by J. T. Edson
‘I thought you’d see it my way,’ Geraldine asserted and held out the buckskin pouch. ‘Do you want this, Mort?’
‘No, ma’am,’ the guide answered, but was not allowed to continue.
‘I wounded him, Mort!’ Thatcher said grimly, ‘So it’s up to me to finish him off.’
‘You won’t get a whole slew of argument from me on that,’ the guide drawled. ‘Only I don’t take kind to the notion of traipsing around in there with my Spencer needing uncovering should it be wanted pronto. Top of which, even though I haven’t seen anything to make me reckon it should happen, should any Kweharehnuh come on you and you show it to them, ma’am, they’ll know you’re with me and leave you be.’
‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ the girl promised and, as the men turned away, concluded, ‘Good luck.’
‘Do you think it’s likely to happen, Mort?’ the lieutenant asked worriedly, as he and the scout set off through the bushes with the dog ranging a short distance ahead of them.
‘Not likely, but it could. This’s their country and, should any brave-heart happen to be roaming hereabouts, he’s certain sure to follow the trail of three riders when he comes on it. Miss Geraldine’ll be safe enough with that old medicine boot of mine, though. No Kweharehnuh, even a tuivitsi all hot and eager to make a name for hisself’s going to mess with somebody who’s close to Wolf Runner.’
‘Gerrie was saying, the way you “Miss Geraldine” and “ma’am” her all the time, perhaps you don’t like her.’
‘I like her good, Jimmie,’ Mort corrected and, having no desire to discuss the matter further, sought for a change of subject. Gesturing towards the dog, he went on, ‘I wish Colonel McDonald’d put some nose-hunting blood into ole Pete there. He’s a whole heap better at seeing and running down critters than trailing ’em by smelling.’ 10
‘You’ve trailed the buffalo this far without having needed to use him,’ Thatcher pointed out, taking the hint. ‘And even a blue belly luff like me can make out which way he’s gone without needing a fool dog to do it.’
‘Now it’s real pleasurable to know there’s one thing a luff, be he blue belly or Johnny Reb, can do right,’ Mort declared, the twinkle in his dark eyes belying his seemingly sarcastic tone. However, he continued to look ahead while he was speaking. ‘Only I’m all for having things done the easiest way I can.’
‘I’ve never yet come across a civilian scout who wasn’t,’ the lieutenant countered, although he too never took his gaze from the bushes before them. ‘I remember the time one asked me to pull him back from the fire because his feet were burning.’
Despite the comments made by the two men, the dog clearly knew what was expected of it. While possessed of a fair turn of speed resulting from its deerhound blood, despite the trail being sufficiently fresh to render unnecessary the increased powers of scent developed in a breed intended for hunting in such a fashion, it did not attempt to dash off at a speed beyond the capability of its human companions. Instead, head raised so as to better employ its eyes and ears in locating the prey they were following, it walked a few feet in front of them. Nor, although a distant crashing of the foliage indicated where the buffalo was to be found, did the dog increase its speed. It looked back a couple of times, but received no signal or verbal command to set off in hotter pursuit and therefore refrained from doing so.
‘I could send Pete on to try and pin him down until you catch up,’ Mort drawled, after having received the second look from the dog.
‘That could be dangerous for him in this kind of country, couldn’t it?’ Thatcher guessed, having had experience of working with hounds after dangerous quarry. ‘Out on the range, he’d have room to move around, but not in here. Should he get into trouble, he’d have nobody to help take the bull’s attention from him.’
‘Like you say,’ Mort agreed. ‘It’d be a whole heap safer for him in here was he running with a pack, so’s there’d be more of ’em on hand to back him up.’
‘Then I’d rather you kept him close enough for us to do it,’ the lieutenant stated, looking forward without discerning any indication of approaching the fringe of the bushes. ‘It’s gone quiet ahead!’
‘Sure. Could be he’s come to open ground.’
‘Or he could have stopped in the bushes to rest his wound?’
‘There’s that.’
