by Zane Grey
Hudnall changed Tom’s plans somewhat by relegating him to watch camp that day, while he went out with the other men. He modified this order, however, by saying that if any buffalo came near camp, Tom might go after them.
Breakfast was over at sunrise. Pilchuck brought out his heavy ammunition box, with which each hunter was provided, and told Tom he could help a little and learn while he helped. His belt contained upwards of thirty empty shells that were to be reloaded.
“Reckon I ought to have done this last night,” he explained to Hudnall, who was impatient to be off. “You fellows go on down the river. I’ll catch up with you.”
The three hunters rode off eagerly and Pilchuck got out his tools for reloading. Tom quietly learned the use of bullet mold, swedge, lubricator, primer, extractor, tamper, and patch paper.
“Reckon I’m all set now,” affirmed the scout. “You put these tools away for me . . . an’ keep a good look-out. I’m not worryin’, but I’d like to know if there’s Indians huntin’ this herd. Take a look from the ridge with my glass. An’ there’ll be buffalo on the other side of the river today. You can keep in sight of camp an’ get a shot.”
With that Pilchuck mounted his horse and trotted away through the timber. Tom leisurely set about the few tasks at hand. It pleased him when he was able to avoid Sally’s watching eyes. She seemed to regard him with something of disapproval. When the camp chores were finished, Tom took the telescope and climbed to the ridge top. Apparently more buffalo were in sight than yesterday and about in the same latitude. Tom swept the circle of surrounding country, gray-green rolling plain, the low ridges, the winding river depression, with its fringe of trees. Some miles down the river rose a column of smoke, marking, no doubt, another camp. Far away to the south and west loomed the strange upheaval of land. Clearly defined by the telescope, it appeared to be an escarpment of horizon-wide dimensions, gray and barren, seamed by cañons, standing in wild and rugged prominence above the plains.
Not until late in the morning did Tom’s watchful gaze espy buffalo approaching camp. Then he was thrilled to see a number of what appeared to be bulls grazing riverward opposite the camp. Hurrying down from the eminence from whence he had made this observation, he got his gun and cartridges, and, crossing the river, he proceeded up the thickly wooded slope some distance to the west of his first stand of yesterday. It looked to him as if the bulls might work down into a coulée that opened into the river depression. He was quite a little time reaching the point desired—the edge of woodland and brink of the ravine—and, when he peered from under the last trees, he was moved with such an overwhelming excitement that he dropped to his knees.
Out on the open plain, not a hundred yards distant, grazed nine buffalo bulls, the leader of which appeared larger than the largest he had skinned the day before. They had not scented Tom and were grazing toward him, somewhat to the right, manifestly headed for the coulée.
Trembling and panting, Tom watched with strained sight. He forgot he held a Big Fifty in his hands, and in the riotous sensation of that moment he did not remember until from far down the river came a dull boom-boom of guns. It amazed him to see that the buffalo bulls paid no attention to the shooting. He made up his mind then to take his time and await a favorable opportunity to down the leader. They were approaching so slowly that he had ample time to control the trembling of his muscles, though it was impossible to compose himself.
Several of the bulls piled over the little bank into the coulée, and, while they were passing within fifty yards of Tom, the others leisurely began the descent, the huge bull nodding along in the rear. The near ones passed into the timber, getting farther away from Tom. He had difficulty in restraining his eagerness. Then one bull began to crash in the brush. He made as much noise as an elephant. Tom watched with an intense interest only second to the hot-pressed lust to kill. This bull was crashing against thick brush, and it soon became plain to Tom that the beast was scratching his shaggy hide, tearing out the mats of burrs and the shedding hair. It came away in great tufts, hanging on the sharp broken ends of the brush. This old bull knew what he was about when he charged that thicket of hackberry.
Suddenly Tom was electrified by a puff that assuredly came from the nostrils of a buffalo close to him. He turned cautiously. Behind and below him, closer than fifty yards, the other bulls were passing into the timber. He plainly heard the grinding of their teeth. They were monsters. Instinctively Tom searched for a tree to climb or a place to run after he fired. What if they should charge his way? He would scarcely have time to reload and, even if he had, of what avail would that be?
