Chapter 31

Miller Pine had brought with him a half dozen novels as well as a sheaf of plays, some of which he had performed, some in which he had hoped to appear. He let me have these to read, and I went through them quickly, fascinated and amused.

Anna Cora Mowatt’s Fashion; or life in New York was the first, followed by The Black Crook, by Barras. Then The Octoroon, by Don Boucicault, and Rip Van Winkle, as played by Joseph Jefferson.

The days were bitter cold, there were frequent storms, and I found myself going again and again into the woods to haul fuel for the town. It was a task that needed all our efforts.

There was no travel. The stage ceased to run, the roads and trails were deep in snow, but there was constant fear of the spring. The Sioux were increasingly restless, we heard, and with spring there was certain to be trouble.  Several times I had gone to Sampson’s loft to look at the printing press. Drake Morrell had worked as a printer’s devil, or sort of errand boy and assistant to a printer, and explained much about it.

Occasionally I visited the Indians in their dugout near Ethan’s, listening to their stories, talking of hunts and legends and stories of the past.  Often in the evening we would gather at Ruth’s or Cain’s, talking politics, planning for the day when Wyoming would be a state, and of course there was much talk, and some joking about women’s rights. Most of us were in favor of women voting, and in our own private elections they’d been doing it all along.  As marshal there was little to do. The bad ones had holed up for the winter, and ours was a peaceful people, too busy keeping ourselves warm and supplied with meat and fuel to create trouble.

When the storm broke, Ethan, Bud Macken, and I saddled up.  Ethan and I rode up to Ruth Macken’s before daylight, but she was an early riser always and had coffee on and breakfast making. “Sit down, you two ... and thanks for asking Bud. He’s been wanting to go.”

“We’re going to scout back of Beaver Rim and maybe up the canyon. Maybe we can scare up a deer or an elk.”

“By the way, Mr. Trask told me you could buy paper in Salt Lake ... for your printing press.”

That made it almost too easy. The trouble was, there was no way a man could make a living with a printing press in our town, even if he could sell some papers to the other settlements that were filling in along the creeks.  “There aren’t enough people,” I said, “but I’ve given it some thought.” “I am not sure, Ben. It isn’t the deserted place it was. There have been some new miners moving in on Hermit Creek. They moved into those abandoned cabins over there and are getting ready for spring. There’s some others on Willow Creek.”

It was something to consider. Riding around over the country, I’d noticed a couple of small communities had sprung up, at least one of them abandoned shortly after the first snowfall.

“Ben,” Bud interrupted, “there’s a paper published over at Fort Bridger now.

Called the Sweetwater Mines. Mr. Trask left a copy last time he was through.” The three of us started for the hills. It was a quiet, sunny morning. The snow was not deep on the level, and as always the folks in town were short of meat.  The game had left the low country because of the people around, so we headed up the valley.

The Wind River Range was magnificent, covered with snow, only here and there a sheer face of rock showing black and bare against the whiteness. We saw rabbit tracks aplenty, but a man can starve to death eating rabbits ... there just isn’t enough nourishment in their meat ... and we were hunting bigger game, hoping for an elk or two ... if we were lucky a buffalo, although there were few of those around at any time.

We hadn’t gone far when we saw two riders approaching. We pulled up and waited for them. It was Uruwishi and Short Bull.

“You hunt for meat?” Uruwishi asked.

“Yes, and you?” “Also,” Short Bull said.

“Ride with us,” I suggested. “I would learn from the wisdom of Uruwishi.” We rode in silence for some distance, riding single file and weaving our way through the pines toward the higher country. Around us was the stillness of winter, with no sound but that of our own movements, the creak of leather, the occasional sound of metal, the hoof fells of the horses.  When we stopped again to let our horses rest, Uruwishi gestured toward the Big Horns, which lay off to the east. “Many days’ journey to the north there is a place, a place to see. It is a stone wheel... a Medicine Wheel.” “A wheel?”

“Many days. It is high ... a high, far place where a man can look all around.

