West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  "Get him down here. There's twelve cords of wood there so tell him to bring sixty dollars in gold."

  "You'll have to take that up with him." He spins on his heel and all of them head back up the gangplank. As soon as it's clear, Sam and Alex head down, both extend their hands.

  "Looks like you're hanging around?" Alex asks.

  "Yes, sir. You fellas got some money coming as I'm selling the wood we gathered."

  Both of them laugh, but it's Alex who speaks. "Hell, Brad, I lost over two thousand in goods in that explosion, but I've got another two thousand worth right down below on the Emilie that I'll turn into ten if we get safely to Benton City. I'll let you owe me what I'm worth at gathering wood...say a dollar a day so you owe Sam and me two dollars each. He's signed on the Emilie for four dollars a day, so he won't be missing any meals waiting for you to pay up."

  Sam yells to Ian. "Hey, Irish, and you owe me ten bucks for the Spencer and four more for the makin's I left you in the round house."

  "You're a gentleman," Ian yells back.

  A six-foot-tall man with a well-trimmed salt and pepper beard pushes by them and stops with hands on his hips. "I'm Captain Charles Medling and you're in my way."

  "Nice to meet you, captain," I say but don't extend my hand. "I'll be happy to sell you all the wood we've got stacked."

  "That was the Eagle's wood," he snaps.

  "Was is the proper term. We claimed it as salvage. I'm sure you know the law."

  His jaw knots and he speaks through his teeth. "Okay, okay, how much?"

  "Five dollars a cord."

  "River robbery," he says, and spins on his heel and heads back up the gangplank.

  "Suit yourself,” I say with a shrug. “There'll be more boats along."

  He stops and turns slowly and pulls his coat back exposing a revolver on his hip. Giving me an iron hard stare, his voice rings low and equally hard, "And what if I decide to salvage it myself? I got a couple of dozen hands to back me up."

  I can't help but smile, then I raise the Sharps and aim at the engine deck of the Emilie. "You know, that old boiler I'm looking at probably doesn't have much pressure at the moment...then again your engineer is likely building up steam for those rapids up ahead. I'm not sure but I'll bet you my dollar to your dime this half ounce of lead will go clean though it."

  "And maybe kill all those aboard in the aftermath and make a wanted man out of you...should you live through the doing of it."

  I shrug. "That won't bring the Emilie up off the bottom."

  "Three dollars a cord," he says, resignation in his voice.

  "Sure, three dollars in gold and two dollars a cord in goods from your boat. Coffee, sugar, beans, bacon, potatoes, powder and lead, and some cooking utensils...oh, yeah, you got any leather goods aboard."

  "We do, but they belong to merchants in Benton City."

  "I'll leave it to you to settle up with them. I need two saddles and bridles and we both need boots."

  "You're a damn pirate," he says, and spits over the rail in disgust. "That's a hundred dollars worth of goods."

  "Thirty in goods and thirty in gold."

  "A bloody pirate," he says, shaking his head in disgust.

  "Deal or no deal?"

  "Fifty for the goods and ten in gold."

  "Forty and twenty and you got a deal."

  "Work it out with my purser." He says, ignoring my extended hand, spinning on his heel and heading back up the gangplank. Then he stops and turns. "I'll need at least ten cords on the return trip."

  "Count on it," I say. "I'll hold ten cords of good dry in six foot lengths at five dollars the cord.

  "I'll be back in thirty days. Don't let me down."

  "No, sir," I say, and he gives me his back. I wander back to where Ian is standing with a stupid grin. "I believe you've got a rifle and we've got us a wood yard."

  "Damn if we don't," he says, as black beard and his crew brush by us while the Emilie's deckhands swing pallets over the side.

  As blackbeard passes, he snaps at me. "I’ll be puttin’ your face in the mud should I run into you in Benton. You got a name?"

  "Yep, Nolan…Nolan Byrne, not that it’s any of your business."

  "I'll remember that," he says, and moves on toward the wood pile.

  Ian laughs. "Now, if he just forgets your ugly mug."

  When I awake, I think the weather is getting worse and it's beginning to thunder. I'm not far wrong, but it's thundering hooves.

  I don't have to wait for Many-Dogs to invite me to try out the Sharps on the mighty buffalo.

