Brothers of the Buffalo

by Joseph Bruchac

His vision was now like that of an eagle in flight. He floated over the land. He looked down. He saw horses running. And farther in the hazy distance, as if seen through the flow of a waterfall, were herds of buffalo.

  Then he was back standing on that high hill. He knew his vision was a true one. He knew he had to make a choice. He looked one way and then the other.

  He walked down the hill.

  A story, a story. Let this story come.

  Long ago, in Kabi, there was a king who had three sons. All of them were good, strong young men.

  All of them had a lot of power.

  So, one day, that old king, he decided to test

  his boys and see which of them was the best prepared

  to rule after him. Come with me, he said.

  All four of them got on their fine horses and rode out to where a huge old tree stood. I imagine it must have looked much like the great treaty oak that stood

  at the edge of the lower field down by the river on

  the Vance plantation, not ever having seen

  any real African trees myself.

  The old king pointed at that tree.

  Show me what you can do, he said to the first son.

  So the first son rode hard at that tree.

  Just before he got to it, he pulled up on the reins, jumped his horse right over the top of that tall tree, landed on the other side, and trotted back.

  How was that, my father? he asked.

  But the old king said nothing back.

  He just turned to his second son.

  You show me what you can do, the king said.

  So the second son rode hard at that tree.

  But just before he got to it, he lifted up his spear and threw it so hard it went right through that tree and came out the other side. Before it could hit the ground, the second son caught that spear, having ridden

  that fast around that big tree. Then he trotted back

  to where his father and two brothers waited.

  How was that, my father?

  That old king, though, again did not reply.

  He just turned to the third son. Your turn, boy.

  Show me what you can do.

  The third son did not ride hard and fast.

  He just walked his horse up to that tree, leaned over, grabbed the tree with one hand, and pulled it

  out of the ground with one hand.

  Then, holding that great old tree over his head,

  he walked his horse back to the king.

  How was that, my father?

  And that was as far as the story went.

  Instead of saying which son had proven himself worthy to be king, it ended with this question.

  Now which of those sons do you think did the best?

  And if you cannot decide, I guess we will never know.

  NEW ARRIVALS

  It was a good day. He was walking pretty much without a limp. Not having been on horseback for several months had helped. That was yet another thing that had helped him accept the decisions he’d made. A man who couldn’t ride for more than an hour without so much pain he was about ready to fall out of his saddle had no hope for a career in the cavalry.

  It had been hard to not climb on Blaze’s back as he had so often and feel that the two of them were one as they galloped across the prairie. Even a slow walk jolted his hip into fiery pain after the first few miles. The big horse had seemed to understand, and he had felt it try to modify its gait to keep from hurting him.

  It’ll get better, he had told himself.

  But it hadn’t.

  “There’s no shame in it, son,” Sergeant Brown had said. “Sometimes a man just has to move on.”

  And finally he had accepted it and taken the offer to retire with his disability. The one good thing about it was that Sergeant Brown had helped, even though it was close to against regulations, to make sure that Blaze ended up in the right hands. Not those of another soldier, but the understanding hands of Baptist John. The big Osage scout had always been the only person other than Wash that Blaze cottoned to.

  Wash reached up to feel the cross on a beaded necklace that hung around his neck, hidden under his shirt. It had been Baptist John’s gift to him the day he had handed Blaze’s reins to the Osage scout and then walked away without looking back.

  So he had returned to his native Virginia on a government pension. It wasn’t much, but more than the nothing his mother had ever gotten in exchange for his father’s life.

  On his own two feet, the pain pretty much went away. On a good day, like today, he was able to walk pretty much like anyone else. Thank the Lord for that. Wash did not wish to stand out any more than he already did. No other colored man at Hampton had gone from being a horse soldier to a scholar.

  The pension for his disability was part of what had made it possible for him to attend school. The fact that neither his financial support nor, for that matter, his physical presence was much needed at home was another reason. His homecoming has been a mixture of joy and awkwardness. He’d been embraced by his mother and literally lifted off his feet and spun around by Pegatha, who had grown to the point of being a full four inches taller than he was. Moses Mack, his stepfather, had warmly shaken hands with him and assured him that there was always a place for him to stay in what had been his home long before Mr. Mack had become a family member. And he had found that old liking he’d felt as a child for Mr. Mack, with his quiet modesty and his gentle strength reinforced by the way his new stepfather clearly adored and did everything possible to please Wash’s mother.

  “Now there ain’t no way I could ever come close to taking the place of your father,” Mr. Mack had said. “He was the finest man I ever knowed. But I am hoping I can repay the debt I owe to your family for his friendship by helping out however I can.”

  In fact, it had turned out that Mr. Mack had been more than just helpful. He had amassed a considerable sum of money in the years he was away from Virginia as a prospector in the West. So much that it turned out Wash’s mother had not spent a cent of the money he had sent to her while he was serving in the 10th. She had opened an account in the nearby bank and kept all that money, with interest, for Wash himself to use as he wished. And she would not hear him insisting that it was money he didn’t want. Out west Wash had faced bullets and bad men, rattlesnakes and killing storms, but he was no match for his mother’s determination.

