Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 780
“No. This is only a little bunch,” returned Pilchuck.
Mrs. Hudnall broke up the colloquy. “Are you all daffy about buffalo? Supper’s gettin’ cold.”
“Mary, you’ll be fryin’ buffalo steak for me to-morrow night,” rejoined her husband, gayly.
After supper Hudnall called the men aside for the purpose of consultation.
“Pilchuck an’ me are pardners on this deal,” he said. “We’ll pay thirty cents a hide. That means skinnin’, haulin’ the hide to camp, an’ peggin’ it out. No difference who kills the buffalo.”
“That’s more than you’ll get paid by most outfits,” added Pilchuck.
Stronghurl and Burn agreed on that figure; and as for Tom he frankly admitted he thought thirty cents a hide was big pay.
“Huh! Wait till you skin your first buffalo,” said the scout, grinning. “You’ll swear thirty dollars too little.”
“Well, my part of this deal is settled. I furnish supplies an’ pay for hides,” said Hudnall. “Jude here will boss the hunt.”
“Not much bossin’,” said that individual. “We’re a little farther south than I’ve hunted. I rode through here with some soldiers last fall, an’ know the country. This bunch of buffalo is hangin’ along the river. Reckon there’s buffalo for miles. They’ll hang around here, unless too many outfits get chasin’ them. A good way to hunt is to catch them comin’ to drink. Aim to hit behind the shoulder, an’ shoot till he drops. Sometimes it takes two or three bullets, an’ sometimes five on the old bulls. When you hunt out in the open you’ve got to ride like hell, chase them, an’ keep shootin’ till your cartridges are all gone.”
“That’s easy, an’ ought to be heaps of fun,” said Burn.
“Reckon so. An’ don’t forget it’s dangerous. Keep out of their reach. The real hard work comes in skinnin’ an’ peggin’ out. Before you get good enough at that to make three dollars a day, you’ll be sick of the job.”
“Three dollars!” echoed Burn, in scorn. “I expect to make five times that much.”
Tom had much the same aspiration, but he did not voice it. Pilchuck looked amused and mysterious enough to restrain undue enthusiasm.
“Finally — an’ this is a hunch you want to take serious,” went on Pilchuck, lowering his voice so the women could not hear. “We might run on to Indians.”
That sobered all the listeners.
“Last summer was bad an’ fall was worse,” he continued. “I don’t know now how conditions are or what the Indians are doin.’ Reckon somebody, hunters or soldiers, will happen along an’ tell us. My belief is there’ll be some tough fights this year. But, of course, the redskins can’t be everywhere, an’ these buffalo are thick an’ range far. We may be lucky an’ never see a Comanche. But we’ll have to keep our eyes peeled all the time an’ mustn’t get far apart. If we see or hear of Indians, we’ll move camp an’ stand guard at night.”
“Jude, that’s stranger talk than you’ve used yet,” responded Hudnall, in surprise and concern.
“Reckon so. I’m not worryin.’ I’m just tellin’ you. There’ll be a heap of hunters in here this summer. An’ like as not the soldiers will see what women there are safe to the fort or some well-protected freightin’ post.”
Tom thought of the dark-eyed girl, Milly. Almost he had forgotten. How long ago that meeting seemed! Where was she now? He convinced himself that Pilchuck’s assurance of the protection of soldiers applied to all the women who might be with the hunting bands.
No more was said about Indians. Interest reverted strongly to the proposed hunt to begin on the morrow. Tom fell in with the spirit of the hour and stayed up late round the camp fire, listening to the talk and joining in. Once their animated discussion was silenced by a mournful howl from the ridge-top where Tom had climbed to see the buffalo. It was a strange sound, deep and prolonged, like the bay of a hound on a deer scent, only infinitely wilder.
“What’s that?” asked somebody.
“Wolf,” replied Pilchuck. “Not a coyote, mind you, but a real old king of the plains. There’s a lot of wolves hang with the buffalo.”
The cry was not repeated then, but later, as Tom composed himself in his warm blankets, it pealed out again, wonderfully breaking the stillness. How hungry and full of loneliness! It made Tom shiver. It seemed a herald of wilderness.
Tom was the first to arise next morning, and this time it was the ring of his ax and the crash of wood thrown into the camp-fire circle that roused the others. When Stronghurl sallied forth to find the horses, daylight had broken clear; and by the time breakfast was ready the sun was up.
