Across the Endless River (8 page)
The land ahead changed gradually from a limitless expanse of dried grassland to a stretch of rolling hills with brush and low pine defining the edges of a valley. The river made a deep cut in the high, flat plain. It lay half a mile distant, below limestone bluffs and long stretches of rocky outcroppings. Stands of trees along the rim of the valley hid from their view the broad expanse of water and most of the opposite bank.
The bluffs descended to the water's edge a mile or so upstream, but in that direction, too, brush and trees blocked their view of the river. The Pawnees headed for the high ground to reconnoiter the herd from a vantage point that gave the best chance of remaining undetected. As they approached the trees, the strong smell of the animals reached them on the wind, different entirely from the scent of sage and sunbaked grasses that lightly perfumed the air.
They dismounted at the edge of the trees, hobbled all five horses with leather thongs, and went forward on foot, eager to see what lay below and beyond. They made their way deliberately through the remaining hundred yards of undergrowth to the edge of the escarpment. Now they heard the constant lowing of buffalo and felt the ground vibrate. Pushing through a final thicket of scrub oak, they stood side by side on a small rocky ledge at the top of a sheer cliff that descended a hundred feet to the water.
The opposite bank was covered with buffalo to the far horizon. The animals trailed down to the river through a wide break in the cliffs that followed a stream; the small valley broadened and flattened as it neared the water's edge. The landscape was alive with the shaggy brown bodies of bison. Several hundred stood in the water drinking while hundreds more rolled in the shallows of mud and reeds that flanked the tributary stream.
Up the valley and on the heights above, the terrain was dark with their forms; the contours of the land a mile away undulated with their movements. They looked like bees swarming on the distant hillside. Only the steepest hills and the sheer faces of distant buttes were not covered by the thousands of buffalo, and the trees that flanked the stream and parts of the river's edge looked like islands floating above the churning sea of dusty fur. On a sand bar upstream on the other side of the river, a small herd of elk, mostly cows, with a mammoth stag standing alongside, watched the buffalo as the hunters watched from above.
For the Indians there was game and, soon enough, there would be food. But for Paul the immense herd was an awesome spectacle. High, thin clouds brushed the deep blue overhead with white streaks, and on the far horizon fat, hazy columns of white, gray, and black presaged a storm.
They moved back slowly from the ledge to a small clearing. The two Pawnees and Baptiste conversed in sign language and Paul talked excitedly to Schlape in German, unaware of the mystical code of silence that descended when a herd had been sighted. Paul's chatter stood out against the utter quiet, and he realized that something was amiss. Schlape sensed the ire of the others and signaled to Paul with his eyes. Paul confronted the steely gaze of the older Pawnee, whose look held contempt, disbelief, and a magisterial authority that cut off Paul's talk like a bolt of lightning. He held Paul's stare for a soundless second, then turned and continued his exchange in signs, the three of them making occasional soft grunts of agreement that sounded more animal than human.
Baptiste explained in a voiceless whisper that they planned to ford the river a mile downwind of the buffalo, then join the hunters on that side of the herd. An hour later they were riding into a makeshift camp where twenty Pawnees were listening to a warrior who said only a few words and filled in the rest with gestures and grunts. Baptiste drew close to whisper an explanation. “The scouts have just come in. Their hunters are about to drive the herd toward us.”
The Pawnees jumped on their horses, bareback or with a flimsy hide girthed well forward, and seized the reins. Paul noticed that instead of bridles, cords of braided hair were lashed around the horses' lower jaws. Eagle feathers tied to their manes and tails fluttered in the light breeze. The hunters wore only loincloths and moccasins. Each held a bow in one hand and had a whip lashed to the other wrist and a quiver of arrows slung across his shoulders. Their excitement was growing. The first riders began to leave, heading up a nearby hill that separated them from the herd.
Schlape hissed at Baptiste, half in request, half in alarm. “I have no weapon. I had best wait here until you return.”
