Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 782
“Uncle Jack, there’s a girl in this camp,” interrupted Ory, in tones of awe.
“We’ve got three women,” said Tom.
“Well, that’s a surprise to us,” returned Dunn. “I had no idea Hudnall would fetch his women folks down here into the buffalo country. I wonder if he . . . Tom, is there a buffalo-hunter with you, a man who knows the frontier?”
“Yes. Jude Pilchuck.”
“Did he stand for the women coming?”
“I guess he had no choice,” rejoined Tom.
“Humph! How long have you been on the river?”
“Two days.”
“Seen any other outfits?”
“No. But Pilchuck said there were a couple down the river.”
“Awhuh,” said Dunn, running a stubby, powerful hand through his beard. He seemed concerned. “You see, Doan, we’ve been in the buffalo country since last fall. And we’ve sure had it rough. Poor luck on our fall hunt. That was over on the Brazos. Kiowa Indians on the rampage. Our winter hunt we made on the line of Indian Territory. We didn’t know it was against the law to kill buffalo in the Territory. The officers took our hides. Then we’d got our spring hunt started fine — west of here forty miles or so. Had five hundred hides. And they were stolen.”
“You don’t say!” exclaimed Tom, astonished. “Who’d be so low down as to steal hides?”
“Who?” snorted Dunn, with fire in his small eyes. “We don’t know. The soldiers don’t know. They say the thieves are Indians. But I’m one who believes they are white.”
Tom immediately grasped the serious nature of this information. The difficulties and dangers of hide-hunting began to assume large proportions.
“Well, you must tell Hudnall and Pilchuck all about this,” he said.
Just then Sally called out sweetly, “Tom — oh, Tom — wouldn’t your visitors like a bite to eat?”
“Reckon they would, miss, thanks to you,” shouted Dunn, answering for himself. As for Ory Tacks, he appeared overcome, either by the immediate prospect of food, or by going into the presence of the beautiful young lady. Tom noted that he at once dropped his task of helping Dunn and bent eager energies to the improvement of his personal appearance. Dunn and Tom had seated themselves before Ory joined them, but when he did come he was manifestly bent on making a great impression.
“Miss Hudnall — my nephew, Ory Tacks,” announced Dunn, with quaint formality.
“What’s the name?” queried Sally, incredulously, as if she had not heard aright.
“Orville Tacks — at your service, Miss Hudnall,” replied the young man, elaborately. “I am much obliged to meet you.”
Sally took him in with keen, doubtful gaze, and evidently, when she could convince herself that he was not making fun at her expense, gravitated to a perception of easy conquest. Tom saw that this was a paramount issue with Sally. Probably later she might awake to a humorous appreciation of this young gentleman.
Tom soon left the newcomers to their camp tasks, and went about his own, which for the most part consisted of an alert watchfulness. Early in the afternoon the distant boom-boom of the big buffalo guns ceased to break the drowsy silence. The hours wore away. When, at time of sunset, Tom returned from his last survey of the plains, it was to find Hudnall and his hunter comrades in camp. Pilchuck was on the way back with a load of fifty-six hides. Just as twilight fell he called from the opposite bank that he would need help at the steep place. All hands pulled and hauled the wagon over the obstacle; and hard upon that incident came Mrs. Hudnall’s cheery call to supper.
Tom watched and listened with more than his usual attentiveness. Hudnall was radiant. This day’s work had been good. For a man of his tremendous strength and endurance the extreme of toil was no hindrance. He was like one that had found a gold mine. Burn Hudnall reflected his father’s spirit. Pilchuck ate in silence, not affected by their undisguised elation. Stronghurl would have been dense indeed, in the face of Sally’s overtures, not to sense a rival in Ory Tacks. This individual almost ate out of Sally’s hand. Dunn presented a rather gloomy front. Manifestly he had not yet told Hudnall of his misfortunes.
After supper it took the men two hours of labor to peg out the hides. All the available space in the grove was blanketed with buffalo skins, with narrow lanes between. Before this work was accomplished the women had gone to bed. At the camp fire which Tom replenished, Dunn recounted to Hudnall and Pilchuck the same news he had told Tom, except that he omitted comment on the presence of the women.
