Buffalo Summer

by Nadia Nichols

IT WAS A FINE MORNING to be following the old Indian trace that climbed up the shoulder of Montana Mountain and led them into the clear yellow light of dawn. Caleb wished that the trail was wide enough to accommodate two horses abreast, because it would have made conversation with Pony so much easier, and he had a hundred questions for her about the buffalo. He was also anxious about the boys, especially when the trail steepened and the horses lowered their heads and lunged over certain spots. Yet every time he swiveled in his saddle to check, they were still seated. His face must have mirrored his concern because after several such backward glances Pony said calmly, “They’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

  But he was worried. How would Roon react after his dressing-down by Badger in front of all the other boys? What had gotten into the old cowboy? It was important that everything went well, and starting the ride on such a discordant note had thwarted Caleb’s plan to show the boys just how much fun a day in the saddle could be. What had prompted Badger’s irritation with Roon? All Badger had said when he climbed onto a quick and sometimes mean-tempered paint called Rocket was, “Hell, boss, let’s show these boys what a real mountain looks like from the back of a real horse.”

  Caleb didn’t want this to turn into some kind of punitive marathon. He swiveled in his saddle again and caught Pony’s eye. “I’m sorry about what happened to Roon,” he murmured in a voice just loud enough for her to hear.

  She shook her head. “He deserved it,” she said. “He said something mouthy.”

  Pony rode with a kind of grace that gave itself to the horse. It was as if the two had become one sympathetic entity, and Caleb watched her admiringly for a few moments before turning to the front. He didn’t doubt that any horse she chose to ride would carry her willingly to the ends of the earth. She had that way about her. He patted Billy’s neck and after a few moments glanced behind again.

  “Tell me about the buffalo.”

  “What do you want to know?” she said.

  “Everything. I want to know their history, and how it relates to your own.”

  She nodded. “The buffalo held an important place in our life, our culture,” she said. “They were the food we ate, the clothes we wore, the shelter that kept us from the storms. On the Medicine Wheel, the buffalo represents the north direction. The color of north is white, the same as the winter snows. The direction of north is a place of wisdom and renewal, a place of personal power based on knowledge. The buffalo is a strong spirit animal. A white buffalo is a messenger from the spirit world. White Buffalo Calf Woman is the oldest messenger, and tells of our spiritual origins.”

  Damn, he wanted to watch her while she spoke. Her words made a gentle cadence in the chill morning air, but the trail was steep and demanded all of his attention, so his glimpses of her were stolen between Billy’s uphill lunges. “Tell me about White Buffalo Calf Woman.”

  The silence that followed his request was long enough that he glanced back, questioningly, and she nodded. “Long ago, before we had horses, the People were hungry and were trying to find the herds. A woman came walking upon the land, dressed in a buffalo robe that was the purest white. When she came to the village, the People welcomed her and took her into the medicine lodge and gave her the seat of honor. She gave them some sage to smudge the lodge and clear their minds, and from her bundle she drew forth a pipe with a red stone bowl and stem made of wood. She said that the red bowl represented the lifeblood of all the animal people, including humans, and the stem represented all green and growing things.”

  A raven flew overhead, the swishing of its wings loud in the early stillness. Pony glanced up, following its flight, and then continued. “The smoke from the pipe represented the spirit of the wind, which binds all things together. The woman offered the tobacco to the four directions. She showed how this must be done starting with the east, which is the direction of birth, and then to the south, the direction of growth, then to the west, the direction of the elder years, and finally to the north, the direction of death and rebirth. The pipe should be passed always in the same direction, and in this way the People would remember the sacred circle of life and death, the moons, the seasons, the rains and the migrations, and all the moods of the earth. She told them to smoke the pipe in silence so they would remember her teachings. And then she walked away and became a white buffalo, disappearing over the horizon.”

  “So she was the old messenger,” Caleb said.

  “Yes. But the white people did not listen to her message. And when the great herds were slaughtered, the People gave up hope and thought that White Buffalo Calf Woman was dead, too. But now the buffalo are coming back, and some think that her message will be heard again.”

