Savage Country

by Robert Olmstead

  He imagined David, a few months ago, pen scratching on paper, his joy of discovery. This place would be the solution to his insolvency. This place would save him and Elizabeth from bankruptcy. Khyber stepped forward and, sure-­footed, she picked her way down the long, bushy slope. The water barely came above her hooves. From here the land was the fragment of a natural amphitheater. The creek bed opened into a wider bottomland, where it shined beneath the trees through which it wove. Mulberries, plums, choke cherries, gooseberries, currants, and other fruits were still in abundance. Upstream and downstream, deep trails were worn into the bluffs where the vast buffalo herds had crossed and recrossed for generations. The trails were wide and so deep a man on horseback was little above the surrounding soil. There were groves of trees where lived great flocks of turkeys and shallow eddies where the deer and the antelope came to water. There were reeds and tall wiry grass. There were deeper pools with fish.

  Michael cast a rope around a fallen limb and dragged it to the fire he would make. It was hot that late afternoon and on the warm air was the boom of bees. The air was still and beyond the brink of the cutbank, was the silence of desolation. A rattlesnake, as thick as his arm and more than four feet long, lay coiled on a rock. It was looking at him with its massive pointed head and glittering eyes. He looked again and the snake was gone.

  His appetite was sharp. His last meal was in the saddle: corn bread, bacon, sardines, a boiled egg. He ascended to the plains, the gelding in tow.

  He heard them before he saw them. It was September and still the rutting season. He rose to his full length in the stirrups, shading his eyes from the sun’s last glare as he stared ahead. He dismounted and drove an iron pin in the ground and picketed the gelding. He remounted Khyber and rode out.

  They were a small herd feeding slowly in the direction of the creek. Big timber wolves hung on their rear and flanks, ready to cut out a stray calf or those weakened by age. There was a good breeze blowing and he could smell them. He rode as near as they would allow and was surprised how close he came before they took notice and gave off their bellowlike grunts.

  They gazed at him for one moment and then another and then tossed their heads, spiked their tails, turned, and fled. A bull bounded at once from a crouch to an erect position. He moved off with a rolling gait reaching for full speed and swiftness and not to be caught by the fastest horse. A second, younger bull lowered his sharp horns. He made a burst of speed in a rush toward Khyber and would have run her through if he’d not stumbled and fallen to his knees.

  Khyber wheeled and faced about. The bull collected and charged again. Khyber stepped aside and offered her flank and he lost his forward speed when she turned and turned again. The bull snorted and puffed and gored the ground and started off once more following the circle Khyber made and soon he was too exhausted to carry on. In his heat and fury he panted and lolled out his tongue. He turned his enormous shaggy head and looked at the horse and rider out the corner of his deep-­set eye.

  Michael drew the saber from its steel scabbard. He touched Khyber and they took after a cow. Khyber gained steady pace. Her neck lengthened and weaved the air as headlong she rushed on in pursuit. As they gained upon the cow, she slowed her pace from a canter to a trot, her tail flying out behind her, and she slewed a little to one side.

  Khyber went in close and then left and in that moment Michael reached down with the saber and slashed the tendons in her back legs as Khyber veered off. The saber stroke brought the cow’s hind end to the ground with a deep-­mouthed groan. A young bull calf bawled and trotted in intent on nursing milk from its fallen mother. He let the bull calf find the teats and drink and then he shot him.

  He drew his steel and pulled out the tongues. He sliced them free, near five pounds each, and tied them at the back of his saddle. He then took the livers for dinner and a loin for breakfast.

  He retrieved the gelding and went back to cutting: the hump roasts came off the shoulders 4 pounds each, butt roasts 11 pounds each, loins 12 pounds each, tenderloins 20 pounds each, and still he kept cutting until he calculated the load at 250 pounds and calculated another 600 pounds of meat and tallow left on the ground in the dark red carcasses. He sprinkled a pinch of gall upon a slice of liver and ate it.

