He knows the white man's promises are worth no more than Slow Tree's. They're worth nothing, and he knows it. He scorns our parleying and peace-piping and the lot. I admire him for it, though I'd kill him in a second if I could get him in range." Augustus was watching the buffalo chase.
Only once, long ago, had he had the opportunity to watch Indians run buffalo.
That time it had been two tired Indians and one tired buffalo--in their desperation to bring down the meat they had chased the buffalo right through a ranger encampment, to the astonishment of the rangers, who roused themselves from cards and singsongs just in time to shoot the animal. The tired Comanches, badly disappointed, made it into the brush before the disorganized rangers could think to shoot them.
This time there were four buffalo and at least twenty young Indians in pursuit. Soon the buffalo fanned out, each with four or five Comanches at tail and side. None of the Comanches had guns.
Augustus saw one buffalo absorb six arrows without slackening its pace. Another was lanced and almost managed to turn under the horse of the young brave who lanced it, but the brave avoided the charge and returned to strike the buffalo twice more.
Soon, prickling with arrows, the buffalo began to stumble. Two fell, but two ran on.
Inish Scull, by now, was as absorbed in the chase as Augustus.
"What grand sport!" Inish Scull exclaimed. "I wish Hector and I were down there. Big Horse Scull and the Buffalo Horse could show them what for, I reckon!" Augustus didn't say anything, but he agreed. He and Woodrow had run buffalo a few times; even Woodrow got caught up in the sport of it. Even though they might need the meat, there was always a letdown when the buffalo fell and the skinning and butchering had to begin.
The third buffalo, prickly with arrows, finally fell, but the fourth ran on, although the whole force of Comanches was now after it, the braves crowding one another in order to aim their arrows.
"Look at it--why, you'd think the beast was immortal," Inish Scull said. "There must be thirty arrows in it." The buffalo, though, was not immortal. Finally it stopped, swung its head at its pursuers, and dropped to its knees. It bellowed a frothy bellow that echoed off the canyon walls. Then it rolled on its side and lay still--the young Comanches milled around it, excited from the chase.
Augustus watched for a moment. The Indian women were already skinning the first of the buffalo to fall.
"That's that--let's be off, sir--else they'll be skinning us next," Captain Scull said.
Augustus mounted, but turned his horse to watch the scene for another moment. He hadn't done the chasing or made the kill, but, for some reason, he felt the same letdown as if he had. The Comanche braves had stopped milling. They simply sat on their horses, looking down at the fallen beast. Though he could barely see the fallen animal--it was just a dot on the canyon floor--in his mind's eye he saw it clearly.
He was reminded of an old bull buffalo he and Call and Bigfoot Wallace, the famous scout, had struggled to kill years before on the Mexican plain. They had shot the beast more than twenty times, chased it until one of their horses died, and had finally had to dispatch it with their bowie knives, a process that bloodied Augustus from shoulder to calf.
The Comanche boy who had dealt the fourth buffalo the final lance hit was probably just as bloody--t buffalo, too, must have poured blood from a number of wounds before it rolled its eyes up in death.
Looking down on the scene from high above, Augustus, though he couldn't say why, felt a mood of sadness take him. He knew he ought to be going, but he could not stop looking at the scene far below. A line of Indian women were moving out from the camp, ready to help cut up the meat.
Inish Scull paused a moment. He saw that his young ranger had been affected by the chase they had just observed, and its inevitable ending.
"Post coitum omne animal triste," he said, leaning over to put a hand, for a moment, on the young man's shoulder.
"That's Aristotle." "What, sir?" Augustus asked. "I expect that's Latin, but what does it mean?" ""After copulation every animal is sad,"'" the Captain said. "It's true, too--though who can say why? The seed flies, and the seeder feels blue." "Why is it?" Augustus asked. He knew, from his own memories, that the Captain had stated a truth. Much as he liked poking, there was that moment, afterward, when something made his spirits dip, for a time.
