Buffalo Stampede

by Zane Grey

  Then their whorls of rising dust obscured them from Molly’s sight. A half mile of black bobbing humps moved between her and the Comanches. She uttered a wild cry that was joy, wonder, reverence, and acceptance of the thing she had trusted. Thicker grew the dust mantle, wider the herd, greater the volume of sound. The Comanches might now have been a thousand miles away for all the harm they could do her. As they vanished in the obscurity of dust, so also in Molly’s mind!

  Molly drove a plunging maddened team of horses in the midst of buffalo as far as eye could see. Her intelligence told her that she was now in greater peril of death than at any time heretofore, yet, although her hair rose stiffly and her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth, she could not feel the same as when Pruitt had parceled her, share and share with Follonsbee, or when those lean, wild-riding Comanches had been swooping down on her. Strangely there was natural terror in the moment, still she did not seem afraid of the buffalo.

  The thick massed herd was on her left, and appeared to have but few open patches; to the fore and all on the other side, there were as many gray spaces of prairie showing as black loping blotches of buffalo. Her horses were running while the buffalo were loping, thus she kept gaining on groups near her and passing them. Always they sheered away, some of the bulls kicking out with wonderful quickness. But in the main they gave space to the swifter horses and the lumbering wagon.

  The dust rose in sheets now thin, now thick, and obscured everything beyond a quarter of a mile distant. Molly was surrounded, hemmed in, carried onward by a ponderously moving medium. The trampling roar of hoofs was deafening, but it was not now like thunder. It was too close. It did not swell or rumble or roll. It roared.

  A thousand tufted tails switched out of that mass, and ten times that many shaggy humps bobbed in sight. What queer sensation this action gave Molly—queer above all the other sensations! It struck her as ludicrous.

  The larger, denser mass on the left had loped up at somewhat faster gait than those groups Molly had first encountered. It forged ahead for a time, then gradually absorbed all the buffalo, until they were moving in unison. Likewise, gradually they appeared to pack together, to obliterate the open spaces, and to close in on the horses. This was what Molly feared most.

  The horses took the bits between their teeth and ran headlong. Molly had to slack the reins, or be pulled out of the seat. They plunged into the rear of the moving buffalo, to make no impression otherwise than to split the phalanx for a few rods, and be kicked from all sides. Here the horses reared, plunged, and sent out above the steady roar a piercing scream of terror. Molly had never before heard the scream of a horse. She could do nothing but cling to the loose reins and the wagon seat, and gaze with distended eyes. One of the white horses, Jett’s favorite, plunged to his knees. The instant was one when Molly seemed to be clamped by paralysis. The other white horse plunged on, dragging his mate to his hoofs, and into the race again.

  Then the space around horses and wagon closed in, narrowed to an oval with only a few yards clear to the fore and each side. Behind, the huge, lowered, shaggy heads almost bobbed against the wagon.

  The time of supreme suspense had come to Molly. She had heard buffalo would run over and crush any obstruction in their path. She seemed about to become victim to such a blind juggernaut. Her horses had been compelled to slacken their gait to accommodate that of the buffalo. They could neither forge ahead nor swerve to one side or other, or stop. They were blocked, hemmed in, and pushed. And their terror was extreme. They plunged in unison, and singly; they screamed and bit at the kicking buffalo. It was a miracle that leg or harness or wheel was not broken.

  A violent jolt nearly unseated Molly. The wagon had been struck from behind. Fearfully she looked back. A stupid-faced old bull, with shaggy head as large as a barrel, was wagging along almost under the end of the wagon bed. He had bumped into it. Then the space on the left closed in until buffalo were right alongside the wheels. Molly trembled. It would happen now. A wheel would be broken, the wagon overturned, and she. . . . A big black bull rubbed his rump against the hind wheel. The iron tire, revolving fast, scraped hard on his hide. Quick as a flash the bull lowered head and elevated rear, kicking out viciously. One of his legs went between the spokes. A crack rang out above the trample of hoofs. The bull went down, and the wagon lifted, and all but upset. Molly could not cry out. After tying the reins over the brake, she clung to the seat with all her strength. Then began a terrific commotion. The horses plunged as the drag on the wagon held them back. Buffalo began to pile high over the one that had fallen, and a wave of action seemed to permeate all of them.

