A forgotten evil, p.15
A Forgotten Evil, page 15
Watching his captors, he learned their secrets—how to forage like the coyote, to eat all that could be caught or killed, to use all that was accessible, and so from the birds’ nests he pillaged eggs, or took molting chicks too young to fly, or roasted turtles in their shells. From wild mint he brewed tea, sweetening it with choke cherries, thickening it with scrapings from the buffalo hides.
He learned to crack the bones from old and abandoned buffalo carcasses, spooning out the life-giving marrow, or to strip away the lungs for roasting over his fire. Sometimes he covered the hides with earth, baking them in the embers, slipping off the fur as did the squaws, chewing the strips of hide until his jaws ached. Though tough, they gave him strength and, most of all, freedom from the whim of his enemies.
Once, in his enthusiasm for aged and tender meat, he ate the flesh of a deer that had sickened and died, its smell strong in the afternoon heat. Within hours his bowels roiled and by night’s end bled in protest to his indiscretion. But without a rifle, or even a bow to kill fresh meat, it was the best he could do, and he determined to do it no matter the cost.
It was on a hot summer morning that Little River kicked the bottom of Caleb’s foot, which stuck out of his lean-to.
“Woodcutter,” he said, “catch up the horse. There’s buffalo in the north. You are to come and bring your axe for cutting wood.”
They rode out as the sun rose hot in the morning, and the women gathered, watching in silence from the doors of their teepees. Caleb rode behind the warriors, his hobble hoisted, his axe across his lap. Confident now with his riding, his body attuned to every turn and shift of his horse, he kept a close trail between. Once, Little River looked back, nodding his approval, and he did not look back again.
When the sun struck high overhead, they stopped for a drink, a buffalo wallow of tepid and doubtful water. Unlike before, when the others were finished, Caleb drank too and was given a piece of pemmican before they rode on.
Temperatures swelled in the afternoon, the sun a torrid and seething cauldron. The horses, lathered in sweat, gasped for air in the heat, their heads lowered as they drove ever northward. Caleb’s ears seeped with sunburn, and his eyes crusted with dust from the trail.
At last they found water once more, and he drank with his horse from the creek, no more than a bog, alive with mosquito and larvae. He waited in the shade of a hackberry and rubbed at the weariness from the swing of the hobble. From all about him, locusts zinged in the heat, an invisible chorus, a crescendo and anthem from out of the sun. Caleb thought that in another time, peace would abound in this place, its quiet, its reach and exquisite solitude.
Dropping down from his horse, Little River too drank from the stream, pausing to check the horizon, always vigilant and cautious of his surroundings. He mounted and rode to the knoll to guard while the others rested. From under the shade of a tree, Caleb watched him, the red tails in his braid, his squared and powerful shoulders. There was about him the certainty of a man in his place, of freedom and pride in the lift of his chin.
When Little River signaled, the others mounted and drew their bows, their heads lowered as they rode up the knoll. Little River led the way into the cottonwood saplings that overlooked a ravine. Their horses danced with excitement, and Caleb knew that the hunt was on. Leading his horse, he drew up from behind, and below him was an ocean of buffalo. They filled the length of the canyon, and his heart raced at the sight.
Little River drew an arrow from his quiver and motioned for Caleb to move into the saplings. The others leaned forward into the necks of their horses and waited for the signal. Sweat ran into Caleb’s eyes, and he rubbed away the sting with his sleeve. A breeze swept in from the south, rippling the saplings overhead. Below, the buffalo quieted, lifting their heads into the wind, and all knew that the time had come.
When Little River dropped his hand, the warriors bolted from out of the trees. Full out they raced down the hill, bows drawn, horses reined with knees and intent. Like wolves they circled the herd, fanning wide to bring them in, yelping and yipping and baying at their prey.
The buffalo churned, their great heads lowered, an eddy of strength and courage and unpredictable rage. Dust boiled from their hooves, and the sun was bloody in the blistering sky. With arrows shanked, mortal in their bellies, they ran on, slobbering and bucking as they fell away from the herd.