Then the monarch wagged his enormous head in line with Tom’s magnifying vision. What a wide short face! His eyes stood out so that he could see in front or behind. His shaggy beard was dragging. Tom could see only the tips of the horns in all that woolly mass. Puff! came the sound of expelled breath.
Tom felt he hated to kill that glorious and terrifying beast, yet he was powerless to resist the tight palpitating feverish dominance of his blood. Resting the heavy rifle on a branch, he aimed behind the great shaggy shoulder, and with strained muscles and bated breath he fired.
Like a cannon the old Sharps roared. Crashing of brush, thudding of heavy hoofs sounded to the right of the cloud of smoke. The other bulls were running. Tom caught glimpses of broad brown backs clearing the brush down the river slope. With shaking hands he reloaded. Peering under the drifting smoke, he searched fearfully for the bull he had fired at, at first seeing only the thick-grassed swelling slope of the coulée. Then farther down he espied a huge brown object lying inert.
The wildness of the boy in Tom conquered all else. Leaping up, he broke out of the woods, yelling like an Indian, and charged down the gentle slope, exultant and proud, yet not quite frenzied enough to forget possible peril. From that quarter, however, he was safe. The monarch was heaving his last breath.
* * * * *
Pilchuck rode in at noon that day, in time to see Tom stretch the hide of his first buffalo.
“You got one, hey!” he called, eyeing the great shaggy hide with appreciation. “Your first buffalo. Wal, it’s a darned fine one. They don’t come any bigger than that fellow.”
Tom had to tell the story of his exploit, and was somewhat discomfited by the scout’s remark that he should have killed several of the bulls.
“Aren’t you back early?” queried Tom as Pilchuck dismounted.
“Run out of cartridges,” he said laconically.
“So quick!” exclaimed Tom, staring. “You must have seen a lot of buffalo.”
“Reckon they was thick this mornin’,” returned the scout dryly. “I got plumb surrounded once an’ had to shoot my way out.”
“Well, how many did you down?”
“Twenty-one. I think when we count up tonight, we’ll have a good day. Burn is doin’ better than yesterday. . . . Wal, I want a bite to eat an’ a drink. It’s warm ridin’ in the dust. Then I’ll hitch up the wagon an’ drive down for the hides. Come to think of it, though, I’ve a job to do before. You can help me.”
Later Pilchuck hailed Tom to fetch an axe and come on. Tom followed the scout down into the thickets.
“Cut four strong poles about ten feet long an’ pack them to camp,” said Pilchuck.
Tom did as he was bidden to find that the scout had returned ahead of him, carrying four short poles with forks at one end. He proceeded to pound them into the ground with the forks uppermost, and then he laid across them the poles Tom had brought, making a square framework. “We’ll stretch a hide inside the poles . . . loose so it’ll sag down . . . an’ there we’ll salt our buffalo humps.”
Pilchuck then brought in a team of horses and hitched it to the big wagon. “Wal, son,” he said to Tom, “I ain’t hankerin’ after skinnin’ hides. But I may as well start. We’re goin’ to kill more buffalo than we’ll have time to skin.”
He drove out of camp down the slope into the shallow water. The horses plunged in at a trot,
splashing high. Pilchuck lashed out with the long whip and yelled lustily. Any slowing up there meant wheels stuck in the sand. Horses, driver, and wagon were drenched. From the other side Pilchuck looked back. “Fine on a day like this!” he shouted.
Not long after he had gone, Tom heard one of the horses up the river neigh several times. This induced him to reconnoiter, with the result that he espied a wagon coming along the edge of the timber. It appeared to be an open wagon, with one man in the driver’s seat. Another, following on horseback, was leading two extra horses.
More hide hunters, Tom opined as he headed toward them. Now I wonder what’s expected of me in a case like this? When the driver espied Tom come into the open, rifle in hand, he halted the horses abruptly.
“Dunn outfit . . . hide hunters,” he announced, with something of alarmed alacrity, as if his identity and business had been questioned. He appeared to be a short broad man, and what little of his face was visible was bright red. He had bushy whiskers.
“I’m Tom Doan, of Hudnall’s outfit,” replied Tom. “We’re camped just below.”
“Clark Hudnall, by all that’s lucky,” the man announced. “I know Hudnall. We talked some last fall of going in together. That was at Independence. But he wasn’t ready and I come ahead.”
