Fairlee E. Winfield
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PREQUEL TO BUFFALOEDThe Pablo Herd, March 1904 The game starts in the dawn hours on the Montana prairie. The big sky is a cloudless blue. The ocean of buffalo grass is covered by a gray sea-foam mist. Condensation drips from the green stalks. Silence reigns. The buffalo snuffle softly as they shift their heavy heads toward the rising sun. The bulls toss their black horns sampling the light breeze. It’s a murmur. The earth vibrates slightly, a quickening rumble, felt only in the mud-covered hooves of the bison herd. Cows nudge the sides of their calves; pushing them gently and then settling back to savor the grass again. Slowly the massive, shaggy bulls disturb the herd’s random order. The calves grow fretful. They edge away from the direction where the sun rises. Ears are pricked. The sound comes directly out of the sun. A rapid drum beat. The volume increases. Horses approach the herd at a fast gallop. The bison move rapidly now. Rifle shots reverberate, and the smell of gunpowder flows in on the breeze. The herd stampedes. Feathered spears arc through the air. A buffalo crumples and drops, then another staggers and falls. A calf reels and sinks to the ground. The painted riders screech whoops of savage gratification. They pursue the herd until it scatters. At last, the horsemen turn and circle back gathering near their kill. They dismount still shrieking their triumph. Pulling shiny flasks from under their buckskins, they take long swills and watch the approach of a lone rider in European clothing. He leads a heavily laden pack horse. The solitary rider dismounts near the group and removes a bellows-style camera with a tripod from his saddle bags. He places his camera near the downed buffalo and motions for the hunters to gather. They tuck away the flasks and strike poses near the dead buffalo. The photographer smiles his approval and retreats beneath the camera’s bonnet. He shoots a picture, and then removes the plate. The Indians continue to drink, jostling, shoving, and laughing while the photographer reinserts the plate. Some fall or are pushed onto the dead buffalo. The sun is high now, and the Indian riders take off the heavy headdresses. They assemble for another shot. Blood is smeared over their bodies and appears as vermillion stains across pale foreheads and cheeks. The photographer continues taking his pictures while the atmosphere becomes more carnival. A hatchet swings in a ritual scalping movement lifting a long, scraggly, black wig into the air to reveal straw-colored blond hair and pale white skin. “Goddammit, Joe, careful with that fricking toy tomahawk.” “Oh shit, Frank, didn’t mean to. That liquor must of done eat its way plumb down to my boot heels.” “Well, I reckon you smelt out the wrong hound’s butt this time, you little piss-ant.” “Ah, Frank, you acting like you was raised on sour milk.” Joe turns away and rubs a slash of blue Indian-brave grease paint off of his face onto his sleeve. Frank takes a long swig from a bottle and pulls a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses from his pocket. He spits, turns, and drifts off away from Joe toward a bowlegged, fair-skinned, white Indian wearing dirty buckskins and the red-woven sash of a half-breed. Leaning into him intimately, he passes him the jug. “Hell, Charlie,” he mutters through tight lips, “I’m as worried as an Arizona bullfrog waitin’ for the rain.” Charlie is silent. He takes a swig from the jug and squats, hunkered down on his heels like an Indian. Frank follows, crouching beside him. He nudges him. “Come on now, Russ. Come on, dammit. You know my publisher won’t do it without the sketches.” Charlie pulls a hunk of modeling wax from his pocket. Both hands are covered with gold and silver rings. Frank watches as Charlie’s fingers rapidly mold a tiny figure of a buffalo. “Dammit Russ! It won’t take long. I asked you way back in aught-three. I’ve got a deadline. Book’s not worth damn without ‘em!” Charlie Russell remains silent; his yellow eyes are fierce like a wolf’s.  Charlie Russell 1904
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