To Tom’s surprise, Hudnall took Dunn’s story lightly. He did not appear to grasp any serious menace, and he dismissed Dunn’s loss with brief words: “Hard luck! But you can make it up soon. Throw in with me. The more the merrier, an’ the stronger we’ll be.”
“How about your supplies?” queried Dunn.
“Plenty for two months. An’ we’ll be freightin’ out hides before that.”
“All right, Clark, I’ll throw in with your outfit huntin’ for myself, of course, an’ payin’ my share,” replied Dunn, slowly, as if the matter was weighty. “But I hope you don’t mind my talkin’ out straight about your women.”
“No, you can talk straight about anyone or anythin’ to me.”
“You want to send your women back or take them to Fort Elliott,” returned Dunn, brusquely.
“Dunn, I won’t do anythin’ of the kind,” retorted Hudnall, bluntly.
“Well, the soldiers will do it for you, if they happen to come along,” said Dunn, just as bluntly. “It’s your own business. I’m not trying to interfere in your affairs. But women don’t belong on such a huntin’ trip as this summer will see. My idea, talking straight, is that Mr. Pilchuck here should have warned you and made you leave the women back in the settlement.”
“Wal, I gave Hudnall a hunch all right, but he wouldn’t listen,” declared the scout.
“You didn’t give me any such damn thing,” shouted Hudnall angrily.
Then followed a hot argument that in Tom’s opinion ended in the conviction that Pilchuck had not told all he knew.
“Well, if that’s what, I reckon it doesn’t make any difference to me,” said Hudnall, finally. “I wanted wife an’ Sally with me. An’ if I was comin’ at all they were comin’ too. We’re huntin’ buffalo, yes, for a while — as long as there’s money in it. But what we’re huntin’ most is a farm.”
“Now, Hudnall, listen,” responded Dunn, curtly. “I’m not tryin’ to boss your outfit. After this I’ll have no more to say. . . . I’ve been six months at this hide-huntin’ an’ I know what I’m talkin’ about. The great massed herd of buffalo is south of here, on the Red River, along under the rim of the Staked Plain. You think this herd here is big. Say, this is a straggler bunch. There’s a thousand times as many buffalo down on the Red. . . . There’s where the most of the hide-hunters are and there the Comanches and Kiowas are on the war-path. I’ve met hunters who claim this main herd will reach here this spring, along in May. But I say that great herd will never again get this far north. If you want hide-huntin’ for big money, then you’ve got to pull stakes for the Red River.”
“By thunder! we’ll pull then,” boomed Hudnall.
“Reckon we’ve got some good huntin’ here, as long as this bunch hangs around the water,” interposed Pilchuck. “We’ve got it ‘most all to ourselves.”
“That’s sense,” said Dunn, conclusively. “I’ll be glad to stay. But when we do pull for the Staked Plain country you want to look for some wild times. There’ll be hell along the Red River this summer.”
In the swiftly flying days that succeeded Dunn’s joining Hudnall’s outfit Tom developed rapidly into a hunter and skinner of buffalo. He was never an expert shot with the heavy Sharps, but he made up in horsemanship and daring what he lacked as a marksman. If a man had nerve he did not need to be skillful with the rifle. It was as a skinner, however, that Tom excelled all of Hudnall’s men. Tom had been a wonderful husker of corn; he had been something of a blacksmith. His hands were large and powerful, and these qualifications, combined with deftness, bade fair to make him a record skinner.
The Hudnall outfit followed the other outfits, which they never caught up with, south along the stream in the rear of this herd of buffalo. Neither Dunn nor Pilchuck knew for certain that the stream flowed into the Red River, but as the days grew into weeks they inclined more and more to that opinion. If it was so, luck was merely with them. Slowly the herd gave way, running, when hunted, some miles to the south, and next day always grazing east to the river. The morning came, however, when the herd did not appear. Pilchuck rode thirty miles south without success. He was of the opinion, and Dunn agreed with him, that the buffalo had at last made for the Red River. So that night plan was made to abandon hunting for the present and to travel south in search of the main herd.
