Caspion & the White Buffalo

by Melvin Litton

  So Broken Wing Bird went that day to the lodge of Black Hand. Running Hawk immediately left camp and rode west. He rode till Cloud Walker tired then stared off into the Blue Vision. When leaving, he’d turned his back on Awoke In Winter, bitter at all. Failed by wisdom, friendship, his own deference and pious regard, he felt himself a fool. Where was his courage for Young Bird? Wears The Wind had not stood by and let another count coup on his beloved. Running Hawk flinched then closed his hand on the emptiness within. Had Young Bird but looked his way, her one beseeching glance would have incited him to act. But he left before his eyes could view Black Hand’s embrace. Seeing that, how could he stay his hand? Among the People there was none worse than an Okkliwus…a murderer, a putrefier. Yet he was most ashamed that he had not stolen her away, just then, before the embrace, for all to witness the courage of his love.

  With these desperate thoughts a new emotion caught and flared in a gust of hate, like a lodge-flap opened upon and the realization burned deep in his heart. Kindness, generosity, fidelity to custom, and half-measures were useless against a rabid dog; all peace offerings rewarded with a savage bite. No, Running Hawk would not run away, for Young Bird yet lived, and Black Hand as well, and the one he now declared his enemy. The Dog! One day his hand would deal the full measure required.

  Running Hawk pulled his knife and leapt to the ground, stabbing at the earth.

  From the tree-lined ridge two watched him vent his rage, mindful of the cause. When he rode out that morning, they’d followed, keeping a discreet distance. But the clouded soul they trailed would have hardly noticed had they walked up to him, much less have acknowledged. At last his arms wearied of their vain effort; he fell to Mother Earth, clutched the grass and pressed his face to her torn bosom—his nostrils drank in the odor of rich loam, the milk of her soul, as he begged forgiveness. And still they watched, anxious for him. When the sun reached its zenith, he slowly drew himself up and sat cross-legged, facing west. He spread his arms like soaring wings and held them thus for a torturous span, then gradually lowered them until his hands rested on either knee, palms up, supplicant and prayerful.

  “He has decided to live,” Awoke In Winter, silent throughout the vigil, finally spoke. “Come,” he said to Spotted Tail as he stood to mount up, “we will leave him now and return.” But the boy did not stir.

  “I want to stay, Grandfather, and return with Running Hawk.”

  The old man studied the young face carefully, the eyes so worshipful cast on the lone warrior bent in his sorrow yet so noble; he divined the motive and nodded. “That is good. You shall stay. Keep watch, young one, till the blind one sees.” Then he eased up onto his pony and rode away, certain that seventy winters were far too many.

  When the sun touched the rim, Running Hawk stood, pulled back his hair and looked about, scanning all with intense curiosity as if he’d awakened in strange surroundings, only now aware of his presence before the broad plain. The tree-lined ridge to the east seemed familiar. And as he rode up through the shadowed dusk, a mounted brave emerged. They signed in recognition and angled to meet.

  “Spotted Tail!” he called sharply upon approach; “Have you spied on me today?”

  The youth lowered his head and quietly confessed: “We were watching you.”

  “We? There was another?!”

  Spotted Tail raised his eyes. “Yes. Awoke In Winter. But he returned mid-day.”

  Running Hawk reflected a moment; when he spoke again, his anger was gone.

  “Spotted Tail, I say this…you have the makings of a fine scout. You move with stealth, watch patiently, but most important…you are truthful. He who would be the eyes and ears of the People must above all else bear faithful witness.”

  “I would ask then…that you teach me the ways of the scout.”

  “I would be honored.”

  “I would ask also that you help me prepare for the Sun Dance…and guide me through its trials.”

  “Again, I am honored. I will help you prepare, but the Maiyun must guide you.”

  Side by side they rode, entering the wooded terrain to the east. A coyote, an owl, and four deer rushed in fluid ensemble through the shadowed timber. The sun’s descent lent the scene a brief golden hue. A star blinked in the purple sky; darkness fell. They were far from camp. Running Hawk halted and smiled, recalling a similar night and a similar request. He repeated the words of his father, Antlers Held High:

  “Your first lesson, Spotted Tail, will be to find the trail through the dark before the moon shows the way. Read the stars and know the odor of the grasses, of which grows where and blooms when. Learn the language of all the animals, the many meanings of their songs. Beware of Naku, the bear, who fears us not. Now lead and I will follow…for I am old and blind, wounded and burdened with child. I am the People, Spotted Tail, and you are the scout.”