  We are awakened in the night, both of us sleeping as we've given up posting a guard as we're now only two, by the pounding of hooves. We are fortunate that the lead cow of the herd decided to go around the round house and not through. We only had seconds to gather what we could and scramble up the hillside. We're now perched a hundred yards up the slope as it's beginning to dawn, and that first single line of buffalo has become hundreds passing down the ravine and fifty feet up both sides. As I watch them thunder past and charge into the Big Mo, I'm deciding there are thousands, not hundreds.

  The horses and mules pulled loose with the first of the buff and have headed for the hills, and I don't much blame them. It'll mean a hard hike when the time comes.

  For the first time since the Paddle Wheeler pulled away from shore, I notice the bull, Brutus, is missing. I turn to Ian, “where’s Brutus?”

  “Hell if I know. I ain’t seen him since the boat left… You don’t suppose.”

  “That bull was worth a thousand dollars, if the rumor was right.”

  “He done broke out of jail, or someone broke him out. I was up the mountain when she landed and she was here an hour afore I got down. They could have loaded him up….”

  I laugh, if a bit sourly. “I hate someone to steal something I done stole.”

  Ian joins in the offers, “Particularly if that something is worth a thousand dollars. Odds are the old boy wouldn’t have made it through winter, none the less.”

  “Odds are,” I agree. “Of course, we coulda ate him, had he not.”

  Both of us laugh, but a little disgustedly.

  All the hard work that went into the camp is now little more than stomped, torn and ripped canvas and poles and posts pounded into splinters. Our cases of bottled goods are not even wet spots in the soil. About the only thing left of use is the iron sink and the sheet of iron we've been using for a griddle.

  "Ain't that the damnedest thing," Ian mutters as we look in amazement.

  The sun lights the top of the ravine, almost a mile distant, and we still see buffalo funneling into the narrow descent to the river.

  I'm too dumbstruck to answer, so he continues. "We're gonna need the meat."

  "I'll drop one or two, but if I kill one in the middle of that mess they'll be nothing but mush in minutes. Wait till the crowd thins out."

  "Makes sense. I'm gonna get some more sleep." He lays back in the grass. Damned if he can't sleep through a tornado, or in this case a stampede.

  It's a half hour of buffalo pounding past before they begin thinning out. I draw a bead on a big bull and the Sharps bucks. Ian jumps up, startled awake, eyes wide.

  "Damn, you coulda gived me a shake."

  For a second I think I've missed the big bull as he moves on a dozen steps, but then he goes to his knees as I'm reloading. Blood bubbles out his nose and in seconds he's on his side. I line up on another big trotting bull and this one does half a head-over-heels, then is dead still, while the first is still churning his legs as if he's still moving down to the river.

  I start down to where they lay, even though a few more pass, and hear another gun shot. A little confused I glance back but Ian is close behind.

  "Who the hell...?" Ian says and we're both looking up the ravine. The sun is still not on its bottom and as it's deep in shadow it's hard to see. Then we make out a half dozen horseback men trailing and working the herd. There are three more buffalo down s
ome distance up the ravine, I presume two of them felled by arrows.

  In moments Carbone rides up, throws a leg over his horse's neck and slips from his carved saddle to the ground.

  "Couple'a fine bulls you done felled," he says, without bothering with a hello.

  I nod. "We'll eat good for a while."

  "I'd suggest you offer one to your hosts."

  "Hosts?" Ian says, then guffaws.

  "Yep," Carbone says, scratching his beard. "Hosts, and if you want to keep being treated like friendly visiting folks, you'll mind what I say."

  "Hell, they got three down," Ian presses.

  "And another half dozen up on the flats where the women are already working. They be more'n three dozen of us and they take some feedin' and lots of hides to get by till the bird moon."

  "Bird moon?" I ask.

  "When the birds return from the south."

  I decide to help Ian with his manners. "You remember I said how I enjoyed sharing with my neighbors. Y'all pick either bull and we'll have the left over."

  Carbone nods, then adds, "Word is the hides is being bought by some traders and are bringing a dollar apiece, just scraped and not cured."

  A few stragglers are moving around us, above and over on the other side of the ravine. "Hell, there goes a dollar," I say, and draw another bead on a mature cow. The Sharps bucks and roars and she, too, drops in her tracks.