The Wheel is of stones.” “Standing up?” I was incredulous.  “On the ground. Many stones maybe so high” — he showed his hands two to three feet apart, moving them slightly as he spoke — “and many spokes.” “Who built it?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? The People Who Came Before It Was Light... maybe the Little People. They were there.”

“Have you been there?”

“Once ... when I was a papoose. My father prayed there, to the Great Spirit.” He turned his horse slightly. “I think it fa a Medicine Wheel ... I think it is big medicine. I think many moons, many lifetimes ago people came there to pray, to sit in thought upon the grass around the Wheel.  “On some of the ridges there are stone arrows that point the way.”

“You say it was built long ago?”

“Long, long ago ... it was built when the animals with long noses and long teeth were hunted. Men carved their bones then, and scratched upon them to count the moons, and to remember ttie planting times.”

“Animals with long noses?”

“Bigger than buffalo ... long hair. Noses they curled back when they charged.  The people who lived before my people hunted them with spears, drove them into swamps, and stoned them for their meat.”

“Do many Indians come to the Medicine Wheel? From many tribes?”

“They come.”

“Why?”

“There is magic there. Nobody knows why ... only that it is there. The Cheyenne know ... they built their medicine lodges like the Wheel.” “Will you take me there, Uruwishi?”

The old Indian was silent. Then he said, “I am old, and it is a long way, yet I should like to see it again before I die. If the Great Spirit has not come for me when the snow is gone, I will ride with you.” “He is too old for that,” grumbled Short Bull. “He will die there.” Uruwishi shrugged. “Then I shall die ... who is it who lives forever? My days are finished ... long ago I believed I was to die, and I sang my song of dead, and then this white man came and he did not say, “Sit by the fire, Old One.’ He said, “Come ride with me.’ And I felt young again. What there is of my life is his, for he has given it to me. Where should I die? Seated by the fire? I who killed the great bear? Who hunted the bufialo and the wolf? Who drove the Blackfeet into their canyons? Am I to sit like an old squaw and wait for death?  I am a warrior! I am a chieftain!

“When I swung my club, men fled! When I took up my bow the bears trembled!” He glanced sidewise at me, his old eyes twinkling. “These young ones! What do they know?”

“We will ride then, Old One. We will ride when the snow is gone!” Higher we rode, skirting a canyon wall. Down below the water rushed, its banks edged with ice. We saw, suddenly, the tracks of elk ... a half dozen or more.  Uruwishi rode ahead, following the trail.

Snow tumbled from the heavily laden branches of the spruce. We rode single file again, trusting only the well-marked way. I was close behind Uruwishi. Suddenly we saw them. The elk were moving slowly across a clearing several hundred yards ahead and at least three hundred feet lower. It was a temptation to shoot, but the distance was hard to judge due to the snow and the lower level at which they moved.

Yet the wind was from them toward us, and they seemed to have no idea they were followed. We moved on, slowly, watching them into the timber on the far side.  Minutes later, we were crossing the same snow.

Suddenly Uruwishi drew up, pointing at a limb where the snow had been brushed away. “Lion!” he said.

Evidendy the lion had stretched on the limb, awaiting the elk, then the elk had passed too far away from him and now, judging by his tracks, he was stalking the elk.

Watching as we rode, we saw the lion’s tracks stretching away before us, sometimes parallel to the elk trail, sometimes following right up the elk tracks.

On a slope where the snow had slid away toward the canyon’s bottom, we saw the elk feeding. The cat was nowhere to be seen. “Big one,” Short Bull said.  Bud Macken rode up beside me. “Can I have a shot?”

“We don’t want him, Bud. We want elk meat.”

“You told me yourself it was good meat,” Bud protested. “Stacy Follett said it was the best ever, and Ethan likes it.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but there isn’t enough. We need a couple of eft ... at least.” We edged along closer, the wind remaining the same. Still we saw nothing of the lion. It was unlikely he would attack a human, although when hungry they had been known to attack men, women, and often children. Our fear now was that the lion might frighten the elk before we were in position for a shot.  We had no animosity for the lion. He was hunting meat the same as we were, and usually predatory animals killed only the easy ones, the weak, the aged, and sometimes the young. The only thing was, we didn’t want him to scare off the elk.