  That evening Black Hand dismissed White Deer and her sister-wife Smoking Dove from the lodge, wanting solitude for himself and Broken Wing Bird. The ardor of youth filled him. She lay in the shadows, her back to the fire. He knelt and lifted the robe, not surprised to see her clothed nor that she shrank from his touch; likely frightened, young ones were naturally so. Though his lance burned with desire, his hand moved gently. He reached further, uncovering her thigh, found the rope and began to work it free, edging to her nest. His breathing grew husky and wanton. In an abrupt move she rolled, pinning his hand beneath her while she held a knife to her throat, ready to slice it deep.

  “Untie my rope,” she warned, blood already oozing from under the blade, “you’ll embrace a dead woman!” To have a maiden choose death above of his passion would shame him before all. Seeing her intent, he eased his hand away.

  “There, there,” he softly intoned. “Bird of the Broken Wing, truly named. I will leave your nest in peace.” He laughed quietly; one of his years could easily wait. “Yea, for tonight. But soon I’ll know its shape and depth…its soft downy edge. It’ll please me to know it well.” He stood to leave, his ardor delayed by her willful resistance—a will honed by the Dog’s callous threat. Still she lay tensed; the knife held ready.

  “Sleep, sleep now,” he assured her. “You will know when I come.”

  Broken Wing Bird hastened to cover herself then hid the scalping knife in a strand of her chastity rope. She lay trembling, fearful of sleep, listening until she was certain of his bearish slumber. Then she slept, waking shortly before dawn.

  A young woman often wore her rope for a few days after marriage as a final proof of her modesty and to give the newly-weds time to grow familiar. The rope was usually respected by the husband, but only for so long. Beyond ten days a man was likely to forswear restraint and act on his prerogative.

  Nearly a moon had passed. The air was warm and humid after a night of rain, heavy with the scent of full growth. White Deer and Smoking Dove had gone to the lodge of another woman to throw buffalo bone dice. Broken Wing Bird didn’t care to join. She spent the early morning gathering wood which she stacked before the lodge to dry. Work had become her sanctuary. She entered the lodge and knelt to retrieve her grinding stone, wishing to crush some berries. Due to the darkness within, she failed to notice Black Hand lounging against his robe-covered backrest. His nostrils flared, noting her sweet scent. Like a risen Naku he crept past the fire-pit to take her unaware, seized her from behind and pulled up her dress, his great strong hand clawing between her legs, heedless of the rope. She struggled but soon surrendered to the pain and opened her thighs to him, arching meekly as if yielding to his demands. But instead of subduing her, his brutish act quelled all fear and inflamed her defiance. As he pawed her breasts and moved to untie his loincloth, preparing to mount her by force, he briefly weakened his powerful hold. At that instant she bit his arm—sank her teeth to the bone—then spun and violently kneed him in the groin. With desperate strength and speed, she threw him to the ground and dropped her knee to his throat, choking off his wind as her scalping knife gleamed before his dazed eyes.r />
  “Never touch me again, Black Hand. Swear it!” She yanked his scalp-lock and pressed the blade to his throat. “Your word or your life!” Her deadly eyes confirmed her meaning; his closed in defeat. “My…word,” he gasped, wheezing for air as she released him and stood, looking down on his shriveled lance, flaccid and useless like a piece of hair rope. Imperious now, for she owned his dignity—Slim Walking Woman sheathed her knife and left the lodge.

  That afternoon while filling the water bags by the river, she saw Spotted Tail riding on the far bank and called to him. He galloped his pony splashing across the shallows, proud, for he had recently returned from a long journey with Running Hawk, searching for a summer camp further west, closer to the buffalo.

  “I see you are becoming a brave scout,” she said, hoisting the water bags to the bank. He smiled shyly. “Can you deliver a message…and keep it from the enemy?”