"I don't know why and I guess Aristotle didn't either, because he didn't say," Scull observed. "But it's not only rutting that can bring on that little gloom. Killing can do it too-- especially if you're killing something sizable, like a buffalo, or a man. Something that has a solid claim to life." He was silent for a moment, a little square cut chaw of tobacco in his hand.
"I grant that it's a curious thing," he said.
"The acts ain't much alike, and yet the gloom's alike. First excitement, then sadness.
Those red boys killed their game, and they needed to kill it, too. A buffalo is to them what a store would be to us. They have to kill the buffalo to live. And they have killed it. But now they're sad, and they don't know why." Well, I don't know why neither, Augustus thought. I wish that old man who talked about it to begin with had said why.
In a moment they turned back toward camp.
Augustus fell in behind the big horse. When they came over the first little rise they saw the camp boys, rushing around like ants, packing up.
"Where is his scalp? I don't see it," Buffalo Hump said, when Blue Duck walked up to him, dripping blood. "I thought you were going to bring me the scalp of Gun In The Water?" "He is quick," Blue Duck admitted.
"He shot me while he was shitting. I didn't know anyone could shoot straight while they were shitting." Buffalo Hump looked the boy over. He saw no wounds that looked serious.
"I had another son once," Buffalo Hump said. "Gun In The Water shot him too--shot him dead. He was almost drowned in the Brazos River but he was still quick enough to kill my son. You're lucky he didn't kill you too. Where is your horse?" The boy stood before him wearing a sullen look.
No doubt he had run across the canyon, hoping to be praised because he had gone alone against the whites and been wounded. It was a brave thing: Buffalo Hump didn't doubt the boy's courage. Blue Duck always led the charge, and could not sleep for days, from excitement, when a raid was planned.
Bravery was important in war, of course, but that did not mean that a warrior could afford to neglect the practicalities of war. The boy seemed to have rolled much of the way down the canyon and kept his weapons undamaged, which was good. On the other hand, he had lost a horse, which was not good.
Also, he had attacked a proven warrior, Gun In The Water, without being sure of his kill. Courage would not keep a warrior alive for long if courage was not backed up by judgment.
"My horse is dead," Blue Duck admitted. "Silver Hair McCrae shot him --I was running for my life. Big Horse Scull almost cut me with the long knife." Buffalo Hump motioned to Hair On The Lip, indicating that she was to tend to the boy's wounds. Slow Tree was approaching, at the head of his band, and would have to be greeted with the proper ceremony. Though Buffalo Hump would have liked to lecture the boy some more, he could not do it with Slow Tree and his warriors only half a mile from camp. He looked sternly at his young wife, Lark--he did not want her tending Blue Duck's wounds. The women made much of Blue Duck, old women and young women too.
He did not want Lark to be doctoring his handsome son. He had seen many unfortunate things happen, in his years as a chief. Sometimes young women, married to old men, could not resist coupling with the old men's sons, a thing that made bitter blood. If Lark was reckless with Blue Duck he would beat her so that she could not move for three days, and then he would drive Blue Duck out of camp, or else kill him.
"Why is Slow Tree coming?" Blue Duck asked, as Hair On The Lip began to poke at the wound in his side.
Buffalo Hump walked away without answering.
It was none of Blue Duck's business why Slow Tree had chosen to visit. Slow Tree could com
e and go as he pleased, as did all the Comanche. He himself was not particularly pleased to see the old man coming, though. Slow Tree was very pompous; he insisted on making long speeches that were boring to listen to. Buffalo Hump had long since heard all that Slow Tree had to say, and did not look forward to listening to him anymore.
Because he was old and lazy, Slow Tree had even begun to argue that the Comanche should live in peace with the Texans. He thought they ought to go onto reservations and learn to grow corn. He pointed out that the buffalo were no longer plentiful; soon the Comanche would have to find something else to eat. There were not enough deer and antelope to feed the tribe, nor enough wild roots and berries. The People would starve unless they made peace with the whites and learned their agriculture.
