Savage Country Read online

  The dim light from the new moon made the tent walls glow inside. She lighted a kerosene lantern that hung from a chain above David’s campaign desk, now her own. Inside the drawer was a chocolate she slipped into her pocket. She had so much work to do. Darby would soon leave for Fort Worth to conduct her business and to guide in the freighters. She’d have Michael for two more months and then she’d be on her own. She steeled herself. There was so much she needed to learn from him: how to read the land, sky, and water, the sun and the stars, men and animals. She needed to find the power inside herself to do this. She would be at the mercy of no one; she would be self-­reliant, self-­supporting, and live an autonomous life. She had no choice but to be strong.

  Chapter 17

  Elizabeth rose early to the smell of bread carried from the bake oven. The sunlight through the canvas was soft and warm, but soon it would be warmer and the prickly heat of the day would make itself felt. She looked forward to the day and dressed hurriedly in a flannel shirt and corduroy riding trousers tucked into riding boots, a hat with a red ribbon.

  Aubuchon was at the honey pail. A circular mass of waxy honey­comb was perched on top and oozing golden liquid through a square of muslin.

  “The land of milk and honey,” Elizabeth said with all delight as she lifted the cloth that covered the pail. There had to be fifteen pounds of honey inside. She dipped her finger into the honey and then into her mouth.

  “Where is Michael?” she asked.

  “He was in the saddle long before the sun rose. He rode west in search of the buffalo.”

  “We have lost the buffalo?”

  “He said they are on the wind.”

  It angered her how badly she took the news. She would be more patient. She would wait to hear what Michael had to say.

  “And what is for breakfast, old friend?”

  “For breakfast there are eggs and veal from the calf and the liver of its mother.”

  The horses grazed the dew that was on the grass in the peninsula. The sun grew stronger, burning off the little fog that was close to the water. The men came awake and they were still tired, unpleasant, and dissipated. They wandered to the cook tent and drained the coffeepot again and again. How tired they felt as they lay back in the stillness. Like the oxen in the pasture, they were exhausted with heat and work and felt feverish.

  In the afternoon when Michael returned, he had no news of the buffalo and yet did not seem concerned. He directed Charlie and John to each fetch a bar of lead from the burlap bags in the powder wagon to the fireside and he carefully placed them in a kettle he’d set over the flames. He erected a table and spread a canvas over its top. There was an array of tools required for long-­range shells. While the lead melted he named each tool and explained to the boys its purpose: wad cutter, bullet seater, shell reducer, and loading tube of nickel-­plated brass, bullet mold, a little hand brush. Elizabeth came by to watch over the process. The reverend doctor also joined them, carrying a pencil and paper and taking notes.

  The lead melted slowly and then all at once. Michael spread the handles of the hinged bullet mold and with a greased rag cleaned the cavities inside and clamped it shut. He placed it beside the kettle, letting the smoke run through the little funnels leading into each cavity. When the kettle began to bubble he ladled molten lead into the tiny funnels filling each cavity beneath.

  “Be careful,” he warned them. “It can burn you viciously.”

  The mold full, Michael thrust it into a bucket of water, where it hissed and the water foamed. He then spread the handles and the bullets spilled onto the canvas surface. Some needed a scrape or two with the file and some he threw back in the kettle. Each one he kept he rubbed its base with beeswax.

  They followed him to the powder wagon for a box of caps, brass shells, and a can of powder.

  “The shells will be good for fifty times,” he told them, “and after that they’ll be no good anymore.”

  From the box he thrust a cap into the shell and tamped it in place. He took the loading tube, explaining to them that the amount of powder must be precise so the bullet would not pass through the animal but concentrate its full power on entering the body, doing its work, and coming to rest against the far side of the interior where the skinners would reclaim the spent lead and they’d mold it all over again.

  “The shells fifty times,” he said, “but the lead forever.”