  His smile widened. “I can and I will,” he answered.

  “Then say to Running Hawk…that Young Bird remains tethered by the rope. She waits for him to untie her. And will not spread her wings and fly without him.”

  Spotted Tail rode as if he carried the fate of the People and delivered her message word for word. Upon hearing which, Running Hawk brightened, flush like a plant given water. “Return to her, Spotted Tail,” he said quickly; “Tell her the Hawk soars, circling, and by and by will come for her.”

  In the following days they moved to their summer camp, traveling west along the Beaver, then up the Cimarron to where the river turns from the northwest and flows east. Here they camped, far from the horde of Vehos hunting north of the Arkansas, safely distanced by the long waterless trek known as “the Jornada.”

  From the fateful day he gave his word, Black Hand aged. His ardor slain by her vitality and youth. To place her on the prairie was well within his rights; but not within his will. She did everything expected of a dutiful wife, cheerfully and assiduously saw to his needs—everything except let him touch her. In a final pathetic attempt he offered to give her to Running Hawk if she would let him untie her rope and willingly receive him but once. Broken Wing Bird refused. Both knew the pledge was insincere. What he coveted most was her presence, the very sight of her. She became his cherished ideal, like a daughter, something treasured, not touched. He could neither possess nor free her. He was greatly distressed during the few days she spent in the menstrual lodge, as women were kept apart according to law in their time of the moon. Upon her return, he doted on her before his other wives, shamelessly fawning, anxious for her attention. Distracted beyond the Dog’s expectations, Black Hand grew obsessed.

  What White Deer had initially feared—and before which the stigma of her eloped daughter paled—was her reduced status next to a beautiful young wife. Beyond that she perceived an even greater threat: her reduced status in the band. For Black Hand’s abject behavior before Broken Wing Bird was readily apparent and unbecoming of any man, least of all a chief. Truly, he pissed on his own tent; as if he raised his leg and pissed on himself. She feared for his fallen esteem and would have resented the young wife less if she’d taken him under her robe and preserved his manliness, his pride. Though Broken Wing Bird outworked her and Smoking Dove twice over, White Deer could not forgive the willful beauty that held her husband’s manhood in check and with it his dignity. People whispered, even jeered “Heemaneh” at the comic shadow he’d become. And the Dog daily gained their confidence by his shrewd and certain manner, his timely appeals to their interest—and especially through his clear statements of their very real concern for the Vehos’ persistent encroachment from the north and east.

  White Deer knew that the chastity rope remained; how Broken Wing Bird had established this barrier to Black Hand’s desire she could not guess. But she narrowed her eyes, suspecting that a young woman’s natural urges would not long abide the rope, even welcome its removal by another hand.

  XIII. Along The Trail

  White fur streaked ahead and vanished in the bunch grass; bristling black fur leapt above the green surface for sign of movement then raced towards the desperate flight glimpsed beyond. Darting from the grass, the prey entered a hole in the embankment below the rise. In pursuit, pawing at the dirt, muzzle buried deep, the other heard his name song followed by a sharp whistle and glanced up, ears perked. Seeing the raised hand, knew his master called. Bounding downslope through the tall blue-stem, he leapt again and again to find his way as the wind combed fur and grass in fluid ripples of sun-tipped color. Wolf-dog ran up and greeted man, horse, and mule with a panting smile, happy to rejoin the pack.

  “Boon!” Caspion laughed; “Did you put the varmint in his hole? Likely, he’ll stay the day.” Caspion never let him chase a rabbit, but occasionally sicced him on one to release his puppy vigor. Nearly full-grown, Boon was tall as a wolf yet thicker through the back and shoulders—more powerful. Caspion slapped his right hand to his chest, and Boon as signaled leapt past Two-Jack’s withers with remarkable ease.

  “Good boy! Now follow.” He extended his left hand, palm down, and wolf-dog obediently trotted behind. Then Caspion swept his hand to the front, palm out, and Boon eagerly sped to point—his favorite position.

