by Zane Grey
Rafferty’s, Bill Stark’s, Nebraska Pete’s, Black and Starwell, Bickerdyke’s, Uncle Joe Horde, Old Man Spawn, Jack and Jim Blaise, and many other outfits became household words in the Hudnall camp.
Tom kept eyes and ears open for news of the Jett outfit, but so far had not been successful in learning its whereabouts. There were hundreds of outfits strung along the rivers for many miles, and by far not all of the buffalo were in the great massed herd.
On a tributary of the Pease it was decided by Pilchuck and Hudnall to make permanent camp till fall.
“I want four thousand hides by November!” boomed Hudnall, rubbing his huge hands.
“Easy, I’ll show you how to kill a hundred tomorrow in three hours,” replied Pilchuck.
“When will we freight back to Sprague’s?” queried Tom anxiously.
Thus each man voiced the thing most in his thoughts.
Next day Pilchuck outdid his boast in the estimated time, killing one hundred and eighteen buffalo—a remarkable feat. But he had a fast perfectly trained horse; he was daring and skilful; he rode his quarry down, and made one shot do the work.
Day by day Tom Doan killed fewer buffalo. He did not notice the fact until it was called to his attention. Then, going over his little book of record, which he kept faithfully, he was amazed and chagrined to discover that such was the case. He endeavored to right the falling off, only to grow worse. He wavered, he flinched, he shot poorly, thus crippling many buffalo. It made him sick. The cause was Molly. She dominated his thoughts, and it grew to be that he could not often shoot without remembering her, and most of such shots were failures. The truth was that Molly had awakened him to the cruelty and greed of this business and his conscience prevented him from being a good hunter.
Hudnall solved the knotty problem for Tom, very much to his relief.
“Tom, you’ve lost your nerve, so Pilchuck says,” said the chief. “But you’re the best skinner he ever saw. You’re wastin’ time chasin’ an’ shootin’ buffalo. We’re killin’ about as many as we can skin, an’ we could kill more. Pilchuck can, anyhow. Now you follow us an’ skin buffalo only. We’ll pay you thirty-five cents a hide.”
“You bet I take you up,” declared Tom gladly. “I didn’t know I’d lost my nerve, but I hate the killing.”
“Wal, it’s begun to wear on me, to be honest.” Hudnall sighed. “I’d rather push a plow.”
Next moment he was asking Tom to make accurate estimate of the stock of ammunition on hand. Tom did his best at this calculation and reported: three hundred forty-six pounds of St. Louis shot-toner lead in twenty-five pound bars; about five thousand primers; five cans of Dupont powder, twenty-five pounds to a can, and three cans of six pounds each.
“Jude, how long will that last us?” inquired Hudnall of Pil-chuck, who had heard Tom’s report.
“Wal, let’s see. I reckon August, September, October . . . unless we have to fight Indians,” replied the scout.
“Ho! Ho! There you go again,” derided Hudnall. “This Injun talk is a joke.”
* * * * *
With this skinning job Tom soon found himself in better spirits and worked so effectively that he won golden praise from his employers.
“Shucks! What a scalper of redskins that boy would make,” declared Pilchuck. “He can keep a knife sharp as a razor an’ cut with it like a nigger.”
If Tom had been able to get some leisure, he would have found much enjoyment in the permanent camp. It was situated on a beautifully wooded bench above the wild breaks of a tributary to the larger river nearby, and game abounded there. Down in the breaks were bear, panther, wildcats in numbers too plentiful for wandering around without a gun. The wide belts of timber appeared to be full of wild turkey and deer. Antelope, tame as cattle, grazed on the prairie, and in the wake of the buffalo slinked hordes of howling coyotes. Bands of big gray wolves, bold and savage, took their toll of the buffalo calves.
The diet of buffalo steak was varied by venison and antelope meat, and once with wild turkey. This last trial of a changed menu resulted disastrously for Tom. It happened to be his turn as cook and he had killed several wild turkeys that day. Their flesh was exceedingly bitter, owing to a berry they lived on, which was abundant in the breaks. Pilchuck, who suffered with indigestion, made sarcastic remarks about Tom’s cooking, and the other men were vociferous in their disapproval. Unfortunately Tom had not cooked any other meat.