  Those rushing forward pounded against the hind wheels, and split around them until the pressure became so great that they seemed to lift the wagon and carry it along, forcing the horses ahead.

  Molly could not shut her eyes. They were fascinated by this heaving mass. The continuous roar, the endless motion toward certain catastrophe, were driving her mad. Then this bump and scrape and lurch, this frightful proximity of the encroaching buffalo, this pell-mell pandemonium behind, was too much for her. The strength of hands and will left her. The wagon tilted, turned half sidewise, and stopped with a shock. An appalling sound seemed to take the place of motion. The buffalo behind began to lift their great heads, to pile high over those in front, to crowd in terrific straining wave of black, hideous and irresistible, like an oncoming tide. Heads and horns and hair, tufted tails, a dense rounded moving tussling sea of buffalo bore down on the wagon. The sound now was a thundering roar. Dust hung low. The air was suffocating. Molly’s nose and lungs seemed to close. She fell backward over the seat and fainted.

  * * * * *

  When she opened her eyes, it was as if she had come out of a nightmare. She lay on her back. She gazed upward to sky thinly filmed over by dust clouds. Had she slept?

  Suddenly she understood the meaning of motion and the sensation of filled ears. The wagon was moving steadily, she could not tell how fast, and from all sides rose a low clattering roar of hoofs.

  “Oh, it must be . . . something happened . . . the horses went on . . . the wagon did not upset!” she cried, and her voice was indistinct.

  But she feared to rise and look out. She listened and felt. There was a vast difference. The wagon moved on stealthily, smoothly, without lurch or bump; the sound of hoofs filled the air, yet not loudly, or with such a cutting trample. She reasoned out that the pace had slowed much. Where was she? How long had she lain unconscious? What would be the end of this awful race?

  Nothing happened. She found her breathing easier and her nostrils less stopped by dust and odor of buffalo. Her mouth was parched with thirst. There was a slow torrid beat of her pulse. Her skin appeared moist and hot. Then she saw the sun, quite high, a strange magenta hue, seen through the thin dust clouds. It had been just after daylight when she escaped from Jett’s camp. Ah! She remembered Catlee! Hours had passed, and she was still surrounded by buffalo. The end had not come then; it had been averted, but it was inevitable. What she had passed through! Life was cruel. Hers had been an unhappy fate. Suddenly she thought of Tom Doan, and life, courage, hope surged with the magic of love. Something had happened to save her.

  Molly sat up. She saw gray prairie—and then, some fifty yards distant, the brown shaggy bodies of buffalo, in lazy lope. The wagon was keeping the same slow speed. Molly staggered up to lean against the seat, and peer ahead, wonderful to see—Jett’s white team was contentedly trotting along, some rods in the rear of straggling buffalo. She could scarcely believe what she saw. The horses were no longer frightened.

  On the other side wider space intervened before buffalo covered the gray prairie. She could see a long way—miles, it seemed, and there were as many black streaks of buffalo as gray strips of grass. To the fore Molly beheld the same scene, only greater in extent. Buffalo showed as far as sight could penetrate, but they were no longer massed or moving fast.

  “It’s not a stampede,” Molly told herself in sudd
en realization. “It never was. . . . They’re just traveling. . . . They don’t mind the wagon . . . the horses . . . not any more. . . . Oh, I shall get out.”

  The knotted reins hung over the brake, where she had left them. Molly climbed to the driver’s seat and took them up.

  The horses responded to her control, not in accelerated trot, but by a lifting of ears and throwing of heads. They were glad to be under guidance again. They trotted on as if no buffalo were near. It amazed Molly, this change. But she could tell by the sweat and froth and cakes of dust on them that they had traveled far and long before coming to this indifference.

