriptures at any rate. Plus, they were looked after in their sickness and their dotage.” He raised his hands and shook his head as to fend off the expected onslaught of objections, “I know, I know, there was cruelty on some plantations and I accept, now I do at any rate, that there is something undignified about buying and selling human beings.”
“Something undignified?”
“Regardless. Despite it being the case that no one turns a hair that the much-admired empires of Rome and Athens were based on the use of slave labor... well it is over and done with now in the states. It is gone, that I acknowledge. Whether what has replaced it is any better is a point for the history books. But I have my views.”
Jackson had views too. “I have to say, my family were abolitionists even before the rebellion. My father campaigned for Seward over Lincoln. I just think you need to know that.”
The Preacher acknowledged this with a nod, making another draw.
“How rich were you? Very rich?”
“Are you practicing your interview skills on me Mr. Beauregard? Well I know what it is like to lose more than money. Money is nothing.”
“Well, I maintain your slaves now have their freedom.”
“They have nothing, Mr. Beauregard.” Jackson could hear anger finally arrive in the Preacher’s voice. “Not even life itself in some cases, for it was taken from many of them by their ‘liberators’. Let us say no more about it!”
“Were those hanged men in that newspaper ‘liberators’?”
“They weren’t hanged.”
“It said they would be.”
“Tried. Convicted. Sentenced. But the town fell to Sherman before justice was done. I am done Mr. Beauregard. And we are done. Amuse yourself in some other manner.”
But just then the connecting door from the car in front was flung open, crashing back against its hinges to reveal a tall man, wearing a big Stetson and leather chaps, and holding a Navy Colt in his right hand. His ruddy face evidenced a hard, outdoo
r life and even harder drinking. He was followed by four or five others, some bearing rifles as well as revolvers. One was a short, stout fellow, wearing a pork pie hat and a suit that had either once fitted nicely or belonged to someone else, someone maybe ten pounds lighter. A little old lady across the aisle from Jackson shrank into her seat, clutching her dog.
The man in the Stetson announced: “Gentlemen. Time for some sport!” He proceeded to squeeze himself past two women sitting in the seats immediately ahead of Jackson and the Preacher without so much as a by your leave. He pulled on the leather strap that held the window up and eased it down so he could point his gun outside.
Other men found similar positions either side of the car. The man in the pork pie hat and three others pushed their way through, heading for the rear viewing platform. More armed men joined them in the car. The Preacher and Jackson exchanged glances of curiosity, not fear.
Jackson opened a window and leant out to see for himself what was causing the excitement. He could hear the gunfire now, coming from cars further up the train, and he could smell the black powder. The smoke from the locomotive was billowing out on the other side of the train, so Jackson had a clear view of events.
“Buffalo!” he exclaimed, withdrawing his head and turning to the Preacher. “An’ it is a big herd! My, must be maybe ten thousand of the beasts!”
A vast herd of bison was running and stampeding for their lives, but already the slower animals were being overhauled. Some beasts were now level with the front carriages, from which an assortment of rifles, shotguns and revolvers protruded. Now carcasses of bison were passing below Jackson’s window; the dead and the wounded that would suffer until a pack of coyotes happened upon them. The passengers waited until they drew level and could see the fear in the animals’ eyes. Then they fired.
Jackson was both thrilled and horrified at the sight. The Preacher stood and lifted his valise. Placing it on the bench he opened it and withdrew one of his firearms. Placing a hand on Jackson’s arm he said, “I fear this is not the occasion for a Derringer, Mr. Beauregard. Here.” He handed Jackson the Beaumont Adams. “You will find it already loaded. Do you know how to fire one? You point the barrel away from you. And be sure you point it away from me! Shoot at the buffalo!”
Jackson hesitatingly took the weapon from the Preacher. “Why is everybody shooting at the herd?” He turned back to the scene of passing carnage.
The Preacher, bearing his Le Mat, joined Jackson at the window. He yelled over the noise of gunfire, locomotive, thundering hooves and the bellowing of terrified beasts: “Use the gun, Mr. Beauregard! Even you cannot miss at this range, the stupid beasts are making it easy for us!” He fired five shots in succession into the mass of hair and hide. He turned and looked at Jackson, “Why aren’t you joining in? This indeed is good sport, Mr. Beauregard. Fire at will!” The Preacher re-joined the rest of the passengers emptying their guns into the herd and re-loading as fast as they could.
The train was now plowing through the heart of the herd, and more passengers passed through from the front, hoping to find space on the footplate of the caboose from where they would be able to carry on the slaughter once the locomotive began to outpace the crazed beasts.
The cars were full of the smell of gunshot and the noise of fear-stricken buffalo. The stench too, a hot stinking mass of panic. Their bellows and cries were a constant, overlaid with incessant broken volleys from the arsenal borne by seemingly every passenger on the train. And all the while the conductor was shouting at the passengers to shoot and shoot and keeping on shooting and make sure those goddamn monsters stayed clear of his train. Yet all it would take to spoil the fun was for the buffalo to simply to stop dead in their tracks and allow the train to move out of range. Instead, they were trying to outrun it. Stupid beasts indeed.
Jackson looked again at the Preacher. His Le Mat sure had a violent retort, and Jackson could tell each time the Preacher pulled the trigger. Nine balls in all, and although Jackson wasn’t watching, he reckoned the Preacher had scored a hit nine times. The only way to miss would be to shoot high.