  "Well done," Carbone says, and gives me a pat on the back. Then he glances down at the remnants of our camp. "Guess you fellas could use some lessons in camp placement."

  Ian chuckles. "Damn if 'n we couldn't."

  "Let's let the ladies give y'all a lesson in hide curing and teepee construction. It don't seem there's a big enough patch of that canvas to blow your nose on."

  "We'll take it." I say. "Now, let's get to guttin'."

  And we do.

  Carbone helps for a while, giving us some lessons on proper buff care, then walks to a spot of snow that hasn't been stomped to brown slush and cleans his hands, and over his shoulder says, "While y'all get to that next bull, I'm headin' back up and gonna fetch the women down to get us some humps and tongue to roastin'. This has been a good hunt and we're due for a jollification."

  I bring a smile to him as he passes. "I got you some Arbuckle’s, if it can be found."

  "Why, son, you are a good neighbor. I'll fetch the ladies."

  It takes us until mid afternoon to skin and filet out the two big bulls. I save the cow for the Indians and their ladies, as I'm pretty well spent. While I settle back on a rock I study the women, making bags of buffalo skin and mixing suet and berries, and an occasional sprinkling of hair. It doesn’t look to be an appetizing mixture to me, but there must be good reason for it.

  We're cleaning up in the ice cold river by the time the Lakota ride into camp, four of them on horses dragging travois behind, piled high with meat and hides.

  Carbone gigs his horse on down to the water's edge. "Damn fine job you did of meatin' out them bulls. You decide the cow not worth the trouble? You’ll find the cow hides worth more than bull."

  "No, sir," I offer, "no decision one way or the other. It’s just we done run outta steam."

  He laughs. "The women'll get'er done."

  While we finish our washing up, I notice the women headed to the two gut piles.

  "We got the hearts and livers," I say.

  "Yeah, but they use the bladders and gut for lots of things. Them bladders make fine bags and the rest lots of folderol. These folks don't waste nothin'."

  "Glad it can be of use," I say, watching the women tear into the offal. They pile pony drags high with meat and hides, and tie it to the mustangs' backs with strips of fresh buffalo hide.

  While they do, others are weaving racks from willows and slicing meat into long strips for drying while some skewer the hearts, livers and humps for a feast.

  Ian and I have to worry about a place to sleep, so we begin hunting the ravine over for things of use. I do find a few tins of Arbuckle’s, some of them damn near stomped flat, but the coffee beans are still there. What I forgot was a way to grind them. I guess it will be smashed beans in lieu of ground, but that should do for a fella who hasn't tasted coffee in a year or more.

  All the braves I met before are here, as well as a half dozen more, and six women. The women are in long elk or deer skin dresses, their hair in braids, woven with beads and feathers and paint, but more modestly than some of the men. I'm a little taken aback by the comeliness of some of the woman, particularly one whose glance I've gleaned more than one time while she works.

  She's not only comely, but beautiful in a wild untamed sort of way. I'm wondering if my admiring her, even with only a glance, might get me scalped. So I remain silent.

  Then Many-Dogs stomps my way. I guess my admiration didn't go unnoticed.

  Chapter 20

  I'm wondering what I'm in for, when he gives me what seems to pass for a smile among these people.

  "Bad," he says, and gives me a nod.

  I place a hand on my chest and correct him. "Brad."

  "Ah, Bad, Wasichu Bad," he says, and waves me to follow. I guess I’m christened. It’s the same word I heard the Indians yell when I first came across them. I must remember to ask Carbone if they’re calling me a son of a whore or other foul name.

  Many-Dogs leads me to where the women are cooking and hands me a chunk of raw liver, which I politely refuse. He dispatches it in three bites then carves me off a chunk of cooked buff tongue as big as my forearm, and hands it to me. It's a bit bloodier than I normally take my beef, but I wouldn't refuse a gift from Many-Dogs if it were raw—so long as it’s not raw liver or other innards. I take a big bite, chew, and give him as much of a smile as I can muster with my mouth full.

  "Yippee," I hear a yell and turn to see Ian pulling what's left of a bolt of canvas from the mud. It's stomped flat but seems to be intact other than that. That takes a load off my shoulders as I figured we'd be sleeping in a tent made of rotting buffalo hide. I was not looking forward to it.