Pilchuck, returning from the ridge-top, reported that buffalo were in sight, all along the river, as far as he could see. They were a goodly distance out on the plain and were not yet working in for a drink.
“I’ll take my turn hangin’ round camp,” said Hudnall, plainly with an effort! “There’s a lot to do, an’ some one must see after the women folks.”
“It’d be a good idea for you to climb the ridge every two hours or so an’ take a look,” replied Pilchuck, casually. But his glance at Hudnall was not casual. “I’ll leave my telescope for you. Don’t miss anythin’.”
The men saddled their horses and donned the heavy cartridge belts. They also carried extra cartridges in their pockets. Tom felt weighted down as if by a thousand pounds. He had neglected to buy a saddle sheath for his gun, and therefore would have to carry it in his hand — an awkward task while riding.
They rode behind Pilchuck down the river, and forded it at a shallow sand-barred place, over which the horses had to go at brisk gait to avoid miring.
“How’re we ever goin’ to get the wagons across?” queried Burn Hudnall.
“Reckon we’ve no choice,” replied Pilchuck. “The hides have to be hauled to camp. You see the actual chasin’ an’ killin’ of buffalo doesn’t take much time. Then the real work begins. We’ll have all the rest of the day — an’ night, to skin, haul to camp, an’ peg out.”
This side of the river bank was more wooded and less precipitous than the other. Buffalo tracks were as thick as cattle tracks round a water-hole. The riders halted at the top of the slope where the level plain began. Out on the grassy expanse, perhaps a mile or more, extended a shaggy dark line like a wall.
“Reckon there’s your buffalo,” said the scout. “Now we’ll scatter an’ wait under cover for an hour or so. Hide in the brush or behind a bank, anywhere till some come close. Then burn powder! An’ don’t quit the buffalo you shoot at till he’s down. When they run off, chase them, an’ shoot from your horses. The chase won’t last long, for the buffalo will run away from you.”
Pilchuck stationed Tom at this point, and rode on down the edge of the plain with the other men. They passed out of sight. In that direction Tom could not see far, owing to rising ground. To the southwest, however, the herd extended until it was impossible to distinguish between vague black streaks of buffalo and dim distance.
“Pilchuck said this was only a little bunch!” soliloquized Tom, as he scanned the plain-wide band of beasts.
Dismounting, he held his horse and stood at the edge of the timber, watching and listening. It was a wonderfully satisfying moment. He tried to be calm, but that was impossible. He recognized what had always been deep in him — the love of adventure and freedom — the passion to seek these in unknown places. Here, then, he stood at his post above the bank of a timber-bordered river in the Panhandle of Texas with a herd of buffalo in sight. He saw coyotes, too, and a larger beast, gray in color, that he was sure was a wolf. Hawks and buzzards sailed against the blue sky. Down through the trees, near the river, he espied a flock of wild turkeys. Then, in connection with all he saw, and the keenness of the morning which he felt, he remembered the scout’s caution about Indians. Tom thought that he ought to be worried, even frightened, but he was neither. This moment was the most mysteriously full and satisfying of his life.
Opposite his point the buffalo did not approach more closely; he observed, however, that to the eastward they appeared to be encroaching upon the river brakes.
Suddenly then he was thrilled by gun-shots. Boom! Boom! . . . Boom-boom! His comrades had opened the hunt.
“What’ll I do now?” he mused, gazing down the river, then out toward the herd. It presented no change that he could distinguish. “I was told to stay here. But with shooting begun, I don’t think any buffalo will come now.”
Soon after that a gun roared out much closer, indeed, just over the rise of plain below Tom.
“That’s a big fifty!” he ejaculated, aloud.
Far beyond, perhaps two miles distant, sounded a report of a Sharps, low but clear on the still morning air. Another and another! Tom began to tingle with anticipation. Most likely his comrades would chase the buffalo his way. Next he heard a shot apparently between the one that had sounded close and the one far away. So all three of his fellow hunters had gotten into action. Tom grew restive. Peering out at the herd, he discovered it was moving. A low trample of many hoofs assailed his ears. Dust partially obscured the buffalo. They appeared to be running back into the gray expanse. Suddenly Tom became aware of heavy and continuous booming of guns — close, medium, and far-away reports mingling. As he listened it dawned on him that all the reports were diminishing in sound. His comrades were chasing the buffalo and getting farther away. After a while he heard no more. Also the dust-shrouded buffalo opposite his position had disappeared. His disappointment was keen.