  When the bloody work was finally done, the carcasses lay gleaming in the twilight air. He shaded his eyes with his hand. Wolves seated on the hill were waiting for him to leave. They were stationed all about in packs of five and six. They’d come upon the blood and more were arriving.

  Something came to him, something on the wind. He stood from the work and looked about. He looked to the red dog. The red dog heard it too, or was the red dog responding to him?

  He washed his hands with canteen water, mounted Khyber, and led the gelding over the bluff and into harbor. He hung the meat in the trees and washed his hands again, and his face, in the cold water of the creek. He drank some and as David wrote, It is neither bitter nor gyppy. From beyond the creek came a chorus of howls as if in challenge to his arrival.

  In another hour the turkeys came in. A half mile east was a large roost where they gathered. They came in by the thousands and there was the loud crack of a thick limb they’d overloaded with their weight and they tumbled to the ground. He wondered what they ate and what it made them taste like. He followed the turkey sounds to their roost and when he returned he carried six over his shoulders and dragged another four behind him. He stretched a rope between trees and threw the birds, tied two together, across the rope where they could mellow.

  He mounted Khyber and they crossed the creek and ascended the bluff. In the darkness the wolves were crunching the bones. To be heard were the snapping of jaws and the rending of flesh. A blazing sunset was burning away the edges of the bright blue sky. It burned across the wide circle of the horizon and stained the sky overhead and pinked the darkness coming from the east, the earth firm, smooth, and level, lurid yellow and red. He thought of Africa and remembered the years he had spent there. He was so often thinking of things that were far away and he knew how dangerous this was. When he hunted, whole villages followed him into the bush, a hundred or more, the elephants so monstrous they rolled out the guts, entered the rib cavity and butchered them from the inside out.

  He thought he observed something of a tawny color moving in the brush along the creek bluff, a good distance to the east. He could not make out what it was and before he could uncase his field glasses the animal or whatever it was had disappeared. The red dog walked in and sat beside him. The darkness was coming rapidly. He held up the glasses and the lenses collected what little light there was. Misty people seemed to appear out of nowhere. He watched as the dark figures rose from the grassy turf to stand and walk in on the wolves. They carried spears thrust before them and then they were running on the wolves, blades of shining metal, long knives flashing.

  The clouds moved again and the scene was eclipsed as suddenly as it had appeared. He leaned forward and his body quivered with life. What could it be out there in the shrouded darkness, these horseless ancient hunters, materialized from the gloom? Everything looked mysteriously beautiful in the starlight. He wondered if he saw what he had seen. He remembered how hungry and tired and sun struck he was.

  It was hot that evening and on the warm air was the rush and laving of the waters, the vague sounds from the wilderness, the dreary howl of the wolves, the whine of the coyotes, the grunting and bellowing of the buffalo. The red dog moved out to the deepest shadows about the campfire while he ate and finished his tea. He lit a cigarette and the owls came out. From the darkness there came screams and cries and a heartrending shriek. He prepared a place of concealment away from the fire circle and lay down for the night. The red dog came back in and they lay close together.

  Michael looked up at the infinite expanse of night sky. He pressed his hands against his eyes and opened them again. He felt no fear, just melancholia. The moon was close for a while and there was good light and he could have read his boo
k if he wanted to. Unbidden, her memory came to him and he reached a hand forward as if to touch the image in his mind. She smiled when she looked at him and her lips reddened and her face colored as she sat up and turned her bare feet onto the tiled floor. She stretched, lifted her hair, and let it fall.

  “Luisa,” he whispered.

  The light blued the chattering creek and silvered the land and after a while he fell asleep. He’d not slept long when a dream took him to Africa and soon he was being hunted by lions. He woke and smiled. The lions hadn’t gotten him yet. Then he returned to sleep and she came to him in his sleeping mind. In his sleep he laughed and held out his hand. She came closer and he took her into his arms.