  Ian walks over with the bolt over a shoulder. "I guess we don't want to rebuild down here on buffalo road?"

  "There's a flat spot about sixty yards south backed by a little cliff. Let's set up there."

  "Now, captain, can we see the enemy from there?"

  He never calls me captain, so he's giving me a bad time. "Who's the enemy?"

  "No one, everyone, the damned weather, the damned buffalo. Probably half these fine fellas we're breakin' bread with."

  "I wish we had some bread and a chug of whisky, even bad whisky."

  Many-Dogs walks over and hands Ian an equally large chunk of tongue. He takes a bite and he, too, smiles as he chews, then says with a full mouth, "Damn, that's fine as a St. Louis pleasure house."

  "Good, not quite that good," I say, and laugh.

  "Let's finish up and study that flat spot."

  We do finish and I load up some limbs that will serve as tent poles and we give Carbone and Many-Dogs a wave and move away, toting canvas and poles, to get our camp set up. The flat is backed up by a ten foot high rock wall with an indentation, a wind cave under a sheet of rock, one you could park a farm wagon in. So we only have to build a wall on one side with the poles and canvas. It's forty yards from the river’s edge and thirty yards above, so it's a steep slope to water but at least we won't get stomped under. There's a clear field of fire in three directions, but our back is at risk as we can't see up the slope without climbing. I don't like having the high country at my back, but I want to be able to keep a good watch on the river as we need to keep a lookout for customers...and, God forbid, hostiles crossing come ice time. We're half done when Carbone, followed by the young woman I'd admired, leading a pony with a travois full of meat, the iron sink, and the sheet iron, walks up.

  "Brought your share," he says, while she unties the travois poles and drops them. "That's a fine cured buff skin twixt them poles and it'll make a good bed for y’all until yo
u get yours cured. This be a larruping good spot, less you get too much snow up above you an a slide buries y'all till spring melt. Should it start to pile up I'd be knocking it down from time to time."

  "I'll pay attention.”

  “Thanks. I don't imagine you'd let the young lady stay on awhile and teach us how to get along."

  Carbone gives me a low chuckle, but his eyes don't smile with the effort. "Son, that's my daughter, and I got me enough grandkids from her brothers and sister. I don't need no mongrel pups."

  "That wasn't what I had in mind her teaching."

  "You two are fine young fellas, but not fine enough for me to leave Pretty Cloud behind. How-some-ever I don't fault ya for askin'. Now should you want to trade that Sharps and half your horses?" This time he gives me a sincere laugh and a slap on the back. I don't know if he's serious or not.

  So I change the subject. "We got plenty of meat and I'll bet we can still round up some supplies from the hillsides. We'll do fine. By the way, Many-Dogs calls me Bad Wasichu? What’s that mean?"

  “Wasichu is the Lakota word for white man. Where’d he get the Bad?”

  “His way of saying Brad, I guess.”

  Carbone chuckles, then stands and stretches. "I got to make sure we all get back safe and my family gets their fair share, then, weather permitting, I'll be back in less than a week to see how you ol' dogs is howlin."

  Ian stops hanging the canvas and strides over. "Mr. Carbone, you expectin' bad weather?"

  "Worms got a big coat of fuzz on 'em. Geese and ducks left early on. Sure sign of a tough winter. None of 'em winters hereabouts is much good, but this should be extra long and hard."

  I laugh. "That would be the one I pick to come this way, whistlin' away like a damn fool."

  Carbone gets real fatherly. "Get your wood collected and stacked. Use that flat shale up on the cliff above to get yourself a good stone stack facing into that shallow cave to back a fire against. What you don't stone up, cut some sod and fill the holes. That hole'll make a fine soddy. There's a cairn over here that you can fill with water plus this here little sink. You may not have see'd it yet but there's a little hot spring about a hundred yards up the main ravine off to the north, and it never freezes up. Your carry-water here will freeze soon but you can chip out plenty to keep your whistles wet. Sure as the Big Mo flows there'll be three or four more herds of buff passin'. Remember, them hides will sell. With what you might get for fire boat wood and hides...hells bells, boys, you'll be eatin' high on the ol' hog."