Presently a horseman appeared on the crest of the ridge that had hidden the chase from him. The white horse was Pilchuck’s. Tom saw the rider wave his hat, and taking the action as a signal he mounted and rode at a gallop to the ridge, striking its summit some few hundred yards to the right. Here he had unobstructed view. Wide gray-green barren rolling plain, hazy with dust! The herd of buffalo was not in sight. Tom rode on to meet Pilchuck.
“Tough luck for you,” said the scout. “They were workin’ in to the river below here.”
“Did you kill any?” queried Tom, eagerly.
“I downed twenty-one,” replied Pilchuck. “An’ as I was ridin’ back I met Stronghurl. He was cussin’ because he’d only got five. An’ Burn burned a lot of powder. But so far as I could see he got only one.”
“No!” ejaculated Tom. “Why, he was sure of dozens.”
“Reckon he knows more now,” returned Pilchuck. “You ride down there an’ see how many you can skin. I’ll go back to camp, hitch up a wagon, an’ try to come back across the river.”
The scout rode away, and Tom, turning his horse eastward, took to a trot down the immense gradual slope. After searching the plain he espied a horse grazing, and then a dark shaggy mound which manifestly was a slain buffalo. Tom spurred his horse, rapidly covering the distance between. Soon he saw Burn at work skinning the buffalo.
“Good for you!” shouted Tom, as he galloped up.
“Helluva job — this skinnin’!” yelled Burn, flashing a red and sweaty face toward Tom. “Hey! Look out!”
But his warning came too late. Tom’s horse snorted furiously, as if expelling a new and hateful scent, and, rearing high, he came down and plunged so violently that Tom flew one way and his gun another.
Tom landed hard and rooted his face in the grass. The shock stunned him for a second. Then he sat up and found himself unhurt. The surprise, the complete victory of the horse, and the humiliation of being made to root the ground like a pig stirred Tom to some heat.
“Hope you ain’t hurt?” sailed Burn, anxiously, rising from his work.
“No, but I’m mad,” replied Tom.
Whereupon Burn fell back and rolled over in the grass, roaring with mirth. Tom paid no attention to his comrade. Dusty had run off a hundred or more paces, and was now walking, head to one side, dragging his bridle. Tom yelled to stop him. Dusty kept on. Whereupon Tom broke into a run and caught him.
“You’re a fine horse,” panted Tom, as he mounted. “Now you’ll — go back — and rub your nose — on that buffalo.”
Dusty appeared placable enough, and trotted back readily until once again close to the buffalo. Tom spurred him on and called forcibly to him. Dusty grew excited as he came nearer. Still he did not show any ugliness.
“Don’t hurry him,” remonstrated Burn. “He’s just scared.”
But Tom, not yet cooled in temper, meant that Dusty should go right up to the buffalo. This he forced the horse to do. Then suddenly Dusty flashed down his head and seemed to propel himself with incredible violence high into the air. He came down on stiff legs. The shock was so severe that Tom shot out of the saddle. He came down back of the cantle. Desperately he clung to the pommel, and as Dusty pitched high again, his hold broke and he spun round like a top on the rump of the horse and slid off. Dusty ceased his pitching and backed away from the dead buffalo.
Only Tom’s feelings were hurt. Burn Hudnall’s “Haw! haw! haw!” rolled out in great volume. Tom sat where he had been dumped, and gazing at the horse, he gradually induced a state of mind bordering upon appreciation of how Dusty must have felt. Presently Burn got up, and catching Dusty, led him slowly and gently, talking soothingly the while, nearer to the buffalo, and held him there.
“He’s all right now,” said Burn.
Tom rose and went back to the horse and patted him.
“You bucked me off, didn’t you?”
“Tom, if I were you I’d get off an’ lead him up to the dead buffalo till he gets over his scare,” suggested Burn.
“I will,” replied Tom, and then he gazed down at the shaggy carcass on the ground. “Phew! the size of him!”
“Looks big as a woolly elephant, doesn’t he? Big bull,” Pilchuck said. “He’s the only one I got, an’ sure he took a lot of shootin’. You see the buffalo was runnin’ an’ I couldn’t seem to hit one of them. Finally I plunked this bull. An’ he kept on runnin’ till I filled him full of lead.”