No one shot high. Buffalo were as one in their headlong rush to oblivion. Shoot one beast and you would sure as hell see six or more tumble over the wounded animal, which only added to the herd’s collective panic. The crippled victims of a multitude of revolver and rifle balls were crushed to death by their own brothers and sisters. Jackson realized he was the only man not shooting. He turned back to the mayhem and held the gun out straight out of the window. He closed his eyes and fired. The ball smashed into the shoulder of a big bull not ten feet away. Jackson opened his eyes to see him turn sideways in his agony, get hit broadside on by two bulls immediately behind, who, along with maybe a hundred others, trampled him to death.
“They’re trying to outrun us!” Jackson looked over his shoulder at the source of this exclamation and saw the little old lady standing by an open window on the other side of the car. She was firing a shotgun at the bison on her side of the train. Where she’d gotten that, he had no idea. Her dog was standing on the bench, front legs against the window, barking in excitement.
The man in the pork pie hat was emptying his revolver into the midst of the heaving, stinking, hairy mass of ‘injun meat’. And on the footplate of the locomotive the engineer kept up a constant pulling on the bell and hooting of the whistle.
Suddenly it was over. The Iron Horse had reached the front of the herd and the engineer saw that there were no more beasts on the track ahead. So he opened the regulator and the train pulled away from the carnage, leaving scores, hundreds, thousands even, of wounded, trampled, dying, dead buffalo. Enough meat for wolf and coyote to feast upon for a week. And then the vultures would descend. At the end, all that would be left would be a boneyard, skeletons bleached by the sun.
A few passengers continued to fire from the rear of the train, but that was just because they liked the noise of their weapons. Jackson pulled his window shut, then sat down and handed his revolver back to the Preacher who was already seated, cleaning out his Le Mat, replacing the caps. The little old lady, Jackson noticed, was sitting peacefully with her pooch on her lap. No sign of the shotgun. Pork Pie Hat man was leaving the car, going back up the train. He shut the door quietly behind him. Normality returned. No one would think anything had occurred over those preceding ten minutes, unless they looked out of the caboose, back down the track.
“Well that was a fine interlude, Mr. Beauregard, I must say.”
“That was the first time I’ve seen buffalo, even one. And as a herd! Were they not magnificent! But as for the sport... why kill them?” Adrenalin was still shooting through his body.
“What do you mean, why kill them?” The Preacher snatched his gun back from Jackson. “Did you think that all you had to do was shout Shoo! and they’d all go away? What’s the matter with you?”
“What’s the matter with me? I wasn’t taking part in the slaughter and you think there’s something wrong with me?” Jackson’s incredulity was infused with anger. And it took a lot to make Jackson Beauregard angry.
“And what if a buffalo fell under the wheels of the train? We’d have been derailed! The car would have ended up on its side! The engineer didn’t ask them to race with us. What to do you think the car would have looked like after ten thousand tons of bison meat had trampled over it? With us inside too! We had to keep them away from the tracks else we would have all be done for.”
The Preacher sat down. Jackson meekly followed suit. The Preacher spent a few minutes putting the revolvers away. Jackson pulled the window up and fixed the leather strap to hold it in place. The last of the passengers who’d gathered on the rear viewing platform passed back through the car to their seats further up the train. “The Great American Desert is full of buffalo, Mr. Beauregard.” The Preacher’s tone had mollified. “No matter how many you shoot, more of them spring up. Millions. Wherever there is grass, there is buffalo, and always will be. And wherever there is buffalo, there
is the Indian. Least there would be if we let it be so. Indeed, you could say that it is our Christian Duty to keep bison numbers down as in so doing we keep down the population of heathen injun too.”
Jackson didn’t feel like picking up a conversation about the Redman, so they sat in silence for the next twenty minutes, their thoughts finally being interrupted by the locomotive’s bell, which began to sound as the train began to slow, then to crawl, and then to halt. Some passengers opened the doors and climbed down to stretch their legs, take the air, do whatever it was that they needed to do. The conductor walked the length of the train, but on the outside now. “Fifteen minutes you hear!” he hollered, ambling by. “Just taking on water folks. Fifteen minutes and we will be gone.”
Jackson nodded to the Preacher and alighted the car. The Preacher noted which side he exited and took the opposite.
A hut, made up as much of canvas as timber, was where most people were headed. Selling coffee, that’s what the painted sign hanging atop the hut claimed. “Even in the middle of nowhere,” thought Jackson, “folk always found an opportunity to turn a dollar.” And sure enough, passengers were crowding around the stall, packed as densely as any buffalo herd. When Jackson had the opportunity, he handed over his coins and took temporary ownership of a tin mug, full to the brim with what he generously decided was a local recipe, such was the uniqueness of its flavor. Two morose Kiowa braves looked on, sitting cross-legged on the ground. They probably weren’t Kiowa, but if Jackson decided to say in his next article that they were, then who’s to know different?
The engineer was seeing to the water pump and the fireman was stoking up the boiler. Three women huddled together for company and confidence, drinking their coffee. Two maiden aunts chaperoning their young niece. Chaperoning their rather attractive young niece. There was something about her. It might have been the way she stood ever so slightly away from the older women, as if distancing herself both physically and in some other, intangible way. Jackson wasn’t sure, but he was sure he wanted to know more about her.