  “Don’t let me go,” she said. “Hold on to me, now you’re here.” She took his face in her hands and she kissed him.

  Chapter 16

  When he awoke, the wind blew lightly from the south. He took his coffee by the stream. He looked to the sun. The wagon train was on the move by now and he imagined where they’d be. He then had another thought. He retrieved the saber from beside his bed and returned to the stream. He hefted the saber in its scabbard. He let the ricasso to the light, the fuller, the cutting edge. He turned east and held the steel until its bright luster gleamed in the sun. The shallow hallmark read AMES MFG. CO. CHICOPEE MASS. He slotted the blade and without another thought he pitched it into the deepest water, swallowed forever.

  He saddled Khyber. He’d ride onto the dead, flat plain and north to the sunflowers to guide them in. He ascended the bluff and lit a pipeful of black honeydew tobacco. The valley was black with the big animals for as far as the eye could see. He said her name and Khyber stepped off. He made a wide circuit of the surrounding land before heading to the rendezvous. When he reached the end of the road he dismounted. He loosened the cinch on Khyber’s saddle, took out his reading book, and lay down. He would wait here for the wagons to arrive.

  Soon they came down through the wild oats and the drooping sunflowers. The men lashed the air as the oxen brought on their great creaking canvas-­covered loads, straining against the weight of their yokes, the wheels turning on their hickory axels.

  Darby had started them at midnight; they were weary and the oxen moaned as if they knew there would be release and rest at the end.

  Elizabeth dismounted first, looking both weary and intent.

  “I have found them,” he said to her.

  “How far?” she said, her tired eyes suddenly brilliant and sparkling. There were moments she’d grasped what greatness she’d set in motion, but she hadn’t thought it would be like this. She felt fearful, awake and alive.

  “Twenty miles, and long, flat ones.”

  “How many are down there?”

  “I cannot tell you. You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “There’s no turning back now,” she said.

  “Yes, there is. There always is.”

  “Cochran and Meadows,” she said, “they have deserted, but two new men, Findley and O’Malley, wandered in and I have signed them on.”

  “The faithless men,” he said. “Some loss is always to be expected,” he added, angry with himself for trusting them from the first. It always held: the true man is true, and the false is false. As far as he was concerned they were just so much rubbish and gone forever. One way or another, they’d repent the mistake they made.

  “They stole a wagon and a very good team,” she said.

  “They are days gone,” he said. “That’s the finish of it. If they make it, they’ll have a story to tell.”

  As they proceeded there were hundreds and hundreds of buffalo on either side of the trail chewing their cuds and they had to be chased away to protect the oxen.

  Michael brought them to the bluff that overlooked the creek.

  “We have arrived,” Elizabeth said.

  “The kingdom come,” Temple Miller said.

  “Jerusalem,” the penman said, and he performed a little jig step in the joy of arrival.

  Charlie bent low and ran ahead as if charging a stiff wind. He tucked his shoulder and tumbled over the bluff and rolled to the creek. He splashed across and ran on determined to be the first after Michael.

  “Gentlemen,” Michael said, “break out your picks and shovels.”

  At his direction they set to work to clear the brush and cut down the bluff. They were eager to make the descent, cross the creek, and enter the park below. The first wagons were lightly laden and as a precaution they secured the back wheels by means of the drag chains lest they run up on the back legs of the oxen that pulled them. Story Miller braked against the oxen and one of the wheel oxen stumbled and went down on its knees and was dragged to the creek bottom, where it got back on its feet. The turning rims of the wheels milled the water as they completed their crossing.

  The descent to the creek was still too steep and the crossing below was rough and jolted the wagon. Though the wagon crossed safely, improvements were needed if they were to make the descent and the crossing three and four times a day. They started farther back with their spades and cut deeper. They lessened the slope and successfully attempted a large wagon and the rest followed.