  Caleb swiveled. “What do you think?”

  “I think that the buffalo have gone into the mountain and will not come out again until we understand ourselves. I think we are still a very long way from that. We may never come to that place again.”

  Caleb faced front and tried to concentrate on the ride but all he could see was her face, the solemn beauty of it, and hear the smooth resonance of her words. She was like no one else that he had ever known, and the world that she moved within was so different from his own that he wondered if they could ever find a common ground, a comfortable place where they could be easy in each other’s company. As long as he was a white man and she was a Native American, he doubted they ever could.

  And suddenly there was nothing he wanted more.

  ROON STARED between his horse’s ears and imagined what it would be like to make that old cowboy beg for mercy, get down on his bended old knees and plead for his worthless used-up life. His bitter anger intensified as the morning drew on. He could hear the faint murmuring of conversation between McCutcheon and Pony up ahead, but he was far more aware of the rider directly behind him. Badger. The codger with the bowed legs and the quick hand that had dumped him out of his saddle. No one could treat him like that and get away with it.

  He hated it here. One day, two days, the summer just beginning and it felt like a prison sentence stretching out before him. He should have taken that mare yesterday and just kept riding. He could’ve ridden her into forever, she was that good of a horse, but when that other cowboy caught up to him, somehow he’d lost the reason for running away. Guthrie Sloane was all right. Roon thought that he could come to like that one, even though he was white. Most white men would have dressed him down for taking that mare, but Guthrie had acted as if what Roon had done had been perfectly normal. He’d also covered for Roon, making up that story about Mouse escaping from the corral when he knew that Roon had taken her in the middle of the night and ridden up on the mountain to find the buffalo.

  They never saw a single one, but by that time the anger that had driven Roon into the high country had been replaced by fatigue and growing hunger, and Roon had been ready to ride back to the ranch, and to the meal that was waiting there. That Mexican woman could cook. The food was good. But good food wasn’t enough to make this place a good place. This was a white man’s ranch, and it was like Pony said. The rich man, McCutcheon, was keeping the buffalo like toys, and Pony and the rest of them were the token Indians in his make-believe western world.

  Roon’s scowl deepened. He thought about his family, how they had moved away and left him behind. Only his younger brother, Ralph, had said goodbye. He’d ridden that old bike with the bent frame clear to Pony’s place and straddled it in the mud of the yard, his secondhand jacket patched with duct tape at both wrists, wearing his favorite Detroit Tigers baseball cap. “I wish you were coming, too,” he’d said. “I’ll send you our new address. Maybe you could write.” And Roon had said, “Sure, I’ll write you, Ralph,” knowing he probably never would.

  There was nothing left for him back at the rez and nothing for him here. There was really no reason on earth for him to be.

  GUTHRIE SAT at the computer and stared at the blue screen. He had been sitting in front of it for nearly an hour now, gazing out at the morning, listening to Rama
lda in the kitchen, reaching down to stroke Blue’s ears and doing anything to avoid looking at the blue screen. He didn’t like computers. He didn’t enjoy being indoors when the day was wide open and beautiful. He didn’t like typing with two fingers, searching for each letter before tapping the key. The stack of papers propped against the wooden book stand was full of ranch information and data that needed to be entered, but so far the only thing he had typed were the words Dear Jessie because he had thought that maybe starting out with a letter, printed on a clean white piece of paper and sent off to Arizona in the afternoon mail, would be a good start to the day.

  Dear Jessie.

  He sighed and arranged his leg to ease the cramping pain in his hip. “Well, Blue, at this rate we’ll be here a month or better.”

  He heard the sound of a vehicle approaching and glanced out the window. An old truck rattled into the yard, and Pete Two Shirts climbed out, stretching his lean frame after the long drive. Guthrie pushed out of his chair, relieved to have a legitimate excuse to abandon the computer. He limped out onto the porch with Blue at his heels and shook hands with the man who climbed the steps.

  “I thought I’d come by and see how Pony and the boys were making out,” Pete said.