‘I’ve never been one for gambling,’ Thatcher said, as his companion glanced at the dog. ‘So leave us keep Pete where he is until we know which one it is.’
Nodding in approval, Mort did not give the command which would have sent the dog onwards faster than he and the lieutenant could follow. Despite the absence of noise, and Pete’s lack of ‘nose’ notwithstanding, there was no difficulty deciding in which direction to go. Close to two thousand pounds of buffalo dashing heedlessly through had left sufficient signs of its passage to render visual tracking simple. For all that, Mort restrained the eagerness of his young companion. Knowing there could be a need for very steady and accurate shooting should they come upon their quarry unexpectedly in such terrain, which would be difficult enough to achieve without being short of breath, he insisted upon maintaining a much slower pace than Thatcher sought to employ.
‘God damn it to hell and back the short way!’ the guide grumbled, as the party entered a smaller clearing than that in which they had first seen their quarry, after having covered about half a mile. ‘Even had Pete a nose like a bluetick coonhound, it wouldn’t help him sic ’em in country like this. What wind there is’s coming from every which way at once!’
‘He went straight on over, though,’ Thatcher replied, indicating with his Sharps where a bush had been flattened on the opposite side of the open ground. ‘It must be clear not far ahead.’
‘Happen it is and he’s still moving, we’ll call up Miss Geraldine with the horses and turn Pete loose on him,’ the guide decided. ‘I’m getting quick-sick of all this fool walking.’
Holding the weapons in the position of readiness known to soldiers engaged in bayonet fighting training as the ‘high port’, the two young men continued to follow the slowly moving dog while they were talking. Suddenly, head swinging around, Pete came to a halt. The bark which left the dog was drowned by a loud, shrill whistling sound which resembled the explosive hissing made by high pressure steam suddenly released from a locomotive.
Almost as if it had known who was responsible for its suffering, the buffalo burst from its place of concealment well to the left of its original exit from the clearing and rushed towards the young officer!
Three
The Barrel’s Plugged
Acting under the impulse of well-trained reflexes rather than conscious mental guidance, despite the fact that he had been taken as unawares as he had when startled by the magpie, First Lieutenant James Thatcher swung towards the oncoming buffalo with his Sharps New Model of 1866 rifle rising towards the firing position. While doing so, he noticed that the big shaggy gray dog had dropped into a crouching posture instead of going to meet the other animal. Knowing this was not caused by fear, but to avoid entering the line of fire, he realized it was making his own task easier. However, at that moment, he had other matters of greater importance and urgency demanding his attention than thinking about the high standard of obedience Pete was displaying.
Due to the state of exhilaration he had been experiencing and the interest aroused whilst seeking out the buffalo, the young officer had lost all awareness of the throbbing ache in his shoulder caused by the improperly controlled recoil kick when he had fired and wounded the animal. A combination of having held his right arm in practically the same position all the time he was on the move and the sudden motions he was now making brought the pain flooding back. The sensation was so severe, it overrode the surge of excitement caused by the sight of his quarry and the appreciation of the danger in which its unexpected behavior was placing him. 11
A gasp burst from Thatcher and he could not restrain an equally involuntary flinching away as t
he metal butt plate touched him. This caused his right forefinger to tighten before he was ready and put the set trigger into operation. Once again, the discharging of a bullet sent the recoil driving against his incorrectly positioned shoulder. This time, however, the force seemed even more intensified by the already suffering flesh upon which the impact arrived. He found himself unable to hold back the cry of pain which it elicited. Nor could he prevent himself from going in a staggering spin to collide with Morton Lewis, who was moving around ready to supply any support he might need. Fortunately, his instincts as a hunter caused him to tighten the second and third fingers of his left hand upon the cartridge they were carrying to prevent a reoccurrence of his having neglected to reload at the larger clearing. From what was happening, this precaution seemed likely to be justified.
‘Pete!’ the guide yelled, as he was sent reeling by the impact and the Spencer repeating carbine was knocked from his grasp to fall muzzle first on the ground.