“Tom, you’re a valuable member, but your cookin’ is worse than your shootin’,” remarked Hudnall finally. “We’ll relieve you of your turn an’ you can put that much time to somethin’ else. . . . No offense, my lad. You just can’t cook. An’ we can’t starve to death out here. Reckon when you come to ranchin’ you’ll be lucky to have that pretty black-eyed Molly.”
“Lucky!” exploded Burn Hudnall, who it was hinted suffered a little from being henpecked. “Say, he is an’ he doesn’t savvy it.”
“Wal, we’re all pretty lucky, if you let me get in a word,” said the scout dryly. “Here we’ve been days in hostile country yet haven’t been molested.”
“There you go again,” protested Hudnall, who had become wearied of Indian talk.
“Wal, am I scout for this outfit or just plain plugger of buffs?” queried Pilchuck.
“You’re scout, an’ pardner, an’ everythin’, of course,” replied Hudnall. “Your scoutin’ for buffalo couldn’t be beat, but your scoutin’ for redskins, if you do any, hasn’t worried me.”
“Wal, Hudnall, I don’t tell you everythin’,” rejoined Pilchuck. “Yesterday, ten miles below on the river, I met a bunch of Kiowas . . . braves, squaws, kids . . . with ponies packed an’ travois draggin’. They didn’t look sociable. Today I saw a band of Comanches tearin’ across the prairie or I’m a born liar. I know how Comanches ride.”
“Jude, are you tryin’ to scare me into huntin’ closer to camp?” asked Hudnall.
“I’m not tryin’ or arguin’,” responded the scout. “I’m just tellin’ you. My advice to all of you is to confine your huntin’ to a radius of five or six miles. Then there’d always be hunters in sight of each other.”
“Jude, you an’ Burn an’ I killed one hundred and ninety-eight buffalo yesterday on ground no bigger than a fifty-acre farm. But it was far off from camp.”
“I know. Most hunters like to kill near camp, naturally, for it saves work, but not when they can kill twice as many in the same time farther out.”
“I’ll kill mine an’ skin them an’ haul them in,” replied the leader.
“Wal, wal,” said Pilchuck resignedly, “reckon advice is wasted on you.”
* * * * *
Tom, in his new job, worked out an innovation much to Hudnall’s liking. He followed the hunters with team and wagon, and through this hit by accident upon a method of skinning that greatly facilitated the work. Taking a forked stick, Tom fastened it to the middle of the hind axletree, allowing the other sharpened end to drag. Tying a rope to the same axle and the other end to the front leg of a dead buffalo, Tom would skin the upper side down. Next he would lead the horses forward a little, moving the beast. The stick served the purpose of holding the wagon from slipping back. Then he would skin down the center of the sides, and stop to have the team pull the carcass over. Thus by utilizing horse power he learned to remove a hide in half the time it had taken him formerly.
Often the hunters would kill a number far exceeding Tom’s ability to haul to camp. But with their help all the hides were removed generally the same day the buffalo were slain. If Tom could not haul all back to camp, he spread them fur side up, to get another day. Tom particularly disliked to skin a buffalo that had been killed the day before, because the bloating that inevitably occurred, always made the hide come off with exceeding difficulty. Like all expert skinners, Tom took pride in skinning without cutting holes in a hide.
Tom often likened the open ground back of camp on the prairie side to a colossal checkerboard, owing to the many hides always pegged
out in regular squares. Five days from the pegging process these hides would be turned fur side up for a day, and turned again every day until dry. They had to be poisoned to keep the hide bugs from ruining them. As the hides dried they were laid one over the other, making as huge piles as could be handled. To tie these bundles, strips of wet buffalo hide were run through the peg holes of the bottom and top hides, and pulled very tight. All bull hides were made into one bundle, so marked, and likewise for the others, according to sex, age, and quality. Taken as a whole, this hunting of buffalo for their hides, according to the opinion of all hunters, was the hardest work in the world.
* * * * *
One morning a couple of drivers, belonging to Black and Star-well’s outfit, halted their teams at Hudnall’s camp and spread a rumor that greatly interested the leader. They were freighting out thirteen hundred hides to Sprague’s. The rumor had come a few days before, from hunters traveling south, to the effect that Rath and Wright of Dodge City were going to send freighters out to buy hides right at the camps. This would afford the hunters immense advantage and profit. The firm was going to pay regular prices and do the hauling.