Buffalo Hump knew that on some points Slow Tree was right. He himself had ridden all the way north to the Republican River to find enough buffalo, in the fall just passed. The whites were killing more and more buffalo each year, and the People would, someday, have to find something else to eat. Such facts were plain; he did not need a long speech from Slow Tree to explain what was obvious.
What Buffalo Hump disagreed with was Slow Tree's solution. He himself did not like corn, and did not plan to grow it. Instead, since the white men were there in his land, his country, he meant to live off their animals: their horses, their pigs, and particularly their cattle. The land along the Nueces boiled with cattle. They were as plentiful as buffalo had once been. He himself preferred horsemeat to the meat of the cow, but the meat of the cow would suffice, if it proved impossible to kill enough buffalo or steal enough horses to get the band through the winter.
Some of the cattle were as wild as any buffalo, but because they were small animals the Texans seemed to think they owned them. The cattle were so numerous that the Comanches, once they practiced a little, could easily steal or kill enough of them to survive.
Buffalo Hump considered himself as wild as the buffalo or the antelope or the bear; he would not be owned by the whites and he would not tear up the grass and grow corn. But Slow Tree, evidently, was no longer too wild to be owned, so now he talked of peace with the whites, though that was not the reason for his visit. The old man knew that Buffalo Hump's band had buffalo--what he had come for was to eat.
Slow Tree was a great Comanche chief, and Buffalo Hump meant to welcome him with proper ceremony. But that did not mean that he trusted the old man. Slow Tree had been a great killer, when he was younger, and an unscrupulous killer too. Slow Tree was old; he had heard things from the old women of the tribe that the younger Comanches did not know. Long ago Buffalo Hump had been told by his grandmother that he could only die if his great hump was pierced. Old Slow Tree knew of this prophecy. Several times, over the years, in camp here and there, usually after feasting and dancing, Buffalo Hump would get an uneasy feeling. Three times he had turned and found that Slow Tree was behind him. Once Slow Tree had had a lance in his hand; another time he held a rifle, and he had had a cold look in his eye--the look of the killer. Slow Tree had long been jealous of Buffalo Hump's prowess as a raider. Once, on a raid all the way to the Great Water, Buffalo Hump had run off three thousand horses--it was a raid all the young warriors sang about and dreamed of equalling.
Slow Tree, though fierce in battle, had never made such a raid. He didn't like it when the young men sang of Buffalo Hump.
But, always, because of the uneasy feeling he got, Buffalo Hump had turned before Slow Tree could strike with the lance or fire the gun. He had saved himself, but he had never trusted Slow Tree and still didn't. The fact that the man was old did not mean he was harmless.
Buffalo Hump turned to look at his young wife, Lark; her eyes were cast down in modesty. Heavy Leg and Hair On The Lip, his other wives, had stripped the boy, Blue Duck, in order to tend his wounds. He stood naked not far from Lark, but Lark kept her eyes cast down. She was the wife of Buffalo Hump--she looked at her husband, when she wanted to look at a man.
Blue Duck became impatient with the women, who were smearing grease on his wounds.
"There are only a few whites up there," he said to his father--he pointed toward the top of the canyon. "I killed one of them last night --there are only a few left. We could kill them all if we hurry." "I imagine you scared them so badly that they are running away by now," Buffalo Hump said casually. "We would have to chase them to the Brazos to kill them, and I don't want to chase them. I have to wait for Slow Tree and listen to him tell me I should be growing corn." Blue Duck was sorry he had spoken. His father had only mocked him, when he said the whites were afraid of him. Big Horse Scull was not afraid of him, nor Gun In The Water, nor McCrae. He wanted to go back and kill the Texans, but Buffalo Hump had already turned and was walking away. Slow Tree had entered the camp and had to be shown the proper respect.
Blue Duck wasn't interested in the old chief himself, but he had heard that Slow Tree had several pretty wives. He was impatient with the women who were dressing his wounds--he wanted to go over and have a look at Slow Tree's wives.