Caleb watched from atop the knoll, the smell of dust, blood, and carnage rising from below. Little River mounted an attack from out of the east, driving hard into the heart of the herd, his mark an immense bull with knotted neck and bloodied ruff. Tail straight with fury, the bull circled his cows. Little River came about to separate him from the herd, the bull’s nose inches from the ground as he loped with immutable power, his nostrils flared, his head whipping from side to side.
Little River rode in full bore, speeding an arrow into the bull’s flank. Spinning about, the bull shook his head, trembling from the assault. Little River circled and nocked an arrow for another shot. With braids flying he drove in once more, leveling his site at the bull, but it was not to be, his horse faltering, its leg dropping into a prairie dog hole and spilling him onto the ground.
The bull whirled about and pawed dirt high over his back. Blood dripped from his flank, and his bellow rumbled above the din of the herd. So involved were the others in the hunt that they did not see Little River’s fall, nor could they hear his calls for help.
To ride into the fray had not been Caleb’s intent, not for Little River, or for the goodness of man, or for God Himself, as far as that, but that’s what he did, his hobble bouncing and clanking as his horse cut down the steep bank.
By the time he reached the bottom, the bull’s back was covered with dirt, and his black eyes flamed with a shriveling fury. From the dust, Little River stood, shaken and confused from his spill. Caleb kicked his horse into a gallop and rode into the territory between the bull and Little River, sliding off in a running skid. With hobble dragging, he whirled about to face his foe. A final time the bull sprayed dirt into the air, then lowered his colossal head.
Caleb froze when he charged, his stomach buckling with the folly of his decision and the enormity of the creature now thundering toward him. But he waited, held his ground, his tongue clenched and bleeding between his teeth. When at last he swung his axe, he did so with all the accuracy and strength of practiced years, planting the blade between the bull’s horns. The animal swayed like a grand tree, blood coursing from his nose, grunting in disbelief as he dropped in a plume of dust.
When Caleb looked up, the herd was gone, and Little River was at his side. The others, led by Red Nose, circled them on their horses, whooping and rejoicing at the success of their hunt, the enormity of the buffalo bull, and the bravery of the hunters.
“You saved my life,” Little River said.
Caleb, dragging his hobble behind, retrieved his axe from the skull of the great bull before catching up his horse.
“It was this danged Cheyenne horse ran away,” he said, pulling himself up on its back. “I’ll fetch wood now for the night’s fire.”
As evening fell, the catch was butchered, choice cuts wrapped in hides and secured to travois made from the cottonwood saplings. A fire was built, and the warriors ate under the orange of sunset.
Caleb prepared his bed of cottonwood leaves and rubbed down his horse with a handful of bark. Lying down, he waited for Little River to come, as he always did, to check the hobble in silence.
Overhead, leaves rustled in the wind, and the stars broke into the infinite blackness of the prairie sky. Soon the chant of warriors rose from the camp, a litany familiar now to Caleb’s ears. Next to his bed of leaves was his father’s axe, the handle stained from the blood of the bull. Often he touched it, its warmth and memories, and thought of things past, of how far he’d come, of things yet to be. Today it had served him well once more.
When Little River came, the night was late, and moonlight danced in the oiled leaves of the cottonwoods. Smoke from the dying campfire drifted in on the scrubbed night air.
“Woodcutter?” he said, lowering onto his knees.
Caleb lifted himself onto an elbow and pulled up his pant leg so that the hobble could be inspected.
“Too tired to run,” Caleb said.
“Take this,” Little River said, “and eat of it.”
“What is it?” Caleb asked, sitting up.
“The liver of the buffalo bull. You have earned the right.”
“Oh, I didn’t do nothing,” Caleb said, “and I ain’t much of a liver eater, what without onions to cover up the taste.”
“Eat it,” Little River said.
“Well,” Caleb said, taking the liver, “couldn’t be no worse than ripe deer meat, I reckon.”