Tom took stock of his achievements, and was exceedingly amazed and exultant. How quickly it seemed that small figures augmented to larger ones!
He had hunted, in all, twenty-four days. Three hundred and sixty buffalo had fallen to his credit. But that was not all. It was the skinning which he was paid for, and he had skinned four hundred and eighty-two buffalo — an average of twenty a day. Hudnall owed him then one hundred forty-four dollars and sixty cents. Tom had cheerfully and gratefully worked on a farm for twenty dollars a month. This piling up of money was incredible. He was dazzled. Suppose he hunted and skinned buffalo for a whole year! The prospect quite overwhelmed him. Moreover, the camp life, the open wilderness, the hard riding and the thrill of the chase — these had worked on him insensibly, until before he realized it he was changed.
CHAPTER V
THERE WAS JUST daylight enough to discern objects when Milly Fayre peeped out of the wagon, hoping against hope that she would be able to wave a farewell to the young man, Tom Doan. She knew his name and the names of all the Hudnall party. For some reason her stepfather was immensely curious about other outfits, yet avoided all possible contact with them.
But no one in Hudnall’s camp appeared to be stirring. The obscurity of the gray dawn soon swallowed the grove of trees and the prairie schooners. Milly lay back in her bed in the bottom of the wagon and closed her eyes. Sleep would not come again. The rattle of wagon trappings, the roll of the crunching wheels, and the trotting clip-clop of hoofs not only prevented slumber, but also assured her that the dreaded journey down into the prairie had begun in reality.
This journey had only one pleasing prospect — and that was a hope, forlorn at best, of somewhere again seeing the tall, handsome stranger who had spoken so kindly to her and gazed at her with such thoughtful eyes.
Not that she hoped for anything beyond just seeing him! She would be grateful for that. Her stepfather would not permit any friendships, let alone acquaintances, with buffalo-hunters. Five weeks with this stepfather had taught her much, and she feared him. Last night his insulting speech before Tom Doan had created in Milly the nucleus of a revolt. She dared to imagine a time might come, in another year when she became of age, that would give her freedom.
The meeting with Tom Doan last night had occasioned, all in twelve hours, a change in Milly Fayre. His look had haunted her, and even in the kindly darkness it had power to bring the blood to her face. Then his words so full of fear and reproach— “I may never see you again!” — they had awakened Milly’s heart. No matter what had inspired them! Yet she could harbor no doubt of this fine-spoken, clear-eyed young man. He was earnest. He meant that not to see her again would cause him regret. What would it mean to her — never to see him again? She could not tell. But seeing him once had lightened her burden.
So in Milly Fayre there was born a dream. Hard work on a farm had been her portion — hard work in addition to the long journey to and from school. She did not remember her father, who had been one of the missing in the war. It had been a tragedy, when she was sixteen, for her mother to marry Randall Jett, and then live only a few months. Milly had no relatives. Boys and men had tormented her with their advances, and their importunities, like the life she had been forced to lead, had not brought any brightness. Relief indeed had been hers during those months when her stepfather had been absent hunting buffalo. But in March he had returned with another wife, a woman hard featured and coarse and unreasonably jealous of Milly. He had sold the little Missouri farm and brought his wife and Milly south, inflamed by his prospects of gaining riches in the buffalo fields.
From the start Milly had dreaded that journey. But she could not resist. She was in Randall Jett’s charge. Besides, she had nowhere to go; she knew nothing except the work that fell to the lot of a daughter of the farm. She had been apathetic, given to broodings and a growing tendency toward morbidness. All the days of that traveling southward had been alike, until there came the one on which her kindness to a horse had brought her face to face with Tom Doan. What was it that had made him different? Had the meeting been only last night?
The wagon rolled on down the uneven road, and the sudden lighting of the canvas indicated that the sun had risen. Milly heard the rattling of the harness on the horses. One of the wagons, that one driven by Jett, was close behind.