Instantly, upon hearing the voice of its master, knowing what was required, the dog rose from its crouch and, giving a roaring bark, darted forward!
Seeing Pete approaching, the buffalo responded as it would when confronted by a wolf. Instead of continuing to charge, it skidded to a halt and lowered its head as far as the stubby neck would allow to give its horns full play. This was what Pete wanted, but he did not rely solely upon it to delay the attack upon the human beings. Instincts from far distant British bulldog ancestors—vastly different from the oddly shaped and wheezing creatures bearing the name in modern show rings—which had not been eradicated by the original matings with English mastiffs to supply greater size and the more recent admixture of Scottish deerhound blood, supplied the best answer to such tactics.
Deftly slowing his approach, the big dog suddenly lunged, and its powerful jaws grabbed its quarry by the nose. Like most of the Bovidae (the reason why a ring through the nostrils is such an effective way of controlling a recalcitrant domestic bull) this was a most tender spot for the buffalo. Therefore, having obtained the grip—which went back to the time when one section of its ancestors were employed to assist butchers in slaughtering cattle—the attack was serving a similar purpose.
By taking a good stance, with its legs spread wide apart, the dog prevented the buffalo from getting sufficient purchase with the head to toss it off. Snorting in fury, the bull plunged forward, trying to dash Pete against one of the small bushes with which the clearing was speckled. Alert to the possibility, the dog swung its hindquarters clear at the last moment and did not relax its hold.
‘God damn it!’ Mort ejaculated furiously, having snatched up his Spencer and, without needing to think what he was doing, taken the precaution of checking before attempting to use it. ‘The barrel’s plugged. You’ll have to take him, Jimmie!’
Hearing the words, Thatcher forced himself to act regardless of the pain from his shoulder. Thrusting down the trigger-guard caused the breechblock of the Sharps to descend and eject the spent cartridge case. Then, gritting his teeth as his right hand was compelled to accept the full weight, he replaced it with the round he was holding in the left. With this done, and the left hand returned to the foregrip, the right raised the trigger guard to its normal position. Pulling back the hammer, face set in lines of grim determination, he once more brought up the rifle. Instantly, the pressure of the butt plate against his shoulder intensified his suffering. For all that, he forced himself to concentrate upon holding the Sharps steady and taking aim. As he was doing so, a resurgence of excitement engendered by the dangerous situation drove off the pangs which were assailing him.
‘Get Pete away!’ the lieutenant gasped.
‘Yo!’ Mort assented in the fashion of the cavalry, trying to clear the muzzle of the Spencer with his left forefinger. ‘Pete. Leave it!’
Obedient to the command, the big dog opened its jaws. Relief caused the buffalo to throw up its head as its nose was set free from the painful grip. Making the most of the respite granted, Pete bounded clear and came to a halt ready to return to the attack if needed.
Watching along the barrel, with sights aligned on their intended mark, Thatcher waited until the head of the buffalo began to lower. Then he squeezed the trigger and the Sharps bellowed. Instantly, the thrust of the recoil brought back the pain which he had put from his mind. Gasping in agony, eyes filling involuntarily with tears and obscuring his vision, he retreated a couple of hurried steps and could not retain his grip on the rifle with either hand.
The loss of the Sharps did not prove as dangerous as would have been the case if it had happened on the previous occasion the lieutenant had fired!
Struck in the center of the forehead, its brain shattered by the onwards passage through the skull, the buffalo crumpled and went down as if suddenly boned. Its legs kicked spasmodically a few times, but this was merely the involuntary reactions of muscles in an already lifeless body. Despite the disadvantage under which he had fired, Thatcher had at last achieved the result of which he had been earlier robbed. ‘Nice shot, amigo!’ Mort praised. ‘How bad is it?’
‘Hurts like hell,’ the lieutenant replied, brushing his eyes clear with the back of his left hand while tentatively working the right shoulder and arm. ‘But I don’t think anything’s broken.’
‘There’s some’s might say its justice on you for shooting off a cannon that ways ’stead of using a wheel-carriage like sensible folks,’ the guide drawled, walking forward. ‘Let me see how bad it looks.’
