Brothers of the Buffalo

by Joseph Bruchac

  As Wash turned on his heel to walk back the way he had come, he cast his eye toward the nearest of those officers’ quarters. Its walls were indeed naught but rough logs running vertically with mud chinked in between. Even the beds were cobbled out of rough boards nailed together with government bed sacks filled with straw for mattresses. Those mattresses, like the soldiers’ bedrolls, required daily shaking to be rid of the centipedes, spiders, and scorpions that found their way into every tent or cabin just as regular as sunrise followed sunset. Floors of packed dirt. Roofs of sod. Mud falling from the ceilings when heavy rains came.

  But Wash had already seen that, despite what Josh said, most of those white ladies seemed to know what it meant to be married to the cavalry and seemed determined to make the best of it. Take Captain Nolan’s wife, for example. Wash had been asked by the captain to carry a message to her just the day before. When he had reached the cabin, the door had been open.

  “Hello?” he’d called out.

  No one had answered, and he had peeked inside to see a place as neat as a pin. Thick straw lay over that dirt floor, covered by layers of newspaper over which she had placed a fine ingrain carpet. Tent sheets tacked up on the ceiling kept whatever water might come through to a minimum. She’d even painted some of the chairs nailed together out of boards by the post carpenter.

  But that was all he had time to see before someone had grabbed him by the arm and spun him around.

  “What you think you are doing here, Private?” a scornful voice that made his rank sound like an insult had demanded.

  He found himself face to face with none other than the young woman who was the personal maid of Captain Nolan’s wife. Sergeant Brown’s niece, Bethany.

  “Message, Miss,” he’d said, lifting up the piece of paper like it was a shield against her disdain.

  “Hmmmphh,” she’d sniffed, crinkling that little nose of hers, which was nevertheless still pretty to look at. Then, snatching the paper from his hand, she had pointed across the parade ground. “Now you get back where you came from, soldier!”

  “Yes, Miss,” he’d said.

  Then, hoping he didn’t look too much like a whipped pup with its tail between its legs, he had bowed to her, turned on his heel, and got.

  The prairie sun beating down on Camp Supply was like a blacksmith’s hammer on iron. Out of the corner of his eye Wash made out someone sneaking along the side of the buildings across the square. Private William Landrieu Jefferson, keeping in the shade. Even at a distance Wash could see the look that always seemed to be on the man’s face. A contemptuous sneer.

  Despite the short time Wash had been at Camp Supply, he had made the acquaintance and quietly taken the measure of every other Buffalo Soldier at the camp. Wash prided himself on being able, like his mama, to size up a person soon after meeting them. And though there were some here he liked more or less than others and one or two he might even already call true friends, he’d concluded his fellows to be nearly universally a good lot, men who seemed to be trying to do the best they could and bring credit to their race. Almost without exception they seemed to be soldiers you could expect to rely upon when the chips were down. The one exception was William Landrieu Jefferson.

  “Old Landrieu,” as Josh called him, was a man who enjoyed a high regard for himself in contrast to his obviously low opinion of most of the rest of humanity. It wasn’t just, as he frequently stated, that his quadroon background, being only one-quarter black, made him superior. He was also the company bugler and played that role to the hilt—as if he was telling everyone else what to do with his bugle calls and not just passing on commands from the officers. He carried the bugle with him everywhere he went, like a badge of high office.

  Landrieu paused, took off his hat, looked furtively one way and then another.

  Like a yellow weasel about to sneak into a chicken coop,

  Wash thought, standing still. Sun in his eyes, he can’t see me here

  in the shade.

  Landrieu slowly ran the fingers of his left hand back through his brown hair, then replaced his hat, a thoughtful look on his face. Then he turned and disappeared behind the further blockhouse at the other end of Camp Supply.

  Now where is he going?

  Wash turned at the sound of steps coming from behind him. It was Emmett Branch, another of the privates in his company come to relieve him.

  It took only a few moments for Wash to cover the distance to the place where Landrieu had vanished behind the blockhouse. He flattened himself against the wall, bent low, and peered down around the corner of the structure. And there the bugler was, no more than a hundred feet ahead of him, moving slow as a heron stalking through the shallows. But it was no fish he was after. There, all alone and bent over a washtub was none other than Sergeant Brown’s niece. In another few steps Landrieu would be upon her and then...

  What’s he got in mind? Just say a polite hello? Not likely, the way he’s creeping and crawling, low down now almost on his belly like a snake. Grab hold of the girl and steal a kiss? Or something far worse than that?

  Wash was not about to wait to find out. The distance between him and the bugler was too great for him to cover quickly enough, but that did not mean there was nothing he could do. Wash forked the two outside fingers of his right hand, stuck them in the corners of his mouth, and blew hard.

  WHEEEEET.

  It was a whistle loud enough to wake the dead—and make Old Landrieu try to jump to his feet and turn around all at once. It was clearly not something the man had ever practiced before, seeing as how he tripped over his own legs and ended up on his back, kicking up a fair-sized cloud of red dust as he landed.

  “Wha—? Sacre!” Landrieu sputtered as he stumbled up, trying to free the one arm tangled in the lanyard of his bugle as he tried to see who had just whistled. Wash, though, had already slipped back out of sight—but not far enough so his voice could not be heard.