Movement and sound of travel became more bearable as Milly pondered over the difference one day had wrought. It was better that she was going on the road of the hide-hunters, for Tom Doan was one of them. Every thought augmented something vague and deep that baffled her. One moment she would dream of yesterday — that incident of casual meeting, suddenly to become one of strangely locked eyes — how all day she had watched Hudnall’s camp for sight of the tall young man — how she had listened to Jett’s gossip with his men about the other outfits — how thrilled she had been when she had met Tom Doan again. It had not been altogether fear of her stepfather that had made her run off from this outspoken, keen-eyed young man. She had been suddenly beset by unfamiliar emotions. The touch of his hands — his look — his speech! Milly felt again the uplift of her heart, the swell of breast, the tingling race of blood, the swift, vague, fearful thoughts.
The next moment Milly would try to drive away the sweet insidious musing, to ponder over her presence there in this rattling wagon, and what might be in store for her. There had been a break in the complexity of her situation. Something, a new spirit, seemed stirring in her. If she was glad of anything it was for the hours in which she could think. This canvas-topped wagon was her house of one room, and when she was inside, with the openings laced, she felt the solitude her soul needed. For one thing, Jett never objected to her seeking the privacy of her abode; and she now, with her new-born intuition, sensed that it was because he did not like to see the men watching her. Yet he watched her himself with his big hard blue eyes. Tom Doan’s eyes had not been like that. She could think of them and imagine them, so kindly piercing and appealing.
This drifting from conjectures and broodings into a vague sort of enchanting reverie was a novel experience for Milly. She resisted a while, then yielded to it. Happiness abided therein. She must cultivate such easy means of forgetting the actual.
Milly’s wagon lumbered on over the uneven road, and just when she imagined she could no longer stand the jolting and confinement, it halted.
She heard Jett’s gruff voice, the scrape of the brakes on the wagon behind, and then the unsnapping of harness buckles and the clinking thud of heavy cooking-ware thrown to the ground. Milly opened the canvas slit at the back of her wagon, and taking up the bag that contained her mirror, brush and comb, soap, towel, and other necessities, she spread the flaps of the door and stepped down to the ground.
Halt had been made at the edge of a clump of trees in a dry arroyo. It was hot, and Milly decided she would put on her sunbonnet as soon as she had washed her face and combed her hair.
“Mawin’, girl,” drawled a lazy voice. It came from the man, Catlee, who had driven her wagon. He was a swarthy fellow of perhaps forty years, rugged of build, garbed as a teamster, with a lined face that seemed a record of violent life. Yet Milly had not instinctively shrunk from him as from the others.
“Good morning, Mr. Catlee,” she responded. “Can I get some water?”
“Shore, miss. I’ll hev it for you in a jiffy,” he volunteered, and stepping up on the hub of a front wheel he rummaged under the seat, to fetch forth a basin. This he held under a keg that was wired to the side of the wagon.
“Dry camp, Catlee,” spoke up a gruff voice from behind. “Go easy on the water.”
“All right, boss, easy it is,” he replied, as he twisted a peg out of the keg. He winked at Milly and deliberately let the water pour out until the basin was full. This he set on a box in the shade of the wagon. “Thar you are, miss.”
Milly thanked him and proceeded leisurely about her ablutions. She knew there was a sharp eye upon her every move and was ready for the gruff voice when it called out: “Rustle, you Milly. Help here, an’ never mind your good looks!”
Milly minded them so little that she scarcely looked at herself in the mirror; and when Jett reminded her of them, which he was always doing, she wished that she was ugly. Presently, donning the sunbonnet, which served the double duty of shading her eyes from the hot glare and hiding her face, she turned to help at the camp-fire tasks.
Mrs. Jett, Milly’s stepmother, was on her knees before a panful of flour and water, which she was mixing into biscuit dough. The sun did not bother her, apparently, for she was bareheaded. She was a handsome woman, still young, dark, full faced, with regular features and an expression of sullenness.
Jett strode around the place, from wagon to fire, his hands quick and strong to perform two things at once. His eyes, too, with their hard blue light, roved everywhere. They were eyes of suspicion. This man was looking for untoward reactions in the people around him.
Everybody worked speedily, not with the good will of a camp party that was wholesome and happy, bent on an enterprise hopeful, even if dangerous, but as if dominated by a driving spirit. Very soon the meal was ready, and the men extended pan and cup for their portion, which was served by Mrs. Jett.
