Where the Buffalo Roamed

The Missouri River flows golden between golden shores of sand. The summer wind carries a smell of rot from the north. 

The group of men sitting on the riverbank don’t mind the smell much. They have grown used to it; the death smell is a part of their lives now. At the moment, they have their backs to it, and their gazes fixed across the river. 

“Even the sky looks more inviting over there,” one young man says wistfully.

“But it’s not,” another one argues irritably. “Not friendly, I mean. That’s where only the Indians are allowed to hunt.”

“Think we don’t know that, Frank?” someone snaps. “Every buffalo runner knows about the Medicine Lodge Treaty.”

“Sure you do,” Frank hurries to say placatingly, “but I’m wondering what the army men at Fort Dodge would do if we went and hunted on the other side. I’ve a mind to ask them.”

“Not a bad idea,” one of Frank’s friends muses. 

“How about heading there right now?” Frank proposes. 

A general mutter of assent ripples through the small group, and they rise and set off towards the fort, turning their backs on the river for the time being. 

For miles on the north side of the Missouri River, buffalo skeletons are scattered over the plains, the bones bleaching white in the sunshine.  

The group walks on, barely heeding the remains of what were once huge shaggy-pelted creatures. They’re well acquainted with the animals, both in life and in death. 

Frank’s friends are a mixed bag united in desire and purpose. They all silently disregard each others’ differences for the sake of getting work done, and most importantly, getting paid for it. 

While they’ve become blind to whatever they were before, the soldiers at Fort Dodge are free to infer and speculate. 

One U.S. Army soldier is lounging against the counter, brass buttons shining on his blue uniform, when he hears boots scuffling outside the open door of the Fort Dodge general store. He looks up, and sees a gang of buffalo runners trooping in. 

Frank Mayer leads the way into the clean-swept general store, where they’ll be sure to find a few off-duty soldiers. Frank being originally from the East Coast, the rest of his group is glad he’ll be doing the speaking, as they believe him to have the best manners. 

Samuel, a former slave, now a black freedman as a result of the civil war, moves up and plants himself beside Frank, crossing his arms. He won’t be taken for anything but what he is: a buffalo runner, and his own man, with other men working under him. 

John shuffles about at the back of the gang, keeping one eye on the door, and the other on the army men. He’s yet to say what he did, but it’s known by the gang that John doesn’t want more contact than is strictly necessary with any arm of the law. They accept his behavior and presence for the sake of business. 

So do the soldiers. Criminals are a blight, but the army has been given to understand that Indians are a bigger one. Without buffalo, the Indians will be less resistant to move onto the reservations as the government wants, opening more land for white settlers. The buffalo runners are unknowingly helping that plan along. Despite their suspicions about John, the soldiers tolerate him for the sake of bigger business. 

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Frank greets.

"Afternoon to you fellas as well," the counter lounger returns. "What you boys want?”

"I had a question for all of you, and my friends here are interested in your answer," Frank informs them.

"Well, have at it, boys."

"We were wondering," Frank says, "what you army men would do if we crossed the Missouri River and went hunting for buffalo over there."

"If I was a buffalo runner," the obliging army man replies, looking Frank right in the eyes, "I would hunt where them buffalo are."

"Thank you, sir," Frank says, touching the brim of his hat before turning on his heel and sauntering out, followed by his friends. 

“Found it!” Frank hollers from more than half the way across the river. His horse is only up to its barrel in the water. The wagons should be able to cross. 

“That was quick,” Samuel says, leading the wagon horses into the river. 

“‘Course it was,” John says as his horse walks past. “We did it before. Just had to find the spot again. Good thing we marked it with them skulls.” John’s horse sloshes on, leaving Samuel behind. 

Samuel looks back at the bank, at the two bison skulls stacked on top of each other. Then he turns and faces forward again, across the river. “You’ve been over already?” he calls. 

“Sure have,” John calls back. “What’d be the point of askin’ what’d happen if we hunted over here if we didn't already know the huntin’ was good?”

The hunting is indeed good on the south side of the Missouri River. Buffalo are everywhere, huge herds of them, just like there used to be on the north side. The hunters get to work harvesting the bounty. 

Once buffalo have been killed, usually with a shot to the lungs to keep them from running away, the skinning crews get to work. The riflemen kill only as many animals as the skinners can handle before the hides can be destroyed. That’s all the hunters are after: always the hides, and usually the tongues, which can be sold as a luxury item. The effort to harvest the meat and everything else isn’t worth the money they’d get for it. 

Several years later…

Frank Mayer rides north towards the Missouri River with only one hand on his horse’s reins. The other hand is engaged in pinching his nose shut. 

All around Frank, bison carcasses are rotting in the sun. Once again, the hide hunters have encountered a shortage of buffalo.

The enormous Sharp’s buffalo hunting rifle hangs heavy on Frank’s back. He’s not sure what he’s going to do with it. Samuel reportedly sold his and used the money to buy mining tools. He still sees John from time to time, and knows that the mayhap criminal uses his gun for other kinds of hunting. 

Behind, wolves howl and coyotes yammer, bold enough to be out in the open in broad daylight, feeding well on the rotting bison carcasses that reek badly enough to turn stomachs a mile off.