Taking a bite of the liver, he chewed with uncertainty. It tasted of the bull, of its sum and smell, and of the prairie soil from which it came.
“It is in respect for the life of the bull,” Little River said.
“He was a piece of thundering lightning. I thought to choke before he was done.”
“Why did you save the life of your enemy?” Little River asked, his arms encircling his knees.
“No disrespect, Little River, but I didn’t set out to save no one’s life. That blame horse just ran off down the hill, and next thing I know I’m face-to-face with that runaway bull. I didn’t have no choice but to kill it before it killed me.”
“Here is a slice of the hump,” he said, “roasted to the white man’s taste.”
“Thanks,” Caleb said.
Little River reached into his pocket and retrieved the hobble key, turning it under the light of the moon, and unlocked the chain before slipping away into the darkness.
For the longest time, Caleb lay awake on his bed of leaves, listening to the coyotes scrabble in the ravine below. Like them, he was free, he supposed, to go now, to roam, or to hunt, or to leave at will, but also like them, he was hostage to his heart, now chained and hobbled by the power of this land.
Chapter 14
No one mentioned the hobbles again, and even though Caleb still searched for wood, it was without restraint or rules. With complete freedom, he came and went as he pleased from the Cheyenne camp. No longer did the squaws switch his legs, or bring their buffalo hides for scraping. No longer did they serve him thin soup or taunt him at his work. No longer did the men turn their backs or fall silent as he passed. He was tolerated in their company, the woodcutter, the white captive who lived in the lean-to, the cripple who killed the bull buffalo with his axe. Even though Caleb knew less fear, he was still a stranger among them, their silence of tolerance but never of acceptance.
It was Little River who changed in those days, coming to his lean-to, squatting at his door to talk of hunting, or to show his new medicine bag, or to share a fresh cut of meat. Caleb looked forward to his visits, his own loneliness appeased if but for a few minutes each time. They never talked of Caleb’s past, or of who he might have been, but instead of the day’s events, or of summer drought, or of the needs of the band.
When the hunting forays were short, Caleb was left in camp. It was during those times that he most learned the customs, watching the women at work, listening to their talk, taking note of their ways, and soon he knew the words, at least a few, and then more as the days and weeks passed.
The summer heat flared, the sun rising in cloudless skies. Under its glare, the earth gave way, and the grass shriveled to yellow straw. Springs dried, first to wallows, stinking and foul, then to dust-blown holes of sand and bone. Caleb sweltered in his lean-to through the breathless nights, the baked earth still hot from the searing days, and each morning he rose to face yet again the scorching sun.
As the heat mounted, the need for wood dwindled, so while the men hunted for antelope, or scoured the country for horses to steal, Caleb spent his days watching the work of the camp. He made his first bow during this time, shaping it from seasoned bois d’arc, sizing it small, as he’d seen them do, smoothing its belly with the blade of his axe, stringing it with rawhide.
Afterward, he made arrows of cedar, measuring them with the length of his arm. From old buffalo hooves, he boiled up his glue, attaching turkey feathers for guided flight. But it was the points that proved most difficult. Try as he may, they were either too heavy, or too dull, or in the end shattered in his hand. In frustration, he sharpened the shafts into points as the children had to do.
As the days of summer passed, he practiced his aim, shooting at leaves, or at sparrows in trees, or at targets of hide or bone. At first he could hit nothing, chasing his arrows in the heat until his body dripped with sweat and his head whirled with exhaustion. But over time, he learned the bow’s feel, its arch and flight, its strength and limited range. The day he killed his first rabbit, he danced in celebration with a hunter’s pride and took of its liver so tiny and raw.
No one paid his bow any mind, and he carried it about the camp without fear. It was Little River himself who took him to the canyon of flint, who showed him the pieces free from flaw, who taught him to knap with antler and hide. Soon his quiver bristled with all manner of points, and his game grew larger in both size and number.
