buffalo hides—for everything from leather drive belts in factories to saddles and harnesses and furniture upholstery. I hear the swells in New York and Philadelphia even paper the walls of their parlors with it.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. They were into the stink now. Dead buffalo lay all around them, on the hillsides and in the muddy wallows, some still pink, others going black or green with rot. Vultures on the carcasses bated at them as the wagons passed, hissing and flaring their wings. Tendrils of intestine festooned their hooked beaks. Bluebottle flies hummed everywhere. Coyotes slunk away, and a pack of fat lobos lolled on a nearby ridge, sated.
“You’re seeing the results today. Buffalo hammered year round, all ages and sizes of them, anywhere they run. They’re gone from the Republican clear down to the Cimarron, and now we’re going South to do the same to the Texas herd. It’s worse than the war. In the war at least we buried the dead. The whole West is a Schlachthof ’, a slaughterhouse. But more wasteful by far than a slaughterhouse. Nobody gets to eat the meat.”
“Why don’t you quit?”
He looked at her, his eyes sadder than she’d ever seen them.
“What else could I do?”
“Farm. Open a shop somewhere. A business, you have money enough now to start one. Or maybe study the law, or go to Deutschland and practice medicine. Get married to some nice girl and raise a family, like most people do!”
“I’m not cut out for that kind of life, Jennchen.”
No, she thought sadly, you’re schwach —a weakling, like Vati. Brave only against nature and other men. Soft, though, when it comes to complex things. More meaningful things. A household. A woman who loves you. Children, no matter how foolish they seem. A ch, men—you cannot endure!
Yet you mourn for the buffalo, when any fool can plainly see that they’re doomed.
“Vati didn’t have to kill himself,” she said abruptly. “So what if the bank took the farm? We could have moved back to Milwaukee, where he certainly could have written for the German newspapers again. I could have found work, too. It would have been enough. He let the bank beat him, he let it kill him.”
Otto stared at her. “Jennchen . . .”
She halted the mules, handed Otto the reins, unhitched Vixen from the lead shank, and mounted the pony.
“You drive,” she said. “I want to ride for a while.”
She chucked the mare into a canter, on past Sykes’s wagon and up toward McKay, who pranced ahead of the column on his tall, fiery-eyed stallion.
T HEIR WAY FROM Mooar’s camp to the new hunting ground led now through bur oak and sage, over loose wet soil deposited by the river. Through it the Cimarron swung red with the line storm’s runoff, roiling upon itself in glutinous coils. Filthy clots of foam skittered crazily across its surface, driven this way and that by the wind. They forded the river with difficulty. The hide wagon bogged twice in quicksand. The men had to unhitch the mules from the lighter wagons and add them to the ox teams to pull it free. Jenny watched from a bluff on the far bank, the Henry resting crosswise on her pommel. She had braided her hair. A kerchief knotted in pirate fashion covered the top of her head clear down to her eyebrows. Her lips were dry, cracked, and bleeding from the wind. Raleigh was up to his chest in the rushing water, his clothing plastered against his taut muscles, blond hair wet and wild.
The country rose slowly as they climbed away from the river, heading southwest along an old wagon track grown over with prickly pear and bunchgrass. When the wagon track suddenly stopped, she and Raleigh swung out in circles. They found a few pieces of burned wood half buried in the drifting sand. The partial rim of a wagon wheel protruded from a dune. Raleigh dismounted and kicked at the soil. He turned up a bone, a large one, then another. A few big yellow teeth, immensely long.
“Mule or horse, one,” he
He laughed again, shaking his head. They were into the stink now. Dead buffalo lay all around them, on the hillsides and in the muddy wallows, some still pink, others going black or green with rot. Vultures on the carcasses bated at them as the wagons passed, hissing and flaring their wings. Tendrils of intestine festooned their hooked beaks. Bluebottle flies hummed everywhere. Coyotes slunk away, and a pack of fat lobos lolled on a nearby ridge, sated.
“You’re seeing the results today. Buffalo hammered year round, all ages and sizes of them, anywhere they run. They’re gone from the Republican clear down to the Cimarron, and now we’re going South to do the same to the Texas herd. It’s worse than the war. In the war at least we buried the dead. The whole West is a Schlachthof ’, a slaughterhouse. But more wasteful by far than a slaughterhouse. Nobody gets to eat the meat.”
“Why don’t you quit?”
He looked at her, his eyes sadder than she’d ever seen them.
“What else could I do?”
“Farm. Open a shop somewhere. A business, you have money enough now to start one. Or maybe study the law, or go to Deutschland and practice medicine. Get married to some nice girl and raise a family, like most people do!”
“I’m not cut out for that kind of life, Jennchen.”
No, she thought sadly, you’re schwach —a weakling, like Vati. Brave only against nature and other men. Soft, though, when it comes to complex things. More meaningful things. A household. A woman who loves you. Children, no matter how foolish they seem. A ch, men—you cannot endure!
Yet you mourn for the buffalo, when any fool can plainly see that they’re doomed.
“Vati didn’t have to kill himself,” she said abruptly. “So what if the bank took the farm? We could have moved back to Milwaukee, where he certainly could have written for the German newspapers again. I could have found work, too. It would have been enough. He let the bank beat him, he let it kill him.”
Otto stared at her. “Jennchen . . .”
She halted the mules, handed Otto the reins, unhitched Vixen from the lead shank, and mounted the pony.
“You drive,” she said. “I want to ride for a while.”
She chucked the mare into a canter, on past Sykes’s wagon and up toward McKay, who pranced ahead of the column on his tall, fiery-eyed stallion.
T HEIR WAY FROM Mooar’s camp to the new hunting ground led now through bur oak and sage, over loose wet soil deposited by the river. Through it the Cimarron swung red with the line storm’s runoff, roiling upon itself in glutinous coils. Filthy clots of foam skittered crazily across its surface, driven this way and that by the wind. They forded the river with difficulty. The hide wagon bogged twice in quicksand. The men had to unhitch the mules from the lighter wagons and add them to the ox teams to pull it free. Jenny watched from a bluff on the far bank, the Henry resting crosswise on her pommel. She had braided her hair. A kerchief knotted in pirate fashion covered the top of her head clear down to her eyebrows. Her lips were dry, cracked, and bleeding from the wind. Raleigh was up to his chest in the rushing water, his clothing plastered against his taut muscles, blond hair wet and wild.
The country rose slowly as they climbed away from the river, heading southwest along an old wagon track grown over with prickly pear and bunchgrass. When the wagon track suddenly stopped, she and Raleigh swung out in circles. They found a few pieces of burned wood half buried in the drifting sand. The partial rim of a wagon wheel protruded from a dune. Raleigh dismounted and kicked at the soil. He turned up a bone, a large one, then another. A few big yellow teeth, immensely long.
“Mule or horse, one,” he
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