These loquacious drivers had more news calculated to interest Hudnall. It was a report that the Kansas City firm, Loganstein & Company, one of the largest buyers of hides in the market, were sending their hides to Europe, mostly to England, where it had been discovered that army accoutrements made of leather were much better and cheaper when made of buffalo hide. This accounted for a rise in prices, soon expected in the buffalo fields.
All this excited Hudnall. He paced the campfire space in thought. Ordinarily he arrived at decisions without vacillation, but this one evidently had him bothered. Presently it came out.
“I’ll stay in camp an’ work,” he said, as if answering a query. “Tom, you an’ Stronghurl shall haul all the hides we have to Sprague’s. You can see our womenfolk an’ bring back the straight of this news. . . . Let’s rustle, so you can go with Starwell’s freighters.”
* * * * *
The journey to Sprague’s Post was an endless drive of eight long, hot glaring days; yet because each day, each hour, each minute, each dragging step of weary horses bore Tom closer to Molly, he endured them joyfully.
Making twenty-five miles the last day, Tom and his companions from the Pease River reached Sprague’s late at night, and camped in the outskirts of the settlements, where showed tents and wagons of new outfits. Early next morning Tom and Stronghurl were besieged by prospective buffalo hunters, intensely eager to hear news from the buffalo fields. Invariably the first query was, were the buffalo herded by the millions along the Red, Pease, and Brazos Rivers? Secondly, were the Indians on the warpath? Tom answered these questions put to him in the affirmative, and did his best with the volleys of other questions, many of them by tenderfoot hunters. He remembered when he had been just as ignorant and raw as they were now.
Thus, what with bringing in the horses, breakfast, and satisfying these ambitious newcomers, Tom was held back from rushing to see Molly. Stronghurl said he would see the Hudnalls later. At last, however, Tom got away, and he had only to hurry down the almost deserted street of the post to realize that the hour was still early. He was not conscious of anything save a wonderfully warm and blissful sense of Molly’s nearness—that in a moment or so he would see her.
Tom’s hand trembled as he knocked on the canvas door of the Hudnall quarters. He heard voices. The door opened, to disclose Mrs. Hudnall, wary-faced and expectant.
“For the land’s sake!” she cried, her expression changing like magic. “Girls . . . it’s Tom back from the huntin’ fields.”
“You bet . . . and sure glad,” replied Tom, and could hardly refrain from kissing Mrs. Hudnall.
“Come right in,” she said, overjoyed, dragging him into the kitchen. “Never mind Sally’s looks. She just got up. . . . Tom, I know from your face all’s well with my husband.”
“Sure. He’s fine . . . working hard and making money hand over fist. Sent you this letter. Stronghurl came, too. He’ll see you later.”
Sally Hudnall and Mrs. Burn Hudnall welcomed Tom in no less joyful manner, and the letters he delivered were received with acclamations of delight.
Tom looked with eager gaze at the door through which Sally had come, expecting to see Molly. But she did not appear.
“Where’s Molly?” he asked not anxiously, but just in happy eagerness.
His query shocked the Hudnall women into what seemed sudden recollection of something untoward. It stopped Tom’s heart.
“Molly! Why, Tom . . . she’s gone,” said Mrs. Hudnall.
“Gone?” he echoed dazedly.
“Yesterday. Surely you met her on the road south?”
“Road south? No, no!” cried Tom in distress. “Jett! Did he take her away?”
“Yes. He came night before last, but we didn’t know until mornin’,” continued Mrs. Hudnall hurriedly. “Had his wife an’ two men with him. Jett sold thirty-four hundred buffalo hides an’ had been drinkin’. . . . He . . . well, he frightened me . . . an’ poor Molly, I was never so sorry for anyone in my life.”
“Oh, I was afraid he’d come!” burst out Tom, in torture. “Molly said I shouldn’t leave her. . . . Oh, why, why didn’t I listen to her?”
“Strange you didn’t meet Jett,” replied Mrs. Hudnall. “He left with three wagons yesterday afternoon. They went straight down the military road. We watched them. Molly waved her scarf for a long time. . . . She looked so cute an’ sweet in her boy’s clothes.”
“Boy’s clothes?” ejaculated Tom miserably. “What do you mean?”