  “Schooling,” she said. “That is how you should use that money, Washington Vance. You sweated and bled for it, and it is yours.”

  Things had clearly changed while he was away. Even their little cabin was no longer the same. With Mr. Mack’s money they had built on two new rooms and a barn out back where they kept their two mules for plowing. They had even taken on more land to farm and were prospering.

  And though Wash had been a bit flummoxed about it on the one hand, on the other he was relieved. Those savings would make life easier for him at the school he had intended to attend. He had returned East with not just the intent of returning to his family, but with the assurance that if he wanted it, a fine education could indeed be his at no less a place than Hampton Normal and Agricultural Institute, the famous school for the education of negroes not far from his home in the very same Virginia where he had been a slave.

  He had two people to thank for that. One was his sweet, faithful Bethany. She was already a student there and had asked her uncle, by then in his second term in the House of Representatives, to sponsor him for admission. Apparently it had not merely been Bethany’s words, but also the letters he had sent her—some of which she had shared with her uncle, that had convinced the Honorable Representative that Wash was worthy of a place at Hampton.

  The second person to thank had been none other than his old lieutenant, now captain, Richard Henry Pratt. The letter of commendation Captain Pratt had sent on his behalf from Florida—where the captain was engaged in civilizing the Indian prisoners of war he had convinced the war department to place under his control ra
ther than hang—was glowing in its praise. Far more than Wash felt he deserved, even though he kept neatly folded in his volume of Shakespeare the copy of that letter which the captain had sent to him.

  As Wash walked across the green grass aglow with spring, he thought about all that had brought him to that place. It was still hard to believe at times that it was real, that the place itself was not a mere fantasy and his presence there a dream. But the clothing he wore, the books he carried, and the nods and greetings as he passed other dark-skinned young men and women—all assured him that it was true.

  Most of the students were younger than Wash. They seemed, to his embarrassment, to view him as some sort of hero. He was one of their own race who had served as a soldier, fighting wild Indians on the frontier like some hero in a dime novel. More a legend than a man.

  Wash shook his head at anyone thinking of him as heroic. How heroic were the fleas and lice in the barracks? Or the heat that made men drop like flies, the cold that froze feet and toes, the boredom that was their lot most of the time...or the terrible sorrow that still gripped him, like cold fingers digging into his chest, when he remembered the death of his best friend? Charley! He would never see his dear friend again until Gabriel sounded his trumpet and Saint Peter read Wash’s name in his golden book.

  But though Wash knew he was far from being a hero, he had not disabused his fellow students of their imaginings. He understood how important it was to have some sort of dream. And though he was far from the best of them, he had served among the best. There was no finer band of men than those he’d fought beside as a Buffalo Solider.

  “Blue blazes, yes!”

  He had said that out loud without intending to do so. Luckily, the nearest gaggle of students, chattering to each other like geese, was out of earshot. That was fortunate. He had to remember not to use the coarse language of the frontier.

  Then he heard something. A commotion from the direction of the administration building. People were shouting as they ran in that direction. He pulled out his watch. Though his meeting with Bethany was in the opposite direction, he was still half an hour early. Time enough to have a look-see. He closed the watch, but not without a quick glance at the picture of the Vances. Not his family, but his former owners. But somehow it felt right that he’d been able to bring that watch back to the state they loved.

  Wash followed the throng. Despite his wound, he was able to trot along at a good pace. That pleased him. But what pleased him more was what he heard the other students saying.

  “Indians,” a young man shouted. “Real Indians!”

  “The Indians are here,” another scholar whose face was flushed with excitement cried.

  By the time Wash reached the crowd milling about the building he’d heard enough to understand what was happening. Some of the Indian prisoners held at Fort Marion had been deemed civilized enough after to be sent north for further education. And where better for that than Hampton?

  My, my, Wash thought. Could it be that I might recognize one of them?

  It was not through height that one sees the moon, as his Great-Grampa Hausaman said. But as he tried to see, Wash discovered that his shortness meant that nothing more was visible to him than the tops of the heads of the newcomers encircled by a mass of eager humanity.

  However, Wash’s arms were still stronger than most—even those who stood head and shoulders above him. He thrust his way through. And he found himself standing square in front of the new arrivals. His eyes swept over the thirteen tall, brown-skinned young men. They bore little resemblance to the Cheyennes and Kiowas and Comanches he had known. Every one of them had his hair cut short and neatly combed. They wore not the bright regalia of Indians at war, but carefully tailored suits. They might have been taken for mulattoes or well-dressed, sun-burnt farmers rather than Indians.

  With one quick, agile move, the tallest of the Indians stepped forward. He stared down at Wash, a stern expression on his face. A hush fell over the crowd. Their Buffalo Soldier had been recognized! Was this tall Indian a former enemy? Would the two of them now leap at each other’s throats?

  “Wolf?” Wash said.

  The tall Indian bowed. “George now,” he replied, his English as cultured and correct as a schoolteacher’s. He held his right hand. “It is fine to see you once more, my good man.”

  He paused and then chuckled. “My little Buffalo Soldier.”

  Wash grinned up at him. “Sir,” he said, “it is just as fine for me to see you...my big Indian.”