  He poured the powder an inch from the mouth of the shell. Over this he put a thin wad of drafting paper and then the bullet. With the bullet seater he pressed the bullet gently to the powder and the cartridge was complete. He told them they were his cartridge factory and he’d need 150 every day. Elizabeth and the reverend doctor were the most enthusiastic about loading shells. They worked alongside the boys, casting the lead and pouring in the powder.

  Michael left to feel out the country and locate the herd while the camp continued to build all around them. The men dug out the water trickling from the bank and formed a catch basin, where they built a curb of stone and inserted a barrel. Where the water cascaded from the barrel they set a long wooden sluice to catch the overflow and carry water into camp.

  Three days had gone by and the men were restless and some were angry and blameful. They’d come all this way and had yet to make any money. It’d been their habit to address Michael and not Elizabeth, as if he were the one employing them. She’d accepted this and not chafed, but now she was the one subjected to their asides and innuendos.

  When Elizabeth returned from her rounds she found the reverend doctor occupied with his notes. He was cutting a pencil and she did not want to disturb him, but he waved her near and she sat with him where they could see Michael and the boys beside the creek.

  “Why is it, dear friend,” she asked the reverend doctor after recounting the shift in her experience with the men.

  “Why not take it as proof that they knew all along this is your adventure?” he said.

  “Because I am a woman?” she said.

  “A remarkable woman,” he said.

  “You are easy company,” she said, patting the back of his hand. She reflected on their protracted journey to the buffalo fields. Not once had the reverend doctor been less than even-­tempered. However harsh the experience, he’d always had a kind word and maintained a spirit optimistic.

  AT DAYBREAK, BEFORE THE clearing away of the morning mist, it tasted like Africa, the red dust of Africa blown to America. Wherever the buffalo were, they’d be moving to water right now.

  The water was a trifle brown, but David believed there would be catfish and a species of bass. Michael would see what he could catch and later he’d take Sabi and reconnoiter the countryside and shoot some birds.

  Charlie and John joined him by the water. He removed from its cloth sleeve the elegant jointed rod and shining new reel that were David’s, as well as a leather wallet of artificial flies. He drew the silk through the nickel loops and selected a fly from the wallet. The casting began and soon he was placing the fly exactly where he wanted it. The morning was cool as he stood by the creek with the boys listening to the scrape, the murmur and plash of the water. Occasionally a snake or turtle would slide from a log into the creek.

  He let the fly float twenty or so yards downstream, where it stopped and the momentary illusion was of the fly making its way back to him against the current when suddenly it was struck. He set the hook, the rod bent double, and the reel began to run, the line cutting the water. He let line and took line and slowly he brought the fish into the shallows. Kicking off his moccasins, he waded into the creek up to his knees. It was a bass, jet black and sparkling in the light, three pounds or better. He gave the hook a quick flip and the fish came free and fell back into the water, where it floated before coming to life, twisting and finning away.

  John was the first to see the water was changing dirty and was to say so, but then Michael saw it too. The buffalo were crossing the creek upstream and breaking onto the western plain.

&n
bsp; He asked the boys if they were ready. He rushed to put on his boots and gather the rifles and cartridge belts and mount Khyber.

  “Tell the skinners,” Michael yelled, and he was off, with Elizabeth on Granby galloping behind.

  Chapter 18

  Upon crossing a low ridge, they beheld the whole country and it was black with buffalo and trailing wolves. Elizabeth could not help herself and gasped. She shaded her eyes from the bright sunlight and then she looked at them through the glasses. Never before had she seen so much wandering life and nothing broke the intense stillness of that first moment.

  It was so many it would have been impossible to count. They were rising from the creek and wandering at their leisure from grass to grass, the cloud shadows blotting out thousands and revealing thousands more when the clouds drifted on. Michael had never seen the like of it. Not in America when he was a boy, not in Africa, not in India, not anywhere a congregation of so many warm-­blooded creatures.

  They moved up from the water, and their thirsts slaked, they moved again onto their grazing.