“Where are those Pilchuck got?” queried Tom, anxious to go to work.
“First one’s lyin’ about a quarter — there, to the left a little. You go tackle skinnin’ him. It’s an old bull like this. An’ if you get his skin off to-day I’ll eat it.”
“I’ve skinned lots of cattle — steers and bulls,” replied Tom. “It wasn’t hard work. Why should this be?”
“Man, they’re buffalo, an’ their skin’s an inch thick, tougher than sole leather — an’ stick! Why it’s riveted on an’ clinched.”
“Must be some knack about the job, then,” rejoined Tom, mounting Dusty. “Say, I nearly forgot my gun. Hand it up, will you? . . . Burn, I’ll bet you I skin ten buffalo before dark and peg them out, as Pilchuck called it, before I go to bed.”
“I’ll take you up,” said Burn, with a grim laugh. “I just wish I had time to watch you. It’d be a circus. But I’ll be ridin’ by you presently.”
“All right. I’m off to win that bet,” replied Tom, in cheery determination, and touching Dusty with the spurs he rode rapidly toward the next fallen buffalo.
CHAPTER IV
DUSTY EVINCED LESS fear of the second prostrate buffalo, which was even a larger bull than the huge tough old animal Burn was engaged in skinning.
This time Tom did not take any needless risks with Dusty. Riding to within fifty feet of the dead beast, he dismounted, led the nervous horse closer, and round and round, and finally up to it. Dusty behaved very well, considering his first performance; left to himself, however, he edged away to a considerable distance and began to graze.
Tom lost no time in getting to work. He laid his gun near at hand, and divesting himself of his coat he took ripping and skinning knives from his belt. Determination was strong in him. He anticipated an arduous and perplexing job, yet felt fully capable of accomplishing it and winning his bet with Burn. This buffalo was a monster; he was old and the burrs and matted hair appeared a foot deep at his forequarters; he was almost black.
First Tom attempted to turn the beast over into a more favorable position for skinning. He found, however, that he could scarcely budge the enormous bulk. That was a surprise. There appeared nothing to do but go to work as best he could, and wait for help to move the animal. Forthwith he grasped his ripping knife and proceeded to try following instructions given him. It took three attempts to get the knife under the skin and when he essayed to rip he found that a good deal of strength was required. He had calculated that he must expend considerable energy to make any speed, until practice had rendered him proficient. The considerable energy grew into the utmost he could put forth. After the ripping came the skinning, and in very short time he appreciated all Burn had said. “Helluva job is right!” Tom commented, remembering his comrade’s words. But he did not spare himself, and by tremendous exertions he had the buffalo skinned before Burn finished his. Tom could not vouch for the merit of the job, but the skin was off. He could vouch, however, for his breathlessness and the hot sweat that bathed his body. Plowing corn or pitching wheat, jobs he had imagined were hard work, paled into insignificance.
“Say — wonder what pegging out the hide — will be like,” he panted, as he sheathed his knives and picked up his gun. Mounting Dusty he rode eastward, scanning the plain for the next dead buffalo.
Presently he espied it, and galloping thither he found it to be another bull, smaller and younger than the others, and he set to work with renewed zeal. He would have to work like a beaver to win that bet. It took violence to make a quick job of this one. That done, Tom rode on to the third.
While he was laboring here Burn rode by and paid him a hearty compliment, which acted upon Tom like a spur. He could not put forth any greater zeal; indeed, he would do wonders if he kept to the pace he had set himself. But as he progressed he learned. This advantage, however, was offset by the gradual dulling of his knives. He had forgotten to bring his steel.
He toiled from one dead buffalo to another. The breeze died away, the sun climbed high and blazed down upon the plain. His greatest need was water to drink. Hour by hour his thirst augmented. His shirt was so wet with perspiration that he could have wrung it out. The heat did not bother him so much. Gradually his clothes became covered with a lather of sweat, blood, grease, and dust. This, and the growing pangs in his body, especially hands and forearms, occasioned him extreme annoyance. He did not note the passing of time. Only now and then did he scan the plain for sign of his comrades. Indians he had completely forgotten. Burn and Stronghurl were to be seen at intervals, and Pilchuck, driving the wagon, was with them. Once from a high knoll Tom thought he espied another wagon miles down the river, but he could not be sure. He did, however, make out a dim black blur to the southward, and this he decided was the buffalo herd, ranging back toward the river.