Ethan and I got down from our horses, and Short Bull did likewise. “Bud, you stick with Uruwishi. You’ll get your chance.”

“Aw, Ben! I figured ...”

“Bud, we need meat. This hunt isn’t for sport. All of us back there need meat if we’re going to last the winter. After we get a couple of elk, you’ll have your chance.”

“Ben ...” he protested.

“No,” I said flatly. “You stick with the Old One. Listen to his wisdom. I’ve learned from him, and you can.”

“All right,” he said grudgingly, and took the reins we handed him. I knew how he felt, but we dare not risk missing a shot.

We had brought snowshoes, and now we put them on and moved out, taking our time.  The elk had found a good place to feed and were unlikely to move unless frightened. Later, if unmolested, they would go to places where they could rest and wait out the day.

It was a slow business, and the air was cold. We moved with extreme care, working our way nearer and nearer. Short Bull was like a ghost. “We should have brought the Old One,” he whispered once, “He can charm them to be still.” Finally I found the spot that I wanted. A clear field of fire, just over a hundred and fifty yards, and no branches in the way. There was a projecting limb that would serve as a rest, at just the right height.  “This is for me,” I whispered. “I want the bull with the big rack of horns, and if I get a second shot, I’ll take that one feeding by itself over there.” They agreed and moved on. A minute or two later, I saw Ethan stop. Short Bull was working closer and closer. I found a good spot for my feet and settled them in place, taking a sight on the big bull, relaxing and checking again.  Glancing over at Ethan, he lifted a hand to indicate his readiness. Short Bull had vanished, then suddenly he appeared, not more than seventy yards from the elk.

One elk had lifted her head... suddenly wary. I could see it in the poise of her head, the flicking of her ears. She was not just listening, not just testing the wind, she was suspicious.

I took my sight, trying for a neck shot, relaxed a bit, and eased out my breath tightening my finger ever so gently. The rifle leaped in my hands, and the bull took a magnificent leap forward. I knew I bad scored a hit, and turning swiftly I caught the second one in a blur of action as it leaped, but I had thought of the swing, timed it in my mind, and the finger pressure was just right as I came on target.

The echoes of my shots were lost in the boom of Ethan’s big .50 and the hard spang from that of Short Bull.

My big bull was down and threshing in the snow. The second one had vanished into the brush. Both Ethan and Short Bull had scored. There would be meat in our lodges tonight.

We went down through the snow to recover our meat. I glanced where the elk had stood at which I had fired my second shot. There was blood on the snow. Red blood ... it looked like a lung shot. Well, I’d been holding higher.  “I’m going after the other one, Ethan,” I told him. “I scored on him.” Bud had ridden up, leading our horses. “He may run a long way. Do you have to go after him?”

“We need meat, Bud,” I said, “but we want clean kills. I’ll not have an animal suffering out there in the snow.”

He knew, but he wanted to hear me say it. That’s one way of learning, to have things repeated, but it settled the idea in his mind. He had asked me questions like that before, and in my time, I had asked them of Cain ... and of Ethan, for that matter. Yet it was Uruwishi with whom I really wished to spend time.  I went off, moving at a swinging trot, following the trail. The elk had been a young one, but strong. I’d known them to run a mile or more with such a shot, but after seeing a few more drops of blood I was sure this one would not go so far.

In the excitement of the chase I had forgotten all else. I had forgotten my friends for the moment, and I had forgotten the lion. The trail was downhill, winding through brush and scattered trees, with lots of young stuff springing up among the deadfalls and boulders. Suddenly, I thought I glimpsed the elk a couple of hundred yards away, and still struggling through the snow. It had gone down, gotten up, and plunged on, but now the deepening snow was slowing it down.