"Hurry up," he said, to Hair On The Lip. "I have to go stand with my father. Slow Tree is here." Hair On The Lip didn't like the rude boy, whelp of a Mexican woman. Rosa, the boy's mother, had once been Buffalo Hump's favorite, but she had run away and frozen to death on the Washita River. Now Lark was his favorite--Lark was young and plump--but he still kept Hair On The Lip with him many nights, because she had the gift of stories. She told him many stories about the animal people, but not just the animal people. She knew some old Comanche women who were lustful and full of wickedness. The old women hid in the bushes, looking for young men.
Buffalo Hump had had only a few wives, unlike Slow Tree and some of the other chiefs.
He told Hair On The Lip that it would be too much trouble to have more wives. He wanted to save his strength for hunting, andfor fighting the whites. He liked to hear about women, though, particularly the old lustful women who were always in the bushes, trying to get young boys to couple with them. Many nights Hair On The Lip had lain with Buffalo Hump, while the cold wind blew around the lodges. Hair On The Lip was not pretty and she was not young--the young women of the tribe wondered why such a great chief would stay with her, when he could have the youngest and prettiest wives.
Those younger women didn't know how much he liked the stories.
Clara was unpacking some new crockery for the store when she happened to glance up and see Maggie Tilton crossing the street--Maggie, too anxious to stop herself, was coming to inquire about Woodrow Call. Every few days Maggie came on the same errand, thinking Clara might have some news of the rangers. Clara didn't--but she could well understand Maggie's anxiety--she herself grew worried when several weeks passed without news of Gus McCrae. Except for the anxiety, though, their positions in regard to the men in question were opposite: Maggie's one hope was that Woodrow Call would someday unbend enough to marry her, while Clara was doing everything she could to check her foolish passion for Gus McCrae. Clara was doing her best not to marry Gus, while Maggie pinned all her hopes on finally marrying Woodrow. Maggie and Clara talked little--theirthe respective stations didn't permit it. What little conversation they had was usually just about the small purchases Maggie made. Yet they had become, if not friends, at least women who were sympathetic to one another because of their common problem: what to do about the menfolk.
The dishes and cups Clara was unwrapping and setting on the counter were nice, serviceable brown stoneware from Pennsylvania. Only the day before she had had a bit of a tiff with her father, over the stoneware. Usually George Forsythe let Clara have her way, when it came to ordering dishware, but, in this case, he happened to look at the bill and had what for him was a fit. He took off his coat, put it back on, told Clara she was bankrupting him with her impulsive ordering, and walked out of the store, not to return for three hours. Clara was more amused than offended by her father's little fit. George Forsythe considered that he and he alone knew what was best for the solid frontie
r citizens who frequented their store.
Whenever Clara ordered something that appealed to her, even if it was as simple as a pewter pitcher, her father invariably concluded that it was too fancy; soon the store would fill up with things Clara liked that the customers either didn't want or couldn't afford; and ruin would follow.
"I've had a store on this street since it started being a street," he informed his daughter-- sometimes, when he was particularly exercised, he even wagged his finger at her--?and I know one thing: the people of Austin won't shell out for your fancy Eastern goods." "Now, that's not true, Pa," Clara protested. "Mrs. Scull shells out for them.
Besides, nearly all our goods are Eastern goods.
That's about the only place they make goods, seems like." "As for that woman, I consider her little better than a harlot," her father said. Most of the citizens of Austin looked up to George Forsythe; they had voted him mayor twice; but Inez Scull looked down on him, as she would on any tradesman, and she was quick to let him know it.
"Just hold off on the Philadelphia plates," her father told her, at the height of his fit, just before he walked out. "Plain plates and plain cutlery will serve around here just fine." The point of the brown stoneware, as Clara meant to tell him once he cooled down, was that it .was plain; and yet it was satisfying to look at and solid besides. Clara loved the look and feel of it; she believed her father to be wrong, in this instance.
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