‘Thanks for the sympathy,’ Thatcher sniffed, having detected the note of relief underlying the reference to his Sharps. Laying it down, he opened and carefully pulled away the front of his shirt, continuing, ‘I hope it doesn’t look as bad as it feels, not that that is possible.’
‘It’s bruised to hell and gone,’ Mort diagnosed, studying the purplish-black discoloration of the skin which was spreading across the lieutenant’s right shoulder. ‘And it’s going to get some worse afore it starts coming better. ’
‘I thought it might,’ Thatcher gritted, directing a baleful glare at the rifle. ‘Damned if I don’t give the mule-kicking son-of-a-bitch to some deserving friend like you and, should I do it, you’ll find I’m no Indian-giver where it’s concerned.’
‘You sound like you’re tolerable annoyed with that fine, straight shooting old rifle,’ the guide remarked, but made no attempt to refute the popular conception that Indians tended to request the return of any present they might make. Instead, although there was little discernible change in his voice and demeanor, he became serious as he continued, ‘Which I reckon the best thing we can do is take you on over to Grandpappy Wolf Runner’s village. Ole Healing Hands, him being a better’n fair medicine man, will quick enough take the worst of the pain out of your hurtings.’
‘Is the village nearby?’
‘Should you be able to keep up, I reckon we could make it there by midnight at the latest.’
‘How about Gerrie and the buffalo?’
‘Was figuring we could take her back to the wagon and tell Clay where to come ’n’ skin him out,’ Mort replied. ‘Way you hit him ’tween the eyes, I don’t reckon the bullet’ll’ve spoiled his head over much. With that done, they can head for Sanchez Riley’s and you ’n’ me’ll either catch up with them there, or along the trail to the stage relay station.’
‘That sounds good to me,’ the lieutenant declared, remembering how his sister had mentioned hopes of visiting an Indian village which was not on a reservation so that she could sketch its occupants. ‘But I wonder whether Gerrie will go along with doing it?’
Four
You’re a Mystery to Me
Deciding she had completed the pencil sketch of the buffalo bull to her satisfaction and would be able to duplicate it in oil paints on returning home, Geraldine Thatcher removed it from the stiffened back of the leather carrying case. Having put it into the compartment where it would be kept flat and clean, she inserted a fresh sheet of white paper. Making herself comf
ortable upon the saddle she was using as a seat, she set about creating what she hoped would prove an equally lifelike reproduction of Morton Lewis.
As her brother and their guide had anticipated, the girl had experienced little difficulty in collecting the horses. Fastening them one behind another, she had led them through the bushes to the clearing. Having no idea how long the men would be away, but suspecting they would not return too soon, she had decided she and the animals might as well be as comfortable as possible. After fitting the set of hobbles each carried in its saddlebags, she had removed the rigs and bridles to allow them to rest and graze unencumbered. Leaving them to fend for themselves, knowing they could not wander far and were unlikely to quit the open ground, she had turned her attention to the sketching which was one of her main interests in life. However, before commencing, she had taken the Colt Navy Model of 1853 revolver from its holster and placed it within reaching distance. It was not that she had lacked faith in the assurance given by Mort, but she felt the precaution was advisable in case any predatory animals should be attracted to the possibility of a meal of horse-flesh.
While working, Geraldine had listened for any indication that the mounts were required by her brother and the guide. She had heard nothing to suggest this might be the case while she was working to reproduce the appearance of the bull buffalo. Nor had any suggestion that the horses could be required reached her ears as her pencil moved over the paper and an excellent ‘head and shoulders’ likeness of Mort began to take form.
Looking up from the sheet of paper upon which she was working, the girl sighed. Being very skilful at her hobby, she had contrived to catch more than just the basic lines of her subject’s face. There was an indication of his rugged independence and competence. Yet she had also produced something which underlay his self-confident exterior. Just what this might be, she had never been able to decide. Yet she knew that, in some way, it involved her.