  “PRIVATE JEFFERSON,” Wash shouted, putting enough of a growl in his voice to make it sound like Sergeant Brown, “REPORT TO THE COLONEL, DOUBLE TIME!”

  Then Wash slipped inside the blockhouse, his eye to a shoulder-high crack. Sure enough, no more than half a minute later, Private Jefferson, still brushing the dust off his clothing, hustled past in the direction of the colonel’s office.

  With a wide grin on his face, Wash walked toward the back of the blockhouse and peered through another crack. And there, fifty yards away, was Bethany Brown. Still alone amidst the clotheslines, she was bent over her washtub, scrubbing Mrs. Nolan’s blouses as if nothing had happened. Wash shook his head.

  That fool girl will never know what almost happened to her, he thought.

  And because Bethany Brown’s back was turned to him, he did not see the little smile on her face—or the long, lethal hatpin that she reached up to stick back into the bun of brown hair held on top of her head by her scarf.

  In the old days, no one ever stole.

  Those who were well off

  always shared what they had.

  If there was anything someone wanted,

  that person had only to ask the owner

  and that thing would be given.

  But the coming of the sacred Elk Dogs,

  the horses, brought some problems.

  It was not so easy to give away a horse,

  unless it was a special occasion.

  So some people began to borrow horses

  that belonged to others without permission.

  They would bring them back,

  but sometimes many moons

  passed before that horse was returned.

  So the matter was brought to the Elk Society,

  and they put forth a new rule for the People.

  From this day on, there will be no more

  borrowing of horses without permission.

  If anyone does so, we will follow them,

  take back that horse, and give them a whipping.

  Pawnee was young, and he did n
ot listen

  to what was said by the Elk Soldiers.

  He borrowed a horse without permission.

  The Bowstring Soldiers took off after him.

  Three days out on the trail they tracked him down.

  They took back that horse.

  Then they beat Pawnee, destroyed his clothes,

  broke his saddle and gun, took all that he had,

  and left him there, alone and naked on

  the prairie.

  High Backed Wolf then came upon poor Pawnee,

  sitting there and waiting to die.

  “Now,” High Backed Wolf said, “I am going

  to help you.

  That is what I am here for, for I am a chief.

  But from this day on you must behave right.”

  He took the young man back to his lodge.

  “Here is your new clothing,”

  High Backed Wolf said to him.

  “Outside are three horses. Take your pick of them and that horse will be yours.

  Here is the skin of a mountain lion.

  I give it to you.

  Wear this skin as proof that your heart is good.”

  High Backed Wolf was truly a chief.

  And from that day on, Pawnee’s heart was good.

  FIRST PATROL

  Fodio-lay, Gunba

  Gaban-gari, Kanta.

  Wash hummed his great-grandfather’s song as he ran the curry brush along Blaze’s back. As he stroked the animal’s fetlocks, the big stallion whickered in pleasure and then turned its head back to nuzzle Wash’s chest.

  A fine steed to ride into war, Wash thought, a picture coming into his mind of himself riding across imagined African plains, his clothing shining with gold. And now they were about to go out on patrol, his first patrol. The thought of it filled his senses, but not so much that he was unaware that someone had just come up very quietly behind him.

  The smell of the grease told him that it was an Indian. Only Indians lathered their bodies with buffalo fat like that to prevent them burning in the sun and to keep the bugs away.

  He felt a gentle tug on his hair. It took less than a second for Wash to spin, swat the hand away, and reach for his revolver. But the tall man had already stepped back and folded his arms. It was the biggest of the four Osage scouts. Wash had seen him from a distance. That was easy to do because of his great size, which seemed characteristic of his tribe.

  He looked even taller now. The top of Wash’s head barely came up to the man’s chest.

  “Excellent hair,” the scout said in a slow, deep voice.

  “Huh?” Wash replied. No other words came to his mouth.

  “Short,” the Osage man said. “Yet it would be prized,” he gestured toward the small hills and stand of scrubby trees about three hundred yards out, “by some of those out there. A worthy scalp to hang from a warrior’s lance.”

  Wash stared up at him, his mouth open as if he was attempting to catch flies, as surprised by the huge man’s good English as by the import of the words he had spoken.

  The tall Indian nodded, as if Wash had just uttered something halfway intelligent.

  “That song you sang,” he said. “Medicine song, no? It will protect you.”

  Then the Osage scout nodded and wandered off, leaving Wash to thinking about how his hair would be a real coup for one of those red men out there that he was just as likely to run into on that day. And somehow the prospect of his first patrol seemed a bit less pleasant.

  “You thinkin’ again, Wash?”

  Josh Hopkins, who had been grooming his own horse a few yards away, put down his brush and walked over. He put his hand on Wash’s shoulder and gave it a companionable squeeze.

  “Never did see anyone who ever seemed to be in a brown study as much as you.”

  Wash shook his head ruefully. “I suppose,” he said.

  Josh looked in the direction where the Osage scout had walked.

