Fair Land, Fair Land by A. B. Guthrie Jr. Page B

and, first thing, eat
its balls off. Small loss, considering.
    He raised a hand and said to the bull, "Too bad,
old-timer." He led the string on. It wasn't the blue meat of an
old bull that he wanted to bring back to camp.
    Over a swell of land he saw what he wanted — a
dozen or so buffalo in a hollow. They were the leavings of the great
winter migration to the south, some of the few that voted to stick
where they were. No bulls among them but one early-born calf, too
young to show much of a hump. The bulls, along with the big herds,
would come later and make thunder in the rutting season with their
bawlings and pawings.
    Summers tied Feather to a clump of brush, not
trusting him to stand ground-tied here. He pushed ahead, stooping,
then crawling, until he was within range. He didn't shoot yet. He
just lay there. Once he had found sport in killing things. That was
when the world was young. Now he shot for the pot, or was about to.
But men still hunted for sport. Men hunted for money. To hell with
both kinds! The one right a man had was killing for food.
    A fly, on wing when it shouldn't be, touched his nose
and buzzed on. A pattern of wild geese honked overhead. He listened
to the lost, brave sound and his eye settled on a rattlesnake,
soaking up the sun four or five jumps away. It was too dull to know
it was there out of season. It just answered to warmth.
    It was time to shoot, he knew. He had even picked out
the target — a young, fat cow. He listened to the fading calls of
the geese and watched the snake and lay still.
    When the buffalo began to move off, he fired, and all
the still day was shaken. The sound of the shot rolled through the
hills and was thrown back by the mountains. The snake coiled and
rattled.
    The cow fell over. The others smelled the blood, not
understanding, and stood dumbly about until Summers rose to his feet.
Then they galloped away.
    Summers recharged his rifle. That was the first rule
of the country. Keep your gun loaded. Then he walked back and brought
up the horses. He bled the cow. Skinning was a considerable job, best
done, he thought, before he opened the carcass. He tied a rope to his
saddle horn and used Feather to help pull off the hide. He cut
through the belly tissue and raked out the entrails. With his knife
and a small ax he quartered the meat, wrapped it, lashed it to the
pack horses and started for camp.
    It had taken longer than he expected. The sun had
begun to slant from the west. A gust of wind came at him, blowing
sand with it, and he had to wipe grit from his eyes. There now was
the tepee and the woman at the fire, Higgins standing nearby, the
child sitting. At the creek he washed his hands and fore-arms, using
sand for soap.
    At the camp the woman came up, expecting to unpack
the horses. Summers gave her a look and said, "No." She
went back to the fire.
    Higgins stepped close to help. He said, working with
a rope, "That squaw is as queer as fur on a snake. Won't let a
man do nothin', not even rustle up firewood. Wants to do it all by
her damn self. What's the reason for that, Dick?"
    " Trainin'. Squaws for the camp work, men for the
hunt."
    " Nice, if you like slaves. I got the best of
her, though. I shot ten ducks and picked and cleaned them myself, out
of her sight. She looked at me like I had two heads, both empty, but
she's cookin' the birds now."
    They turned one pack horse loose and shooed it away.
It was then that Feather nickered. It was then that the child cried a
thin cry. Summers' eyes went from his work. Coming toward them, yon
side of the fire, were four mounted Indians. He said, "Stay
back, Hig. My move."
    He stepped toward the Indians. The campfire was
between them. The woman had turned her back to attend to the child.
Summers slanted his rifle against a bush and made the peace sign. He
said, "How."
    They were young bucks, not feathered or painted, and
Summers guessed they were out to steal horses, hoping maybe to spot a
Crow camp. They jerked their horses