Tom offered his hand, and at this juncture the horseman that had been behind the wagon rode forward abreast of the driver. He was a fat young man, with a most jocund expression on his round face. His apparel was striking in its inappropriateness to the rough life of the plains. His old slouch hat was too small for his huge head, and there was a tuft of tow-colored hair sticking out of a hole in the crown.
“Ory, shake hands with Tom Doan, of Hudnall’s outfit,” said Dunn. “My nephew, Ory Jacks.”
“Much obliged to meet you, Mister Doan,” replied Jacks, with great aplomb.
“Howdy. Same to you,” greeted Tom, in slow good humor, as he studied the face of this newcomer.
Dunn interrupted his scrutiny. “Is Hudnall in camp?”
“No. He’s out hunting buffalo. I’m sure you’re welcome to stop at our camp till he comes in. That’ll be around sundown.”
“Good. I’m needing sight and sound of someone I know,” replied Dunn significantly. “Lead the way, Doan. These horses of mine are thirsty.”
When the travelers arrived at Hudnall’s camp, Tom helped them unhitch in a favorable camping spot and unpack the necessary camp duffel. Once, during this work, Ory Jacks halted so suddenly that he dropped a pack on his foot.
“Ouch!” he cried, lifting his foot to rub it with his hand while he kept his gaze toward Tom’s camp. It was an enraptured and amazed gaze. “Do I see a beautiful young lady?”
Thus questioned Tom wheeled to see Sally Hudnall’s face framed in the white-walled door of Hudnall’s prairie wagon. It was rather too far to judge accurately, but he inclined to the impression that Sally was already making eyes at Ory Jacks.
“Oh, there,” Tom said, hard put to it to keep his face serious. “It’s a young lady all right . . . Miss Sally Hudnall. . . . But I can’t see that she. . . .”
“Uncle Jack, there’s a girl in this camp,” interrupted Ory in tones of awe.
“We’ve got three women,” said Tom.
“Well, that’s a surprise to me,” returned Dunn. “I had no idea Hudnall would fetch his womenfolk down here into the buffalo country. I wonder if he. . . . Doan, is there a buffalo hunter with you, a man who knows the frontier?”
“Yes. Jude Pilchuck.”
“Did he stand for the women coming?”
“I guess he had no choice,” rejoined Tom.
“Humph! How long have you been on the river?”
“Two days.”
“Seen any other outfits?”
“No. But Pilchuck said there were a couple down the river.”
“Uhn-huh,” said Dunn, running a stubby powerful hand through his beard. He seemed concerned. “You see, Doan, we’ve been in the buffalo country since last fall. And we’ve sure had it rough. Poor luck on our fall hunt. That was over on the Brazos. Kiowa Indians on the rampage. Our winter hunt we made on the line of Indian Territory. We didn’t know it was against the law to kill buffalo in the Territory. The officers took our hides. Then we’d got our spring hunt started fine . . . west of here forty miles or so. Had five hundred hides. And they were stolen.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Tom, astonished. “Who’d be so lowdown as to steal hides?”
“Who?” snorted Dunn with fire in his small eyes. “We don’t know. The soldiers don’t know. They say the thieves are Indians. But I’m one who believes they are white.”
Tom immediately grasped the serious nature of this information. The difficulties and dangers of hide hunting began to assume large proportions.
“Well, you must tell Hudnall and Pilchuck all about this,” he said.
Just then Sally called out sweetly: “Tom . . . oh, Tom . . . wouldn’t your visitors like a bite to eat?”
“Reckon they would, miss, thanks to you!” shouted Dunn, answering for himself. As for Ory Jacks, he appeared overcome, either by the immediate prospect of food, or by going into the presence of the beautiful young lady. Tom noted that he at once dropped his task of helping Dunn, and bent eager energies to the improvement of his personal appearance. Dunn and Tom had seated themselves before Ory joined them, but, when he did come, he was manifestly bent on making a great impression.
“Miss Hudnall . . . my nephew, Ory Jacks,” announced Dunn with quaint formality.
“What’s the name?” queried Sally incredulously, as if she had not heard aright.
“Orville Jacks . . . at your service, Miss Hudnall,” replied the young man elaborately. “I am much obliged to meet you.”