  “They’re up on the mountain today, looking for the buffalo. McCutcheon thought they ought to see them before starting the fence work. He thought maybe it might inspire them. C’mon inside and have a cup of coffee,” Guthrie invited. “Lunch’ll be ready in a little bit.”

  “I still dream about Ramalda’s cooking,” Pete said, following him into the kitchen. He took his hat off and nodded to the Mexican woman, who waved a wooden spoon in his direction, a gesture that could have been threatening or friendly. “She still likes me, that’s good,” Pete said with a grin, dropping into a chair. “So, the boys are behaving?”

  “So far,” Guthrie said, carrying the coffeepot to the table and filling two mugs.

  “Roon, too?”

  “Sure.” Guthrie nodded, taking his seat.

  “That kid has some problems. I warned Pony about that one, but she’d take in any stray. Never turns them away.”

  “What kind of problems?”

  Pete sipped his coffee, raised his shoulders and let them fall. “He’s kind of messed up in the head. My guess he’ll wind up in prison if he doesn’t straighten himself out. Too bad, because he’s a bright kid.”

  “What about the other boys?”

  “They’re okay. Dropouts, dead-ended until Pony took them in. She’ll drill enough into their heads to get them through the high-school test. I don’t know how she does it, but she does it.”

  “She must like kids.”

  “She loves kids.” Pete took another swallow of hot coffee and glanced around the kitchen. “I bet she likes being here.”

  Guthrie cupped his hands around his mug, wondering what had really brought Pete out to the ranch just three days into the summer. Did he and Pony have some kind of relationship? Was he missing her? If so, Guthrie could certainly sympathize. If it were at all possible for him to travel to Arizona to visit Jessie, he surely would.

  “I brought some things for Pony,” Pete said, as if reading Guthrie’s mind. “A letter from Nana, her old aunt. The schedule for the Crow Fair in August. And some news about Roon’s family. Bad news. His youngest brother, Ralph, was killed in a car crash. I guess it happened over a week ago on the Cree reservation up in Canada. We only just got word.”

  Guthrie felt his heart drop. The last thing Roon needed was to hear something like that. “What about the funeral?”

  “Over and done with. I called his mother and asked her if she wanted us to bring Roon. She said no, she had troubles enough.”

  “Roon doesn’t need to know she said that,” Guthrie said.

  “But he needs to know about his brother.”

  “Yes.” Guthrie sighed. It was a bad way to start the summer. He glanced out the screen door, wondering where McCutcheon and the others were, and if they’d found the buffalo yet. Wondering about Roon, and how he would take the awful news.

  WITH BADGER RIDING DRAG, they made pretty good time climbing into the high country. Caleb enjoyed sporadic conversations with Pony, the boys managed to stay in the saddle, and it looked as though they’d reach the line camp at Piney Creek by noon. Caleb was pretty sure that the herd would be somewhere in the vicinity.

  At least he hoped so. “They were there less than a week ago,” he said to Pony. “The grass is really good in that meadow. I don’t see why they’d stray too far.” He was facing backward, one hand holding the reins and the other resting on Billy’s rump. Suddenly Billy gave a mighty forward lunge to scale a particularly steep section of trail, and Caleb was toppling out of the saddle, rolling over the gelding’s hindquarters. He had the disorienting sensation of spinning through air and then his feet came down with a resounding thump and he was standing upright behind Billy, grasping the horse’s tail with one hand to keep his balance.

  For a moment he remained still and so did Billy. Then the gelding turned his head to look behind him, ears pricked in a silent question mark. “Whoa, Billy, good boy,” Caleb said, slightly dazed. He glanced back at Pony. “I’ve been practicing that flying dismount for quite a while. Like it?”

  “It was pretty good,” she said, her face revealing nothing.

  Behind her, Jimmy was leaning in his saddle to see better, his eyes round with awe.

  “It’s rough going up ahead!” Caleb called back to the boys. “Everyone climb down. We’ll lead our horses up this next stretch. And don’t even think of trying a backward somersault dismount. That takes years of practice.”