It was on such a summer morning that Little River came to his lean-to.
“Woodcutter, get your bow and horse. There’s rumor of buffalo in the west. Their numbers and course must be scouted.”
As they rode from camp, the sun lifted into the sky, searing its way into the clear morning. Unlike the times before, the pace was unhurried, and they rode side by side as equals do. At noon they ate pemmican under the shade of a sprawling elm, drinking water from a tepid and gypsum-laden stream.
Leaning back, Little River placed his hands behind his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “If there are enough buffalo for a hunting party, we will return and tell the others,” he said. “The days are growing shorter. Soon, the people will move south where it is warmer, and the hunting is better during the winter.”
Caleb took a drink of water, wiped his chin, and checked the position of the sun. “What will you do with me, Little River?”
“You will go south with the people,” he said. “Black Kettle will join our band for the trip. There is plenty of wood on the Washita. It is a peaceful place and a quiet season. At night the moon fills the valley with silver. The horses grow weak without fodder in the winter, and the Cheyenne must wait for spring. It is enough to make it through the winter.”
Taking another drink from the steam, Caleb walked to the edge of the shade and looked out onto the prairie. Heat quivered from the sand, and the zing of locusts rose and fell about them. “Why does Black Kettle come to us, I wonder?”
“He is a Cheyenne chief, but his warriors are few. Joining together makes us safer in the journey south. Many of his band were killed at Sandcreek by Chivington. They say the valley still stinks of death, and that Black Kettle’s white flag still flies red with their blood.”
“I wonder if it will ever end, all of this?”
Untying his reins, Little River mounted his horse. “What is your name again, Woodcutter?”
“Caleb.”
“It will never end, Caleb,” he said.
That evening they camped in the sands of a dry streambed, building a small fire of flood drift and roots, eating the last of the pemmican. The night was warm, and they slept stripped to catch the rare breeze. Stars burst into the heavens above them, touchable shimmers of light, and an enormous moon bobbed into the night. Neither spoke in its majesty—the sound of words would corrupt its splendor, take of its moment and diminish it with the irrelevance of man.
The next morning they rose before dawn, riding hard into the prairie. When sunrise came, it was a scorching inferno in the morning stillness. Little River spotted the tracks, a herd moving up the valley floor. Soon the ground was spotted with dung and craters of fresh-pawed earth. The smell of the herd was strong on the wind, even to Caleb’s untrained nose.
At day’s end they spotted them feeding in the valley below. Their numbers stretched into the distance as they grazed and drifted against the setting sun. Dropping from his horse, Caleb lay on his stomach, watching the sight below.
Little River moved to the ridge to estimate their numbers. “Hundreds, even more,” he said.
“We should take them,” Caleb said.
“A Cheyenne does not hunt alone, not for amusement or glory, but for food for the people. We will go back and tell the others and plan the hunt.” Seeing the disappointment on Caleb’s face, he added, “If one should fall behind, we’ll have hump for our dinner. This is acceptable.”
Evening fell, and as the herd moved up the valley to bed, an old bull, sore-footed and slow with years, dropped behind. Disgruntled, he stopped and pawed great clouds of dust into the air and bellowed his contempt for all to hear. But there is no waiting on the prairie, not for man or beast, and soon the others rounded the corner out of sight.
“Ride down slow to keep his attention,” Little River said. “I’ll circle about to cut him back. When I give the signal, you ride in hard and place the arrow, here,” he said, pointing to a spot just behind the front leg.
“You want me to do this?”
“If it does not bring him down, circle about and come in again. As big as he is, it may take three arrows before he’s finished.”
As Caleb nocked his arrow, Little River hesitated. “Take care of the prairie dog holes,” he said, kicking his horse into a trot.
Caleb worked his way down the hill, and the bull lifted his head. With eyesight fading, he sniffed the wind, snorting at the smell of his enemy, pawing at the dirt, covering his back in a shower of dust, and Caleb rode on, his heart pounding with excitement and fear.