  Molly really did not drive the horses, though she held the reins taut enough for them to feel she was there; she sat stiffly in the seat, calling to them, watching and thrilling, nervously and fearfully suspicious of the moving enclosure that carried her onward a prisoner. Time passed swiftly. The sun burned down on her. And the hour came when the buffalo lumbered to a walk.

  They were no different from cattle now, Molly thought. Then the dust clouds floated away and she could see over the backs of buffalo on all sides, out to the boundless prairie. The blue sky overhead seemed to have a welcome for her. The horses slowed down. Gradually the form of the open space surrounding the wagon widened, changed its shape as buffalo in groups wandered out from the herd. Little light tawny calves appeared to run playfully into the open. They did not play as if they were tired.

  Molly watched them with a birth of love in her heart for them, and a gratitude to the whole herd for its service to her. No doubt now that she was saved! Nearly a whole day had passed since the Indians had seen her disappear, and leagues of prairie had been covered. The direction she was being taken was north, and that she knew to be favorable to her. Sooner or later these buffalo would split or pass by here, then she would have another problem to consider.

  But how interminably they traveled on! No doubt the animal instinct to migrate northward had been the cause of this movement. If they had stampeded across the Pease, which had not seemed to her the case, they had at once calmed to a gait the hunters called their regular ranging mode of travel. Her peril at one time had been great, but, if this herd had caught her in a stampede, she would have been lost.

  The stragglers that from time to time came near her paid no attention to horses or wagon. They were as tame as cows. They puffed along, wagging their big heads, apparently asleep as they traveled. The open lanes and aisles and patches changed shape, closed to reopen, yet on the whole there was a gradual widening. The herd was spreading. Molly could see the ragged end of the herd, a couple of miles back, where it marked its dark line against the gray prairie. Westward the mass was thick and wide; it was thin and straggly on the east. Northward the black creeping tide of backs extended to the horizon.

  Molly rode on, escorted by a million beasts of the plain, and they came to mean more to her than she could understand. They were alive, vigorous, self-sufficient, and they were doomed by the hide hunters. She could not think of anything save the great, shaggy, stolid old bulls, and the sleeker small cows, and the tawny romping calves. So wonderful an adventure, so vast a number of hoofed creatures, so strangely trooping up out of the dusty river breaks to envelop her, so different when she and they and the horses had become accustomed to one another—these were the gist of her thoughts. It was a strange, unreal concentration on buffalo.

  The afternoon waned. The sun sank low in the west and turned gold. A time came when Molly saw with amaze that the front leagues of buffalo had gone down over the horizon, now close at hand. They had come to the edge of slope on river break. What would this mean to her?

  When the wagon reached the line where the woolly backs had gone down out of sight, Molly saw a slope, covered with spreading buffalo that ended in a winding green belt of trees. In places shone the glancing brightness of water. Beyond, on a level immense plain, miles and miles of buffalo were moving like myriads of ants. They were spreading on all sides, and those in the lead had stopped to graze. The immensity of the scene, its beauty and life and tragedy, would remain in Molly’s memory all her days. She saw the whole herd, and it was a spectacle to uplift the heart. While the horses walked on with the buffalo streaming down that slope, Molly gazed in rapt attention. How endless the gray level prairie below! She understood why the buffalo loved it, how it had nourished them, what a wild lonely home it was. Faint threads of other rivers crossed the gray, and the green hue was welcome contrast to the monotony. Duskily red the sun was setting, and it cast its glow over plain and buffalo, stronger every moment. In the distance purple mantled the horizon. Far to the northwest a faint dark ruggedness of land or cloud seemed limned against the sunset-flushed sky. Was that land? If so it was the Llano Estacado.

  Molly’s horses reached the belt of trees, and entered a grove through and around which the buffalo were traveling. She felt the breaking of the enclosure of beasts that had so long encompassed her. It brought a change of thoughts. She was free to let the remainder of the herd pass. Driving farther down, behind a thick clump of cottonwoods she turned into a green pocket, and halted. Wearily the horses stood, heaving, untempted by the grass. On each side of Molly streams and strings and groups of buffalo passed to go down into the river, from where a loud continuous splashing rose. She waited, watching on one side, then the other. The solid masses had gone by; the ranks behind thinned as they came on, and at last straggling groups with many calves brought up the rear. Those hurried on, rustling the brush, on to splash into the shallow ford. Then the violence of agitated water ceased; the low trample of hoofs ceased.