  He scrambled up beside Billy, took the blessedly patient gelding’s rein and led him forward. They stopped to rest where the trail leveled out into a grove of softwood. Sunlight splintered through the conifers, and the wind tugged a sweet, lonesome sound from the branches. “How much farther?” Jimmy asked.

  “Another half hour, wouldn’t you say, Badger?”

  Badger pulled a bandanna out of his hip pocket and blew his nose loudly into it. “More or less,” he said. “You boys runnin’ out of steam already?”

  “No,” Jimmy said, patting his horse’s neck. “But I think Sparky’s getting tired.”

  “Sparky can take a good long noontime break,” Badger said. “We all can.”

  Martin was rubbing his thighs. “I keep getting these cramps,” he said.

  “That’s ’cause you ain’t used to ridin’, and it’s hard goin’. The ride back down won’t be so bad. We can take the Piney Creek trail. It’s longer but it ain’t so steep. Easier on the horses, too. All right, boys,” Badger said. “Let’s haul into the saddle. Keep your eyes peeled for grizzly. We’re in their territory now.”

  Caleb couldn’t refrain from glancing around at Badger’s ominous words. Funny, he hadn’t thought about that big grizzly for a long time now, maybe because all winter long it had been denned up somewhere, sleeping through those long bitter blizzards. But Badger was right. Chances were good that the big old bear who had killed Senator George Smith and one of Jessie’s horses last fall was up here, grubbing around for its next meal. Maybe it was a sow with cubs. They could be very aggressive and protective, and in short bursts they could run as fast as a racehorse. “Okay, Billy,” he said, stabbing his toe into the stirrup and pulling himself back into the saddle. “Another day, another adventure.”

  He led out and Pony fell in behind. They rode beyond the grove of trees and into a brilliant sweep of sunshine, and in a few moments Caleb forgot all about the grizzly bear because he was looking at a buffalo cow grazing upwind. She had her back to him, approximately two hundred yards away. He raised his hand, pointing, and drew Billy to a halt. Pony and the boys rode up beside him, until they were eight abreast, facing into the wind and watching that solitary buffalo cow. “Can’t we get a little closer?” Jimmy said.

  “No,” Pony replied. “This is close enough.”

  “Why is she
all by herself?” Dan asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she said. “Maybe she isn’t. Maybe the rest of the herd is near.”

  A white-crowned sparrow lifted its voice in song from a nearby thicket and Martin shifted in his saddle. “I have to pee,” he said.

  Caleb nodded. “Go ahead.”

  Martin slid out of the saddle and handed his horse’s reins to Badger. He hitched at his belt as he walked, startling the sparrow into flight and causing the buffalo cow to lift her head and turn. The thicket wasn’t far from where they sat their horses. No more than a hundred feet. Martin was nearly there when the buffalo suddenly wheeled about and sprinted into a dead run, aiming her twelve-hundred-pound massive body directly at the boy.

  Martin froze.

  Caleb heard a sudden movement beside him, the churning dig of hooves as both Pony and Badger simultaneously spurred their horses toward Martin while Caleb and the boys remained frozen with horror, staring at the big chunks of sod being unearthed by the buffalo’s terrifying charge.

  Badger was leading Martin’s horse, and the boy took the reins but couldn’t get his foot in the stirrup. Instantly the old man was down on the ground, boosting the boy as if he weighed nothing, throwing him up over his saddle like a sack of grain and then reaching for his own horse’s rein, but by then the cow was close. Too close! Badger’s horse shied and bolted.

  Caleb drove his heels into Billy’s flanks, hoping to divert the angry cow, but the gelding wanted no part of that plan. He flung his head up with a snort and took several rapid steps backward, causing the boys’ horses to do the same. He kicked Billy again, and again the gelding backed up at full speed away from the furious buffalo cow.

  Caleb saw Pony leap out of her saddle and reach for something under her jacket. She drew forth a pistol, raised it in both hands to eye level and watched the cow gallop toward her as coolly as if she were in a staged Wild West show. Just before reaching her, the cow skidded to a stop, tossing her massive shaggy head with a spray of saliva. Her tail was up, and after a few calculating moments she made three stiff-legged aggressive hops toward the slender young woman.