“Jett came here in the mornin’,” went on Mrs. Hudnall. “He was soberin’ up an’ sure looked mean. He asked for Molly an’ told her that she was to get ready to leave with him in the afternoon. His wife wasn’t with him, but we met her later in Sprague’s store. She struck me as a fit partner for Jett. Well, Molly was heartbroken at first, an’ scared. We could see that. She didn’t want to go, but said she’d have to. He could take her by force. She didn’t say much. First wrote you a letter, which I have for you, an’ then she packed her clothes. When Jett came about three o’clock, he fetched boy’s pants, shirt, coat, an’ hat for Molly. Said on account of Indians scarin’ the soldiers, the military department was orderin’ women out of the buffalo fields. Jett was disguisin’ his women in men’s clothes. Molly had to have her beautiful hair cut. Sally cut it. . . . Well, Molly dressed in that boy’s suit an’ went with Jett. She was brave. We all knew she might come to harm, outside of Indians. An’ we felt worse when Sprague told us last night that this Missus Jett had been the wife of an outlaw named Hardin, killed last summer at Fort Dodge. That’s all.”
“Good heavens, it’s enough,” declared Tom harshly, divided by fear for Molly and fury at himself. “What can I do? I must hurry back down the road. I might catch up with Jett. But then what?”
“That’s what I’d do . . . hurry after her,” advised Mrs. Hudnall. “Somehow you might get her away from Jett. Tell my husband. He’ll do somethin’. . . . Tom, here’s Molly’s letter. I hope it tells you how she loves you. For you’re all the world to that child. She was cryin’ when she gave it to me.”
“Thank you,” said Tom huskily, taking the letter, and starting to go.
“Come back before you leave,” added Mrs. Hudnall. “We’ll want to send letters an’ things with you.”
“An’ say, Tom,” called Sally from the doorway, “you tell Dave Stronghurl, if he doesn’t run here to me pronto, it’ll be all day with him.”
“I’ll send him,” returned Tom, and hurried back to camp, where he delivered Sally’s message to Dave.
“Aw, I’ve all the time there is,” drawled Dave, with an assured smile.
“No! We’ll be leaving just as quick as I can sell these hides for Hudnall.”
“Wal, I’ll be goshed. What’s the rush, Tom? Say, you look sick.”
“I am sick. I’m afraid I’m ruined
,” replied Tom hurriedly, and told Dave his trouble.
His comrade swore roundly, and paced a moment thoughtfully. “Tom, mebbe it ain’t so bad as it looks. But it’s bad enough. I’d hate to see that girl fall into the hands of the Indians.”
“Indians! Dave, it’s Jett I’m afraid of. He’s bad, and he means bad. . . . I . . . I think I’ll have to kill him.”
“Wal, quite right an’ proper, if he’s what you say. An’ I’ll back you. . . . Let’s see. We’d better rustle. You tend to sellin’ the hides an’ what else Hudnall wanted. An’ I’ll tend to Sally.”
With that, Stronghurl paid some elaborate though brief attention to his personal appearance, then strode off toward the post. Left alone, Tom hurriedly tore open Molly’s letter. It was written in ink on good paper, and the handwriting was neat and clear. Tom thrilled at his first sight of Molly’s writing.
Sprague’s Post
July 19.
Dear Tom:
It is my prayer you get this letter soon . . . surely someday. Jett has come for me. I must go. There isn’t anything else I can do. But if you or Mr. Hudnall were here, I’d refuse to go and let Jett do his worst.
He’ll surely take me back to the buffalo camps, and where they are you will be somewhere. I know you will find me. That faith sustains me.
I’m scared now and my heart’s broken. But I’ll get over that and do my best to fool Jett . . . to get away from him . . . to save myself. I’ve brought a little gun which I can hide and if I have to use it to keep him from . . . from harming me . . . I will do it. I love you. You’re all I have in this world. God surely will protect me.
So don’t feel too badly and don’t lose hope. Don’t ever give up looking for me. Whenever you pass a camp you haven’t seen before, look for a red scarf tied somewhere in sight. It’ll be mine.
Molly
Tom sat there with clenched hands and surging heart. The letter at once uplifted him and plunged him into the depths.
“Brave friendless little girl,” he murmured brokenly, and he writhed with remorse that he had ever left her alone. The succeeding moments were the most bitter of his life. Then another perusal of Molly’s letter roused his courage. He must be true to the brave spirit that called to him, and he must hope for the best and never give up seeking her, although he realized how forlorn it was.