  Silence! It was not real. For a whole day Molly’s ears had been filled and harassed by clatter, then a slow beat, beat, beat of hoofs, but always a tremble. She could not get used to silence. She felt lost. A rush of sensations seemed impending. But only a dreamy stillness pervaded the river bottom, a hot, drowsy, thick air, empty of life. The unnaturally silent moment flung at her the loneliness and wildness of the place. Alone! She was lost on the prairie.

  “Oh, what shall I do now?” she cried

  There was everything to do—care of the horses, and of herself, so to preserve strength; the camp tasks imperative; the choosing of direction, and the travel on and on, until she found a road that would lead her to some camp or post. Suddenly she sank down in a heap. The thought of the enormous problem crushed her for the moment. It was beyond any girl’s courage and wits and strength.

  “But I mustn’t think,” she whispered fiercely. “I must do!”

  And she clambered out of the wagon. The grove sloped down to the green bench where she had waited for the buffalo to pass. Grass was abundant. The horses would not stray. She moved to unhitch them, and had begun when it occurred to her that she would have to hitch them up again. To this end she studied every buckle and strap. Many a time she had helped around horses on the farm; the intricacies of harness were not a mystery to her. Then she had watched Jett and Catlee hitch up this team. Still she studied everything carefully. Then she unbuttoned the traces and removed the harness. The horses rolled in a dusty place that the buffalo had trampled bare, and they rose dirty and yellow to shake a cloud from their backs. Then with snorts they trotted down to the water.

  Molly was reminded of her own burning thirst, and she ran down to the water’s edge where unmindful of its muddy color she threw herself flat, and drank until she could hold no more. “Never knew . . . water . . . could taste so good,” she panted. Returning to the wagon, she climbed up in it to examine its contents. She found a bag of oats for the horses, a box containing utensils for cooking, another full of food supplies, a bale of blankets, and lastly an axe and shovel.

  “Robinson Crusoe had no more,” said Molly to herself, and then stood aghast at her levity. Was she not lost on the prairie? Might not Indians ride down upon her? Molly considered the probabilities. “God has answered my prayers,” she concluded gravely, and dismissed fears for the time being.

  In the box of utensils she found matc
hes, which were next to food in importance, and thus encouraged she lifted out what she needed. Among the articles of food she found a loaf of bread and a bag of biscuits. Suddenly her mouth became flooded with saliva, and she had to bite into a biscuit. There was also cooked meat, and both jerked venison and buffalo. Salt and pepper, sugar, coffee, dried apples she found, and then did not explore the box to the uttermost.

  “I’ll not starve, anyway,” murmured Molly.

  Next she gathered dry bits of bark and wood, of which there was abundance, and essayed to start a fire. Success crowned her efforts, though she burned her fingers. Then, taking up the pail, she descended the bank to the river and filled it with water, now clarifying in the slow current. Returning, she poured some in the coffee pot, and put that in the edge of the fire. Next while waiting for the water to boil, she cut strips of the cooked buffalo meat, and heated them on a pan. Molly knew household work, but she had never been put to cooking. She had misgivings about what her attempts might be. Nevertheless she sat down presently and ate as heartily as ever before in her life.

  Twilight had fallen when she looked up from the last task. The west was rose with an afterglow of sunset. All at once, now that action had to be suspended, she was confronted with reality. The emotion of reality!

  “Oh, I’m lost . . . alone . . . helpless!” she exclaimed. “It’s growing dark. I was always afraid of the dark.”

  And she shivered there through a long moment of feeling. She would be compelled to think now. She could not force sleep. How impossible to fall asleep! Panthers, bears, wildcats, wolves lived in these river breaks. She felt in the coat for her little Der-ringer. It was gone. She had no weapon, save the axe, and she could not wield that effectively.