“You will come with us!” Baptiste replied. He was astonished at how completely Schlape misunderstood what was about to happen. “This draw may be full of stampeding buffalo in another ten minutes. Just stay close, hang on, and, no matter what happens, don't get off your horse!” Then he turned, waited for Paul and Schlape to follow the Indians, and fell in at the rear as the band set off at an easy run to the top of the rise.
They sat their horses side by side along the ridgeline, no longer concealing themselves. Paul beheld the beginning of a classic pincer movement, as pure as the map exercises he had studied in military school. From a range of hills directly opposite, about a mile distant, a dozen riders could be seen descending on the left flank of the herd. To the right, another group of hunters was riding toward the buffalo at a full gallop; the animals on that side of the herd had begun to turn and run toward the river to the left. As the herd turned and gained speed, some of the bulls began to gallop up the hill toward the line of motionless horsemen. The Pawnee warrior at the far end of the line raised his bow high, gave a piercing yell, and the riders descended at a full run into the immense basin filled with stampeding buffalo.
They forced the approaching bulls back down the hill and into the headlong race toward the river. In less than a minute, all was chaos. Paul was surrounded by running buffalo and the riders were lost to view in the walls of dust thrown up by their pounding hooves. The din was like a long explosion, the thunder of thousands of hooves punctuated by the bellowing of the bulls as they took flight. Several times Paul's horse shied away from buffalo that came too close, but it never faltered on the uneven terrain. The basin floor, which had looked smooth from above, was in fact pitted by an endless network of dry cracks and fissures that sometimes opened into larger holes, and Paul's mount instinctively avoided the dangers. As the herd thinned out and less dust hung in the air, Paul saw that most of the buffalo had run through ravines or breaks in the hills away from the river.
All around him lay the carcasses of freshly killed animals as whooping Pawnees continued to pursue smaller groups of buffalo, drawing close alongside and shooting arrows into their furry hides. Paul caught sight of Schlape, an indifferent rider, who grasped the leading edge of his small saddle with both hands as his piebald horse bounded forward. In an instant he was gone in a flurry of thick dust. The exhilaration of the first clash with the herd throbbed in Paul's veins and the impulse to continue the chase took over. Ahead he saw a Pawnee close in amid a band of buffalo that had veered down a dry wash, and he reined his horse sharply in pursuit.
The Pawnee hunter disappeared over the edge of a shallow ravine, and Paul galloped directly behind a dozen buffalo. His horse drew close to the trailing bull and dodged a jerk of its head and its dangerous curved horn. The buffalo's repeated attempts to gore the horse slowed it. Trusting the horse to maintain a safe distance, Paul grasped the reins in two fingers of his left hand, raised his twin-barreled rifle with his right, and sighted behind the point of the shoulder. He fired and saw the animal flinch as a trickle of blood appeared along its hump of muscle, but the beast continued to run at full speed. He pulled the trigger again, and this time the buffalo abruptly slowed and soon stopped.
Paul reined in his horse and stood off from where the wounded bull faced him, its tongue lolling out heavily, dripping saliva and blood onto its matted beard. From the frenzy of the chase the atmosphere was transformed into an eerie quiet, an intimacy between hunter and prey. Paul could hear the bull's labored breathing, their isolation accentuated by the distant cries of the others. Two or three times the buffalo turned its head, its glassy eyes staring dully, as if waiting for something. Paul felt for his belt and found his small revolver. He removed it as he started to coax his horse toward the bull. A close-range shot to the head would surely be an adequate
coup de grâce.
“Stop!” he heard Baptiste cry. He was descending the nearby rise at a gentle gallop. As he drew close, he explained. “Pistol shot won't do a thing to that animal except rile him up.” He walked his horse carefully to the other side of the bull. “Yearling bulls usually have a lot more fight left in them than you would think.” He loaded his rifle with a tamping iron that was slung around his neck, raised the barrel, and drew a bead behind the bull's shoulder blade, aiming to pierce its heart. He fired, and the bull shuddered, fell on its knees, then rolled heavily onto its side as blood poured from its mouth. Its outstretched legs shivered violently, and it was still.