  “My God, what a sight,” she said. “It seems more than the ocean. I did not know my eye could reach so far.”

  They picketed the horses and made their approach against the wind. The last fifty yards they moved on hands and knees and then Michael laid himself flat along the earth, and inch by inch crept to the outer edge of a hill overlooking a shallow little basin. Here, he found them again, a small herd, a hundred or more in a secluded fold of the land. The herd was slowly feeding north.

  He found the rising ground he wanted. He turned the glasses on them. By now they were a hundred yards from the creek and half of them were lying down. They were a mixed herd, bulls and cows, old and young. He held his breath as a wind snaked through the grass. The wind was theirs. He dug a small hole for his hip joint to rest in and lined it with a horse blanket, then planted the sharp end of his steel shooting stick in the earth. He stuffed cotton in his ears and passed the wadding to Elizabeth so she might also.

  Without taking his eyes off the animal before him, he asked that she also cover her ears with her hands. He waited until the buffalo he wanted turned his body for what would be the last time. He took aim, close behind the foreleg and a foot above the brisket. The mark shone brightly inside the scope.

  “Open your mouth and breathe a little,” he said, letting his own mouth to open.

  He took steady aim and fired. The bullet left the ringing steel. Just as in Africa, he was firing at the shoulder with a very heavy rifle. But instead of distances twenty or fifty yards, he lay on a ridge and fired at distances between one hundred and three hundred yards.

  The .50 shot high velocity, low trajectory, and long range with penetration and precision. By the time the ball stopped it’d shredded the buffalo’s lungs. The big bull he shot, tormented and mystified, blew and pawed at the ground, throwing clumps of red earth high in the air. The others raised their heads to sip the breeze and went back to their feed. Forming on the bull’s lips and nostrils was a mass of bloody foam.

  Elizabeth watched through the glasses. The bull shook his ponderous head. He seemed to settle himself a moment before rocking sideways and then slipping to his knees. He held that position and then keeled over, slowly at first and then with a rush to the ground. A cow walked over and sniffed at the dead bull. Michael raised the stock of the second rifle to his shoulder. He took one quick sight, fired again, and struck the cow deep in her massive lungs.

  “You should go now,” Michael said.

  “Don’t mind me,” she said, and on her knees she moved closer.

  He held out the cotton and indicated she should press more into her ears.

  “Just a few more,” she said. “I will go soon.”

  After what seemed the longest time Charlie and John heard the first percussion of the big .50-­caliber shocking the air. It was the sound of thunder over thunder. John pulled a string from his pocket, and after the boys counted ten such shots on their fingers, he tied a knot in the string. At five knots in the string Charlie would run down the slope to rouse the men to fetch the oxen, to yoke them and hook them to the wagons, to gather their knives and make sure the water barrels were full.

  Michael shot and he shot again, exchanging rifles every minute or so to let the barrels cool down. Thirty buffalo he killed in thirty minutes. It was not killing by hand, or even killing, but was like the harvesting of corn or wheat or the ripe vegetables in the garden. He showed Elizabeth how to cool the barrel by pouring canteen water down the muzzle and then levering open the breach block and letting the water run out. He showed her how to swab out the barrel with a greased rag in the eyelet of the wiping stick and then he commenced shooting again. He killed them until his head ached with the boom and his shoulder with the recoil and his body with the heat of the day.

  He stopped to look back at Khyber and Granby who stood quietly swishing the flies from their sides. When he finished there were 110 dead and dying, and the skinners would soon be specks in the distance coming onto the field followed by Aubuchon and the butcher boys. By nightfall they would be skinned and pegged. Tongues, saddles, loins, hearts, and harslets would be taken for smoking, brining, drying, pickling, and sausage, for grill or cauldron. Machinelike their grim work had begun and at day’s end they would return in darkness and in the firelight would be as if the workmen of the devil.