  Since leaving Hays his life had focused on the care of his horse and mule, and the steady, patient training of the wolf-dog. The latter experience tapped a latent paternal vein; and something deeper. For the man-wolf companionship established the root of a nameless faith that extended to the buffalo and other animals, if not the earth itself; and of which the white robe became the uncertain mantle. He hunted only to serve his needs. And traveled constantly.

  In mid-February he’d made one last attempt to hunt for money, hired on with an outfit harvesting buffalo on the snow-drifted plains northwest of Dodge. But he hadn’t lasted a week, could no longer stomach the sight or sound of the hunt. Each time he shot a beast, he flinched, sensing the impact in his own flesh. More and more when he tried to find a target, resistance set in; he pulled his aim and fired over their heads, laughing in manic reflex while using up his ammunition in a numb parody of slaughter. Finally, he simply rode off without word or wage. Had little need of money. Drifted below the Dead Line, south towards the Cimarron, and happened on the Krippit Gang in their skirmish with the Cheyenne that day. From there he drifted back north, as if turned by one river to the other, fluctuating between events like a lost echo—occasionally riding into a camp of hunters to exchange a brief word or share an evening of song, but always gone by morning. Favored the solitude.

  And while he longed for her with an ache as definite as his pulse, he would not admit it. Where do the currents of the heart turn once they’re obstructed by wounds, like angry waters held in check by earthen dams? Could he ever admit that the threat without was a mere shadow, a reflection of the pain within? And this pain though black was not like satin, which is opaque, but something diffuse like smoke or soot left after the ashes cool. Substance vanished; haunted by her still. Alice.

  When he passed through Dodge in early spring, it was a haphazard assortment of tents mired in a late winter mud about the consistency of mortar and deepened daily by the traffic from hundreds of plodding hooves and slogging boots. Lately, buildings and houses had crowded out the tents, like the settlers rapidly filling up the land. The very ones he’d swore a year ago would never come, now swarming in behind the hunters who slaughtered the buffalo at such a rate so ruinous to themselves and certain to starve out the Indians, which left nothing to his eye in way of prospects outside the interminable drudgery of farming scattered before the rapacity of the railroads and banks and all the other hidden forces that wrought their will from a thousand miles beyond the scene.

  Caspion observed all in disgust. The range west of Dodge was truly the “Great Slaughter Pen”—the stench by mid-July, constant, heavy in the heat. It reminded him of the aftermath of so many battlefields rolled into one. Yet casting his eyes beyond the evident carnage, the prairie unfurled its breadth beneath a blue summ
er sky, offering escape in the limitless expanse. Now two-days’ ride out of Dodge, after westering along the Arkansas to the Rockies and back, he traveled one of the wagon-worn furrows that marked the Santa Fe Trail. Dust paled the grass growing along either side. He met with the usual flux of hunters and the numerous ox-drawn wagons destined for California or points in between, and passed a few returning thereby. Rode to witness the slaughter. The barrier of death stretched west along the river past Bent’s Old Fort, terminating only with the prairie as it neared the foothills of the snow-crested mountains. While the buffalo drove to the river to drink, they were killed by the thousands for their thirsting tongues and stripped of their summer hides—their poisoned carcasses left to bait wolf, bear, lion, and raven; predators also racing towards extinction. He rode, witnessing the vast pillage and harvest. The booty freighted by “bull” wagons back to Dodge, or stacked at depots provided by the railroad to convenience hunters further west. The present terminus lay just over the border at Granada.

  Each evening over the past few weeks he’d stopped by the hunting camps to perform a stunt-shot on a wager or run Boon through a series of tricks, to amaze and entertain like a one-man traveling show; all part of Caspion’s last-ditch effort to gain a foothold and somehow belong. And nightly around their fires he’d sing the song, On the Range of the Buffalo—to bear witness, grasp the scene in words, and through singing perhaps transcend the grim event. Those gathered by, listening, saw themselves therein, and lustily sang along, always eager to add another verse. The previous evening he’d spent with a group of hunters already familiar with a version performed by one of their own on the banjo, having recently camped with Thunder Mike and his three skinners and during the long festive night learned the song off Mose Parker. Caspion hadn’t joined in the singing or in any way claimed the song—chose the moment to let it pass along with an experience he no longer valued. All dead to him, utterly.