In the excitement of the breakneck pursuit Paul had lost all notion of time or distance. As they made their way back to the river, he took in how much ground he had covered in the chase. They had traveled several miles. He and Baptiste came upon small groups of Indians skinning and butchering the dead animals. The air was thick with the drone of flies and yellow jackets as the hunters stacked pieces of bloody raw meat next to the carcasses. Paul watched the Indians work their knives quickly to separate flesh from bone, occasionally stopping to eat a choice morsel sliced from the innards.
They passed three Pawnees gathered around a massive bull in a small hollow. One of the hunters was a boy Paul judged to be no more than twelve years old. As he and Baptiste drew near, the boy shouted and laughed to his companions and reached into the gut of the buffalo with his knife. He withdrew a steaming mass of dark brown jellylike flesh and held it high above his head and twirled around in a little dance. Then the boy took a bite of the dripping viscera and his friends shouted their approval. Paul was astonished, but curiosity quickly overcame his surprise. Baptiste turned in his saddle to explain.
“It's his first buffalo. He's eating the liver to celebrate.”
The boy saw them watching and ran to where their horses stood, holding the liver up to Paul and nodding exuberantly as he offered his trophy. Baptiste said, “It's a great honor to taste his first kill.” Seeing Paul's eyes widen in disbelief at what was expected, he added, “Even a very small bite is enough to save him from insult.” Paul nodded slowly, breathed deeply, then leaned down to taste the boy's prize. He felt the warm ooze of liquid on his moustache and chin as he bit off a piece of liver and closed his mouth. He swallowed without breathing, tasting the bitterness of the buffalo's gut and his own bile rising. Baptiste also took a bite of the liver, bestowing signs of congratulation on the boy, who had become a man that day.
Vultures wheeled thickly above them as they continued toward the river. They encountered others collecting the spoils of the hunt. Women had appeared with packhorses and dogs fitted with travois poles to carry the meat back to camp. The groups laughed and shouted as they butchered the dead buffalo that lay all around.
Not far from the river, they found Schlape in the company of three Pawnee women. He was lying on a buffalo hide watching them remove the tendons of a cow, his face, hands, and shirtfront covered with blood. Paul leaped from his saddle and approached him anxiously, fearing a serious wound, but Schlape, guessing Paul's concern, shook his head and smiled wanly. The two men conversed briefly in German.
“He fell from his horse several miles from here,” Paul told Baptiste, “and these women found him and carried him here on their litter. He has only bruised his shoulder, but since he was very thirsty and far from water, they gave him the buffalo's blood to drink.” Baptiste nodded as if this were normal. Paul's hand, too, was stained with blood and his moustache soaked in it. In fact, everyone they passed bore the same markings.
We look like a pack of wolves,
he thought,
our muzzles
and paws soaked with the blood of our prey.
S
IX
D
ECEMBER 1823
B
aptiste gazed out over the gray expanse of the Mississippi Delta in the early-morning light and thought back to the beginning of the voyage. From his youngest days, he had been in and out of canoes on the Missouri and the Mississippi and on most of their tributary streams. Long river voyages were nothing new to him. Even the trip he and Paul made from St. Louis to New Orleans had not been so very different from what he had expected, though he had never before traveled by steamboat. The river was the river, and while it grew ever wider and more powerful as they headed south, its essential nature didn't change. Its waters roiled constantly in muddy turmoil, snags of bushes and branches sometimes blocked the entire width of the channel, sand bars could ground a boat suddenly in a place where deep water had flowed only days before, but the fundamental proposition was always the same: the current wanted to carry you downstream, and your efforts and calculations had to take into account the simple fact of the river's southward flow. He had been impressed by the way a river pilot could read its currents and moods in a glance, as if he were a hunter looking at a trail and assessing the recent passage of animals.