  “That is one big Indian, ain’t he? They call him Baptist John. Heck of a name for an Indian.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Heard some of what he said to you.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it none. I believe that is just the way Indians show you they like you. They tease you like that. And I doubt we will see more than dust and sagebrush out there on patrol.”

  Josh sat down on a wooden stool and watched as Wash continued to run the comb over the big black horse’s body. “You know,” he said, “Sergeant Brown has taken note of the way you have with that animal of yours. Seems to have softened him a bit toward you. Where you learn so much about horses?”

  “Back home.”

  As Wash spoke those two simple words, he felt a wave of emotion. It surprised him to the point that his legs felt a little weak. Of all the reasons he had joined the 10th, which included proving himself as a man and being able to send money back home to care for his widowed mother and his little sister, perhaps the most important reason he’d had for leaving Virginia had been to get away from that place where he’d been nothing more than another piece of property until emancipation. A place where, even now, he doubted he would find any white man who would ever view him as a real person. How could he think of that little cabin as home? Yet he now realized that he did.

  “You never told me much about where you come from. What was it like?”

  Wash took a deep breath. If he started talking about it the way he felt at the moment, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to stop talking.

  “Like most every place else, I suppose. You know how it was, being owned and all.”

  Josh picked up a piece of straw and bent it back and forth in his long fingers. “I suppose so. But was it a big plantation like where I come from, with a Big House the size of a king’s palace and all? Rose Hill, they called it.”

  Wash let out the breath he’d been holding. “Not so much,” he said. “The Vances had a nice Big House—least it was big before the Yankees burned it. But they never named it. It was just called Vance Farm. Had a nice library. More than a thousand books in there. One of my daddy’s jobs was to keep that library clean and dust those books.” Wash smiled. “Not that any of the Vances read them. Master Philip had inherited Vance Farm from his uncle, who had been some kind of professor.”

  “So what kind of folks was they? They the kind to do this?” Josh stood up and slipped his shirt halfway down. Wash looked at the long lines of scar tissue across his friend’s back. “Stealing apples from the orchard,” John said. “Didn’t matter I was but ten. Stealing was stealing, my old Massa said. Said that was in the Bible. He was a righteous man, for sure.”

  “No,” Wash said. “Master Philip was kind and never whupped his slaves. We were treated decent—or so the neighbors said who were scandalized that we darkies were allowed to marry like my daddy and mama did. No jumping over the broom on our plantation. Black couples wedded proper in the little negro church we had been granted permission to build out of scrap lumber down by the river, in whose warm waters we babies were baptized. We were even allowed to use the Vance last name as our own.”

  Wash put down the curry brush, picked up three straws from the ground, and sat next to Josh.

  “Unlike some owners, the Vances suffered a man and his wife to stay together—unless they misbehaved. The Vances hardly ever sold off any of us children, at least until they were thirteen or so. Truly, as slaves to the Vances, our cup did runneth over.” Wash chuckled. “Or so, I am certain, the Vances told themselves.”

  He held up the three straws he’d plaited together. “We had it better than some, being house slaves and also with Daddy being in charge of the horses. Our cabin was closest to the Big House, not way down in the quarters. But Mama and Daddy were not like some house slaves who thought themselves better than anyone else. They never made it seem that we were too good to mix with the field negroes, those men and women working rain wet and sun dry whilst we were inside. Whatever extra victuals was left over did not jus
t go into our bellies. Mama made sure that it got out to the quarters down by the lower fields. And whenever Daddy could find the time he was teaching anyone, old or young, the reading and writing he had learned, even though it would have gotten him whupped by the overseer had he been caught. Mister;Tom frowned on darkies reading.”

  Wash looked up. “I didn’t mention him yet, did I?

  Josh shook his head. “But there was always one of them, weren’t there?”

  “Yup. And he was the one who did the whipping that Master Philip was too kind to do himself. Mister Tom Key. He was tall and bony as a skeleton. The cheeks on his smooth-shaven face stuck out like wings above his long chin. And he was meaner than dirt. He always ‘knowed what he was doing,’ indeed, he did. How can a man who swings a whip until your father’s back looks like a skinned calf not know?”

  Wash tossed the straws down onto the ground.

  Josh nodded, saying nothing.

  Wash took another deep breath. “‘Don’t you worry none,’ he said, that day they left. ‘I will stay here till the last dog is hung. I will defend this house like it was my own. Your loyal Tom Key will shed every drop of his blood before any Yankee foot ever steps over your sacred threshold.’

  “Mistress Vance paid him no heed, but I recall how Master Philip Vance took out his watch and studied it as Mister Tom was talking. Then Master Vance raised one eyebrow and shook his head. He reached down to open the strongbox at his feet and pulled out a twenty-dollar gold piece. ‘For your loyalty,’ Master Philip said as he pressed it in the overseer’s hand.”

  Wash paused, raising one hand to run it back through his short hair. The picture of that parting was as clear in his mind as if it had been yesterday. And for some reason he was seeing things that he didn’t recall having noticed at the time. Like the way Master Philip lifted his hand to run it back through his wavy brown hair as he stared at Mama as if he was trying to catch her eye. His wife glaring at him as he did so. And Mama keeping her gaze down toward Wash and his sister.