  For five days the boys climbed the bluff with their string. For five days Michael shot the buffalo and on the fifth day he secured a buffalo shot for shot. He fired 178 times and there were 178 dead. Hundreds of hides were already stretched, poisoned, and pegged to the ground.

  ON THE SIXTH DAY, from the low knoll he looked down at his kingdom of death. It was a windswept and solitary place. The ravens, the wolves, the coyotes, the skinners, the butchers—they waited as if they were paralyzed and had yet to recover from the sound of the rifles. The rest of the herd, grazing and ruminating, drifted west, the cloud shadows slowly going before.

  He wiped at the corner of his mouth with his thumb. His beard was dirty and his face caked with dust and black with powder. He’d begun his part in the great vanishing and he knew it. It was as if he was taking apart the world around him one life at a time.

  The seventh day he was on the buffalo again. He shot all that day, and when it was over, his nose was bleeding and he could not move for the cramps in his arms and legs. After the day’s killing came the lighting of a cigarette, sitting quietly, trying to find himself again. On the wind was the ferrous smell of blood. He held the cigarette in his teeth as he lit it. The red dog came in and sat nearby. One hundred eighty times he pulled the trigger and 168 buffalo fell down and died. His ears dinned with the damage of the ceaseless rifle fire and he could not hear his own voice. He thought about a bucket of hot water and Epsom salt to soak his feet, maybe a bath, clean socks.

  Through the glass he watched Aubuchon as he directed the skinners in the taking of the hides and the boys in the taking of saddles and loins, tongues, humps. He watched as each one of them recovered lead for Charlie and John to melt and cast again.

  “The Lord says don’t look back on your past because I have given you a new future,” he said to the red dog. “What do you think about that?”

  He breathed deeply as the cigarette stub smoldered between his lips. He thumbed away the shell on a hard-­boiled egg, and then another, and a third he offered to the red dog, which would not eat it in front of him.

  By then Michael had begun to dream of the buffalo. At first there were no buffalo and all was wrapped in darkness and then a roaring wind, strange and hollow, and a rock split and the buffalo poured from the mouth of this cave. They came bellowing, tramping, splashing, and snorting onto the vast rolling pastureland. There were thousands and thousands and thousands.

  Chapter 19

  One by one in the morning darkness Matthew woke his three brothers. Young as he was, from an early age he’d been his own master, and the three looked to him with res
pect, love, and affection.

  “The night is for sleeping,” Luke whined.

  “Get offa me,” John cried.

  “Who has my pants?” Mark said, and then, “Where are my shoes?”

  “You have big feet,” Luke said, tossing him one of his shoes.

  “Quit your dawdling,” Matthew said and then, “What is it, John?”

  “I feel lonesome,” the youngest boy said.

  “We are old travelers now,” Matthew said, gathering his littlest brother into his lap. John was quiet and pensive and favored by the other three, as if his goodness and purity were inborn.

  “Will you write to Mother soon?” John said. The boy held his collar and his white thumb in his mouth.

  “Yes. Maybe tonight. Before the freighters get here.”

  “Don’t forget to send her a lock of my hair.”

  “We have a good cause,” Matthew said, solemn thoughts coming to his mind as he considered their enterprise.

  “I guess I’ll see the thing through,” John said.

  “Good for you,” Matthew said as the boy began searching for his shoes.

  By the gray light they knew it would be daybreak in another hour. The air was sharp and warming.

  When they went to breakfast Aubuchon was at his kneading trough by a little fireside, preparing bread for the oven. He wore an apron, a red flannel shirt, and tow-­cloth trousers and was dusted white with wheat flour. Their coffee was already spluttering on the iron grate.

  “Hatching mischief?” he said, and gave Matthew a wink.

  They ate, hurriedly peeling their eggs and stuffing their mouths with buttered bread and ragged pieces of boudin nearly black with sun and smoke.

  “As-­tu écrit à ta chère maman?” Aubuchon said, placing his hands on Matthew’s shoulders, and then, “Have you written your dear mother?”

  “I will, sir.”