derision. “She is in her ninth month of mourning. That dandy Layton will slip ahead and—”
Ferris stopped. He’d heard something. We both turned to the south where a large buffalo, up to its belly in snow, lumbered out of the pine forest. The great beast plowed forward, then stopped suddenly. It had scented us. It snorted. Slowly Ferris reached for his gun, but the ice on his robe cracked sharply when he moved and the bull bolted. In an instant Ferris and I were up on our horses, dashing through a heavy winter snow, up and down through the channels in the lowlands and out onto a windswept patch of ice that was a shallow branch of the Missouri.
Once on the ice the beast pawed and fell and stood unsteadily and fell again and wheeled as if it would charge us and slipped and fell and tried to get up and slipped once again. Ferris and I dismounted. It hardly seemed fair to shoot the beast when it was helpless like that. We watched for a full minute, but the beast merely grunted and flailed and could not move. Finally, we both raised our guns at the same time and fired. The beast lurched and tottered and stood still and Ferris reloaded rapidly and fired again. His first shot and his second were within an inch of each other, just above the shoulder, the exact spot aimed for in a bull, which fell heavily.
“Why, you’re a regular green jacket,” I said.
“I’d have missed the beast entirely on the third shot,” he said, though as I found out later, this was untrue. Among his other accomplishments, half of which he’d hidden from us, Ferris had the best shot in the brigade.
I heard a cracking sound out on the ice. I heard water glugging and more cracking and the bull began to sink.
“We should have waited until it was off the ice,” I said.
“It’s you who were hasty.”
“I was hasty?”
“Yeah. You. Hasty in shooting but not in anything else,” he said, and I gave him a dark look.
Meanwhile, the beast sunk bit by bit into the water. Ferris stepped off the bank and tested the ice gingerly with one foot. I strode halfway out towards the fallen beast. I motioned for Ferris to follow.
“The ice held a buffalo. It’ll hold us,” I said.
“You show some sense there, Wyeth.”
“I’ve been known to,” I said.
It had started to snow, coming fast at moments and then clearing suddenly with patches of blue showing here and there overhead. The low clouds moved very fast. Ferris and I walked out to the bull and stood there, far out on the ice. We could just make out our picketed horses on the bank, gray silhouettes through gray veils of snow.
The buffalo had sunk to about a third of the height of its body and then hit the shallow bottom. Bits of dirt spiraled in the icy water. I measured the water’s depth with a stick. It was higher than my boot tops. I cleared a spot on the ice then untied the binds at the base of my leggins and peeled them up and pried my boots off. I stood barefoot on the ice, hopping from foot to foot. Ferris grinned.
“How’s it feel?”
“Balmy,” I said.
I tossed my gloves back with my boots and edged up to the spot where the ice was cracked and then, carefully, stepped into the water. The muscles in my calves tightened and began to ache and then go stiff and numb like wood. I gripped the beast’s fur with both hands and lifted my feet from the water and placedthem on the thick, stiffening fur, then lifted myself up and plunged a knife in at the neck and drew it backward, wedging my feet on the bulging girth of the great beast, using all my weight as I sawed through the tough, thick pelt. The cut widened and the intestines toppled out and splashed in the water. I hacked at the hump ribs until I’d cut through bone and tossed them back on the ice. I found the gallbladder and punctured it. The green juices poured out around the blade. I cut the liver out and tossed it back on the ice with a slap, skidding, so it left a red streak and melted the snow around it and lay there
Ferris stopped. He’d heard something. We both turned to the south where a large buffalo, up to its belly in snow, lumbered out of the pine forest. The great beast plowed forward, then stopped suddenly. It had scented us. It snorted. Slowly Ferris reached for his gun, but the ice on his robe cracked sharply when he moved and the bull bolted. In an instant Ferris and I were up on our horses, dashing through a heavy winter snow, up and down through the channels in the lowlands and out onto a windswept patch of ice that was a shallow branch of the Missouri.
Once on the ice the beast pawed and fell and stood unsteadily and fell again and wheeled as if it would charge us and slipped and fell and tried to get up and slipped once again. Ferris and I dismounted. It hardly seemed fair to shoot the beast when it was helpless like that. We watched for a full minute, but the beast merely grunted and flailed and could not move. Finally, we both raised our guns at the same time and fired. The beast lurched and tottered and stood still and Ferris reloaded rapidly and fired again. His first shot and his second were within an inch of each other, just above the shoulder, the exact spot aimed for in a bull, which fell heavily.
“Why, you’re a regular green jacket,” I said.
“I’d have missed the beast entirely on the third shot,” he said, though as I found out later, this was untrue. Among his other accomplishments, half of which he’d hidden from us, Ferris had the best shot in the brigade.
I heard a cracking sound out on the ice. I heard water glugging and more cracking and the bull began to sink.
“We should have waited until it was off the ice,” I said.
“It’s you who were hasty.”
“I was hasty?”
“Yeah. You. Hasty in shooting but not in anything else,” he said, and I gave him a dark look.
Meanwhile, the beast sunk bit by bit into the water. Ferris stepped off the bank and tested the ice gingerly with one foot. I strode halfway out towards the fallen beast. I motioned for Ferris to follow.
“The ice held a buffalo. It’ll hold us,” I said.
“You show some sense there, Wyeth.”
“I’ve been known to,” I said.
It had started to snow, coming fast at moments and then clearing suddenly with patches of blue showing here and there overhead. The low clouds moved very fast. Ferris and I walked out to the bull and stood there, far out on the ice. We could just make out our picketed horses on the bank, gray silhouettes through gray veils of snow.
The buffalo had sunk to about a third of the height of its body and then hit the shallow bottom. Bits of dirt spiraled in the icy water. I measured the water’s depth with a stick. It was higher than my boot tops. I cleared a spot on the ice then untied the binds at the base of my leggins and peeled them up and pried my boots off. I stood barefoot on the ice, hopping from foot to foot. Ferris grinned.
“How’s it feel?”
“Balmy,” I said.
I tossed my gloves back with my boots and edged up to the spot where the ice was cracked and then, carefully, stepped into the water. The muscles in my calves tightened and began to ache and then go stiff and numb like wood. I gripped the beast’s fur with both hands and lifted my feet from the water and placedthem on the thick, stiffening fur, then lifted myself up and plunged a knife in at the neck and drew it backward, wedging my feet on the bulging girth of the great beast, using all my weight as I sawed through the tough, thick pelt. The cut widened and the intestines toppled out and splashed in the water. I hacked at the hump ribs until I’d cut through bone and tossed them back on the ice. I found the gallbladder and punctured it. The green juices poured out around the blade. I cut the liver out and tossed it back on the ice with a slap, skidding, so it left a red streak and melted the snow around it and lay there
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