hand at some skinning.
“So be it,” Bass decided, now putting his knife to work slowly inching the curly hide back from the long incision.
Jerking his bloody hands back suddenly, he stared at the tiny insects swarming over his flesh all the way up to the elbows where he had rolled his shirtsleeves. Smearing more blood on himself, Titus brushed from each arm the tiny, hopping fleas along with several fat ticks so swollen they were about to burst. He caught one between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing it until it popped with a bloody ooze, then tossed it aside. Titus went back to work, gradually working the hide back from that first long cut.
It took some doing, but he had almost half of the furry coat laid on the far side of the animal by the time the sun was well into the second quarter of the sky. Standing back to catch his breath and wipe the sweat from his face with the back of a bloody hand, Bass regarded his work to that point, figuring he would have to decide on what portions to pack with him as he continued his journey west to the far mountains.
Laying a knee against the massive rib cage, Titus next butchered a few long steaks from between the hump ribs, tossing each portion onto the green flap of hide draped across the grass on the far side of the carcass. Then he peeled back more of the hide from the rear leg until he could cut himself out two large hams.
At last he stood, using the knife to scrape off the blood, gore, and tiny vermin from each forearm before stuffing the blade back into its scabbard. Taking up his rifle once more, Titus turned away from the carcass, hurrying back toward his camp.
Once there he quickly rearranged each of the two packs so that he could lay his meat in between them along the packmare’s spine, then cover it with the saddle and finally the canvas shroud he would fling over it all. Leading the mare down the ravine and onto the prairie floor, he skirted along the side of the hill to reach the carcass.
“Damn you!” he growled when he got close enough to see the creatures clustered around the young bull.
Scurvy, thieving dogs they were.
“Get!” he bellowed.
Most raised their heads. A few growled at him menacingly. “G’won! Get, I told you!” he hollered louder still, dropping the mare’s lead rope and darting toward the carcass, swinging his rifle from side to side.
Most slinked off a ways, but three dropped to a crouch, snarling, their bloody muzzles showing now they had worked up a blood hunger dining at the bull’s innards. As Bass drew close enough, one of them sprang at him, snapping its jaws.
In a blur he brought the rifle butt up, connecting right beneath the creature’s lower jaw with a resounding crack. Immediately the second of the predators lunged for him as Bass continued swinging, wading into their midst. By the time two of the creatures lay wounded nearby, the rest decided retreat would offer the best path.
Yet they did not retreat far. Some thirty yards off the dozen or so turned as if on cue and sat down among the prairie grass to stare back at him and their feast.
“This is mine, goddammit!” he howled at them, his voice loud in the stillness of those far hills. “Mine, you hear?” he said a bit more quietly, mustering all the bravado he could, and pounded his chest one time with his left fist to emphasize his claim.
Quickly he bent over each one of the mangy creatures in turn, then brought the rifle butt down to crush their skulls for good measure.
“See?” he turned and asked of the pack sitting a safe distance away. “If’n you ain’t seen enough, I’ll show you what’s done to thieving sonsabitches like you!”
Suddenly he jerked up the rifle, dropped the blade on the center dog, set the back trigger, then pulled the front. As the roar and muzzle smoke disappeared, he watched the other dogs suddenly leap away in retreat— leaving one more of their dead among the tall grass.
“Don’t you ever dare come slipping in on my kill no more, I. tell you!” he grumbled as he began reloading.
Out on the prairie one of the predators slunk back in to sniff at its dead companion Bass had just shot. Then another, and a third. Pretty soon they were tearing at the dead one in a fury of hunger.
“Black-hearted sonsabitches. Damned dog-critters—just you go get!”
With the rifle reloaded and laid again in the curve of the yearling’s neck, Titus dragged the canvas cover and saddle off the mare’s back so he could lay in what meat he would take with him. At last he straightened the canvas over the two packs and began lashing it down in a diamond-hitch to protect everything from any rain they might encounter. He had lost all his cornmeal flour in that drenching they had suffered crossing the capricious Platte River—but the coffee beans and tobacco had dried out nicely, spread out on the canvas overnight. He would miss his johnny bread: the smell, the taste, the texture of corn dodgers in his mouth. Adding pinches of clean ash from the fire as he had stirred up a batch of corn biscuits, his mouth watered with the thought. But there would be no such bread from here on out.
Then he realized: oftentimes if a man really wanted to grab hold of something, he had to let go his grip of something else. Maybeso his bidding farewell to those pasty sacks of cornmeal back there by the muddy river just left a hand empty and open to grab on to something new that might well present itself on down the trail. Best just to forget all that he had left behind in the settlements, and that included those sacks of Franklin cornmeal.
Besides, Titus reminded himself again as he took up the lead rope, tonight for the first time in his life he would sup on buffalo.
Yes, he sighed as he stared at the horizon and charted his course toward the western hills for the rest of that morning—his fortunes just might be about to change out here in this wild land. True enough—he was about due for things to go his way … for the very first time in his life.
For the next few days he had found massive clumps of coarse buffalo fur clinging to the brush and bark of nearly every small tree near the riverbank. Each time he shot one of the shaggy creatures in the weeks to follow, he was constantly reminded how summer must surely be on its way to this land—if not there already—for the buffalo were shedding their heavy winter coats.
Every few days as he encountered another herd, Titus would shoot another yearling—far tastier and more flavorful than the beef and pork he had grown accustomed to back east, even better than the game meat he had grown up on in the forests of Kentucky. The savory fragrance of each loin steak or batch of hump ribs he set to sizzle over his fire each evening caused his mouth to water in anticipation. Bass had never eaten anything better than buffalo and doubted he would ever find any meat that could surpass it.
So he taught himself to cut free a large section of each green hide in which he would wrap those choice selections he had butchered from each kill, that satchel to be carried by his most obedient packmare. Each of those pieces of hide he found to be all but rubbed free of the last tufts of last winter’s hair still clinging to the animal’s midsection and hindquarters. Protected inside that green hide satchel, the meat would last the better part of three days or so before he would be forced to leave behind what had gone sour on him and compelled to hunt fresh game.
Those longest of days tumbled past in slow succession as high summer arrived and he reached the forks of the Platte.
“Damn if Isaac Washburn didn’t tell me none of this,” he grumbled in confusion bordering on exasperation the afternoon he reached that union of the north and south forks.
But as frustrated as he was, in the end Titus decided to stay with the northernmost. The way he saw things, it only made sense because that was where he should be headed after all: to the central if not the northern reaches of the Rocky Mountains. Washburn had mentioned nothing of those southern mountains, failing to say if there even were mountains down in that country. So if ol’ Gut hadn’t said nothing about it—why, then, Bass figured there wasn’t much worth concerning himself about down south anyways.
Sure enough, the old trapper had been right on target with most everything he had told Titus before he got himself killed back there in St. Louis. Right about everything except that warning about the Pawnee who lived along the Platte. There had been plenty enough chance to bump right into them all along. Yet except for running across sign of that village migrating along the great river before its trail started moseying its way off to the north away from the Platte, Titus hadn’t seen a feather or war pony either one.
“Nothing more’n pure, dumb luck,” he had muttered to himself more than once in all those weeks since, thinking back how consumed with caution and cold camps he had been.