  They laughed and took each other’s hands.

  Long, long ago, back in Africa,

  three men were traveling together.

  One was the King of the Archers.

  One was the King of Prayer.

  And the third was the King of Wrestlers.

  Those three men came to a stream.

  It was wide and deep and there were crocodiles in it. They needed to cross to the other side,

  but there was no bridge. There was no boat.

  The King of Prayer bent down and prayed.

  Then he took his staff and struck the water.

  The water parted, and he walked across to

  the other side with the waters closing

  right behind him as he took each step.

  The King of Archers took out his arrows.

  He shot them, one after another, so that

  they lay in a straight line all the way across that river. Then he walked on top of his arrows and reached

  the other side.

  Now the King of Wrestlers had to cross.

  His two friends were waiting for him on the other side. He walked back and forth along the bank,

  making himself angry. Then when he was angry enough

  he grabbed himself in a powerful wrestling hold

  and threw himself over the river to the other side.

  There is always more than one way to solve a problem. Off with the old rat’s head.

  Selected Bibliography

  Adobe Walls: The History and Archaeology of the 1874 Trading Post by T. Lindsay Baker and Billy R. Harrison, College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 1986.

  Afro-American Folktales: Stories from Black Traditions in the New World, selected and edited by Roger D. Abrahams, New York: Pantheon Books, 1985.

  Battlefield and Classroom: Four Decades with the American Indian, 1867–1904, an Autobiography by Richard Henry Pratt, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1964.

  Battles of the Red River War: Archeological Perspectives on the Indian Campaign of 1874 by J. Brett Cruse, College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2008.

  Black Indian Slave Narratives, edited by Patrick Minges, Winston-Salem, NC: John F. Blair, Publisher, 2004.

  Black Valor, Buffalo Soldiers and the Medal of Honor, 1870–1898 by Frank N. Schubert, Wilmington, DE: Scholarly Resources Books, 1997.

  Buffalo Soldiers, 1866–91 by Ron Field, Oxford, UK: Osprey Publishing, 2004.

  Buffalo Soldiers: The Colored Regulars in the United States Army by T. G. Seward, Philadelpia: A.M.E. Book Concern, 1903.

  Buffalo Soldiers in the West: A Black Soldiers Anthology, edited by Bruce A. Glasrud and Michael N. Searles, College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2007.

  The Buffalo Soldiers: A Narrative of the Negro Cavalry in the West by William H. Leckie, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1967.

  The Buffalo War: The History of the Red River Indian Uprising of 1874 by James L. Haley, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1976.

  By Cheyenne Campfires by George Bird Grinnell, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1926, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1971.

  Carbine and Lance: The History of Old Fort Sill by Colonel W. S. Nye, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1937.

  Cheyennes at Dark Water Creek: The Last Fight of the Red River War by William Y. Chalfant, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1997.

  Child of the Fighting Tenth: On the Frontier with the Buffalo Soldiers by Forrestine C. H
ooker, edited by Steve Wilson, Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2003.

  The Colonel’s Lady on the Western Frontier: The Correspondence of Alice Kirk Grierson, edited and with an introduction by Shirley Anne Leckie, Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989.

  Empire of the Southern Moon: Quanah Parker and the Rise and Fall of the Comanches, the Most Powerful Indian Tribe in American History, by S. C. Gwynne, New York: Scribner, 2011.

  The Fighting Cheyennes by George Bird Grinnell, New York: Charles Scribners Sons, 1915.

  The Forgotten Heroes: The Story of the Buffalo Soldiers by Clinton Cox, New York: Scholastic, 1993.

  The Great Buffalo Hunt by Wayne Gard, New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1960.

  Hausa Folklore by Maalam Shaihua, collected and translated by R. Sutherland Rattray, Oxford, UK: The Clarendon Press, 1913.

  The Peace Chiefs of the Cheyenne by Stan Hoig, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1980.

  People of the Sacred Arrows: The Southern Cheyenne Today by Stan Hoig, New York: Dutton Books, 1992.

  People of the Sacred Mountain: A History of the Northern Cheyenne Chiefs and Warrior Societies, 1830–1879, Volumes I and II, by Father Peter J. Powell, New York: Harper and Row, 1981.

  Quanah Parker by Len Hilts, San Diego: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1987.

  The Sand Creek Massacre by Stan Hoig, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1961.

  The Southern Cheyennes by Donald J. Berthrong, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1963.

  Sweet Medicine: The Continuing Role of the Sacred Arrows, the Sun Dance, and the Sacred Buffalo Hat in Northern Cheyenne History, Volumes I and II, by Father Peter J. Powell, Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1969.

  A Treasury of African Folklore: The Oral Literature, Traditions, Myths, Legends, Epics, Tales, Recollections, Wisdom, Sayings and Humor of Africa by Harold Courlander, New York: Crown Publishers, 1975.

  A Treasury of Afro-American Folklore: The Oral Literature, Traditions, Recollections, Legends, Tales, Songs, Religious Beliefs, Customs, Sayings, and Humor of People of African Descent in the Americas by Harold Courlander, New York: Crown Publishers, 1976.