Sally took him in with keen, doubtful gaze, and evidently, when she could convince herself that he was not making fun at her expense, gravitated to a perception of easy conquest. Tom saw that this was the paramount issue with Sally. Probably later she might awake to a humorous appreciation of this young gentleman.
Tom soon left the newcomers to their camp tasks, and went about his own, which for the most part consisted of an alert watchfulness. Early in the afternoon the distant boom-boom of the big buffalo guns ceased to break the drowsy silence. The hours wore away. When, at time of sunset, Tom returned from his last survey of the plains, it was to find Hudnall and his hunter comrades in camp. Pilchuck was on the way back with a load of fifty-six hides. Just as twilight fell, he called from the opposite bank that he would need help at the steep place. All hands pulled and hauled the wagon over the obstacle, and hard upon that incident came Mrs. Hudnall’s cheery call to supper.
Tom watched and listened with more than his usual attentiveness. Hudnall was radiant. This day’s work had been good. For a man of his tremendous strength and endurance the extreme of toil was no hindrance. He was like one that had found a gold mine. Burn Hudnall reflected his father’s spirit. Pilchuck ate in silence, not affected by their undisguised elation. Stronghurl would have been dense, indeed, in the face of Sally’s overtures, not to sense a rival in Ory Jacks. This individual almost ate out of Sally’s hand. Dunn presented a rather gloomy front. Manifestly he had not yet told Hudnall of his misfortunes.
After supper it took the men two hours of labor to peg out the hides. All the available space in the grove was blanketed with buffalo skins, with narrow lanes between. Before this work was accomplished the women had gone to bed. At the campfire, which Tom replenished, Dunn recounted to Hudnall and Pil-chuck the same news he had told Tom, except this time he omitted comment on the presence of the women.
To Tom’s surprise, Hudnall took Dunn’s story lightly. He did not appear to grasp any serious menace, and he dismissed Dunn’s loss with brief words: “Hard luck. But you can make it up soon. Throw in with me. The more the merrier, an’ the stronger we’ll be.”
“How about your supplies?” queried Dunn.
“Plenty for two months. An’ we’ll
be freightin’ out hides before that.”
“All right, Clark, I’ll throw in with your outfit, huntin’ for myself, of course, an’ payin’ my share,” replied Dunn slowly, as if the matter was weighty. “But I hope you don’t mind my talkin’ out straight about your women.”
“No, you can talk straight about anyone or anythin’ to me.”
“You want to send your women back or take them to Fort Elliott,” returned Dunn brusquely.
“Dunn, I won’t do anythin’ of the kind,” retorted Hudnall bluntly.
“Well, the soldiers will do it for you, if they happen to come along,” said Dunn just as bluntly. “It’s your own business. I’m not trying to interfere in your affairs. But women don’t belong on such a huntin’ trip as this summer will see. My idea, talking straight, is that Mister Pilchuck here should have warned you and made you leave the women back in the settlement.”
“Wal, I gave Hudnall a hunch all right, but he wouldn’t listen,” declared the scout.
“You didn’t give me any such damn’ thing!” shouted Hudnall angrily.
Then followed a hot argument that, in Tom’s opinion, ended in the conviction that Pilchuck had not told all he knew.
“Well, if that’s what, I reckon it doesn’t make any difference to me,” said Hudnall finally. “I wanted wife an’ Sally with me. An’ if I was comin’ at all, they were comin’, too. We’re huntin’ buffalo, yes, for a while . . . as long as there’s money in it. But what we’re huntin’ most is a farm.”
“Now, Hudnall, listen,” responded Dunn curtly. “I’m not tryin’ to boss your outfit. After this I’ll have no more to say. . . . I’ve been six months at this hide huntin’ an I know what I’m talkin’ about. The great massed herd of buffalo is south of here, on the Red River, along under the rim of the Staked Plains. You think this herd here is big. Say, this is a straggler bunch. There’s a thousand times as many buffalo down on the Red. . . . There’s where most of the hide hunters are, and there the Comanches and Kiowas are on the warpath. I’ve met hunters who claim that main herd will reach here this spring, along in May. But I say that great herd will never again get this far north. If you want hide huntin’ for big money, then you’ve got to pull stakes for the Red River.”