  From the creek bottom they proceeded a quarter mile down the stream and into the park. They knocked the pins from the oxbows and slid them from the yokes, and the oxen were set free in the lush grass of the peninsula, where they capered and pranced with sudden energy. From their long days on the road all the men and Elizabeth were dirty, worn down, and shabby. Their clothes were stained and penetrated with dust and grime, but there was no inclination to rest. The men immediately set to work building the camp. Every one of them was anxious to get onto the buffalo and begin earning their money.

  Aubuchon was at the earth with a shovel, the blade flashing the dirt aside. The trench he dug deepened and lengthened until it was four feet long, a foot deep and eight inches wide. As he worked a canvas pavilion was being erected around him. Dead limbs were dragged to its edge, where they were bucked to length. The dry dung of the buffalo was gathered and heaped in a pile. Aubuchon knotted dry grass and twigs, soaked them in kerosene, and set his fire in the bottom. The black smoke cleared and it burned brightly, and the iron grates were laid over the flames. Soon the coffeepot hung from the crane and was sputtering hot. There were kettles of beans and side pork, the turkeys and joints of buffalo Michael had hung in the trees. There were cake pans of corn bread dusty with ash. Aubuchon laid the thick buffalo steaks to roast on the reddening iron grill, where they sizzled and popped. When one side was ready he flopped them over and began cutting off pieces while the other side cooked.

  The men came to the fireside with sore backs and feeble with tiredness. Their throats and nostrils stung with the smoke as they leaned in to spear pieces of roasted meat. They drank their coffee and ate the beans scalding hot. They crumbled biscuits into their bowls, soaked up the liquid, and spooned the soggy mess into their mouths. The tired sag left their shoulders. Charlie compressed the corn cake in his hand and ate a fistful in a single bite.

  Restored, Abel Gough stood erect, gave his neck a twist, and crowed like a rooster. They all laughed and went back to work. They yoked a pair of oxen and hooked them to a running gear and began building a woodpile.

  Michael took Charlie aside and told him of a bee tree he’d found that they would return to when they had a little time. Then he rode to the bluff and onto the plain where ravens were flipping over the buffalo chips, looking for grubs. There was no sign of their camp below. There was no smell of smoke, and what smoke there was, it followed the creek east into the willow and cottonwood forest. There was no sound. There was nothing that could be seen. David had chosen well.

  By the time he returned Story and Temple Miller were twitching logs to the crossing and the boys were laying them side by side in the creek. They hooked on to an empty wagon and took it across. The oxen pawed and thudded dully against the logs laid in the bed, the water streaming between. The wheels bumped across, the sideboard
s rattling in their sockets and they made the bluff and turned and came back down and it all went smoothly with little effort.

  In the days to come they’d build a press of sapling posts with a lever and chain to flatten the folded hides for the freighters to cart away. They’d build a smokehouse of forked poles placed in the ground and covered with green hides, twenty feet long, and at the end a fire to smoke the inside. They’d erect scaffolds and other contrivances for sugaring, pickling, jerking, and drying meat.

  Toward evening the men went down the water trail, then stripped to their undergarments and waded out into the channel, where they squatted and soaked. The darkness thinned away as the moon and stars came out in a perfect sky of southern blue. They worked the brown soap into lather and splashed away the suds. When they were done they stood in the last light. John brought them coffee and a basket of hot biscuits, a round of butter and blackberry jam. Charlie followed behind carrying a sack of peanuts, a bottle, and a thimble measure, and for each of the men there was a gill of whiskey.

  Elizabeth’s new home was two wall tents pitched together. The back apartment was a sleeping chamber and the front a parlor, office, and sitting room. A canvas curtain divided them, and carpets covered a canvas floor. She had brought her washbowl and pitcher, her husband’s field desk and stand, his folding chair and folding table with a drawer. There was a little bed lamp with a capacity of oil for fifteen minutes of reading. There was a stove in each apartment and their pipes passed through pieces of tin fastened in the slanted roofs of the tents. Her bedstead was made of iron. She’d brought also her bathtub made of tin.