“Hear what?”
“That rumbling.”
“The storm, you mean?” young Billingsley said.
“Would that it were,” Trevor said, and glanced all about us, as if he were seeking something.
“What else can it be?” Billingsley inquired.
“Our doom,” Trevor said.
Since I was the leader of the expedition I felt compelled to say, “Confound it man, speak plainly. What has you so agitated?”
“We must find cover, and we must find it quickly,” Trevor replied, and jabbed his heels against his mount.
We had no choice but to hurry after him. I was anxious to question him further, but he had brought his animal to a gallop and I would have to shout to be heard. He was heading to the southwest at a breakneck clip. Repeatedly, he looked over his shoulder, and each time he did, he scowled.
I was at a loss. The rumbling still sounded to my ears like thunder. Then I noticed that it was becoming louder, which was odd, since we were putting more distance between the thunderstorm and ourselves. Logic dictated the sound should grow fainter. Obviously, then, the rumble was not thunder. And whatever it was, was coming closer by the moment.
I glanced to the north.
For a few moments the sight I beheld made no sense. There appeared to be a second dark cloud bank, only this one was close to the ground and flowing toward us at a startling speed.
Soon I saw that what I had taken for a single mass was instead made up of many small parts. Not in the scores or the hundreds or even the thousands, but in numbers too great too count. I saw, too, that each of these parts possessed a pair of curved horns and a hump and four flying hooves.
They were buffalo.
A herd, God knew how large, had been stampeded by lightning or some other cause and were bearing down on us like a shaggy avalanche.
My analogy leaves a little to be desired, but the end result, should they overtake us, would be the same; we would be crushed under tons of bone, sinew and horn, pulverized to pieces and left for the buzzards to feast on. No one would ever know our fate, not unless at some future date a wayfarer happened on a few of our bleached bones.
Morbid thoughts, I confess, but under the circumstances they were justified.
We lashed our mounts, to no avail. The buffalo continued to gain. I have since learned that when in flight, they are as tireless as Titans. A fitting description, given that the males weigh upward of a ton and stand six feet high at the shoulder.
I cannot say how far we fled. Mile after mile, to the point where my dun was flecked with sweat and flagging, and many of the other horses were about done in.
It was then that Trevor rose in the stirrups and pointed, shouting, “Over yonder! As you value your hides, stay with me!”
I needed no urging. The buffalo were less than two hundred yards behind us, a roiling maelstrom that obliterated everything in its path. The rumbling had become a thunderous din, and from under their pounding hooves swirled a thick column of dust.
What strange creatures men are. I say that because my life was in the direst peril, but I was not thinking of that. I was thinking only of my art supplies and equipment. I saw Jeffers frantically tugging on the lead rope to the pack animals. Burdened as they were, they were falling behind.
What I did next surprised even me.
I wheeled the dun. Trevor shouted my name, but I did not answer. I raced back to Jeffers and hauled on the reins to bring the dun in close to the pack animals. With yells and motions I sought to hasten their flight, and in that I succeeded, for they moved faster.
I looked up in time to witness an incredible sight; our scout seemed to ride into the ground itself. One by one the other men did the same, vanishing before my eyes.
Thirty more yards, the miracle was explained.
Long ago a cataclysm had rent the earth leaving a gash some ten feet wide and about that deep. At the bottom were my men, hastily dismounting.
Trevor bellowed to bring their rifles and follow him.
I was the last to descend. They were climbing back up and I passed them on the way down. Before the dun came to a stop, I was off and after them.
Trevor reached the rim and sank to one knee. He immediately pressed the stock of his rifle to his shoulder.
I did not need to ask what he was about to shoot, although why he would bother mystified me. There were eight of us and hundreds of thousands of buffalo. Dropping a few would have no more effect than dipping a finger into raging rapids to stem the flow of a river.
But Trevor was determined to try. “Aim for the ones coming right at us!” he roared. “Wait until I give the word, then squeeze trigger!”
“What good will this do us?” Wilson wanted to know.
Trevor did not answer. His cheek was to his rifle. We imitated him.
I am not much of a shot. In childhood I hunted, but my heart was never in it. Even today, I would rather paint specimens alive than dead, but that simply is not practical so I have others do my shooting for me.
But now my aversion was moot. A living wall of horn and muscle was bearing down on us. I swear the very ground shook. My mouth was dry, and my palms grew slick. I firmed my grip and waited for Trevor to give the command to fire.
“Remember, aim for the buffs coming right at us!”
A futile exercise, I reflected, since behind the first rank were untold more. But I centered my Hawken’s sights between a bull’s beady eyes and thumbed back the hammer.
At times, heartbeats can become hours. This was one of them. The buffalo seemed to be moving in slow motion. I saw the flair of every nostril, the driving thrust of every hoof. The illusion lasted all of ten seconds, and then they were on top of us and everything happened so swiftly and so furiously that the details are a bit of a haze even if the sequence is not.
“Fire!” Trevor cried, and fire we did, our eight rifles blasting almost in unison. Only Trevor and Jeffers could claim to be marksmen of any note, but the buffalo were so close that marksmanship was not much of a factor.
Our eight rifles boomed. Six buffalo crashed down. They struck hard, and rolled or tumbled or slid to a rest near the edge. In doing so they formed a barrier between us and the onrushing herd, which I divined was Trevor’s intent. Almost instantly the herd parted, breaking to the right and the left, going around the bodies of their fallen fellows.
A temporary reprieve at best, I thought. The press of massive forms would soon drive the living against the dead and both the dead and the living would spill into our sanctuary. They would crush all us tiny humans who had the temerity to try and stem the tide of certain death.
Trevor was scrambling toward the horses. “Get back!” he bellowed. “Get away from the rim!”
I barely heard him, the din was so loud. How can I describe the indescribable? Imagine you are surrounded by a million men pounding the ground with heavy hammers, and you will have some idea. Add to that the riot of snorts, grunts and cries from a legion of bison throats. The walls of our retreat trembled, and the air was chocked with dust.
I pictured our broken bodies lying under a heap of thrashing buffalo. I cursed my arrogance in believing that somehow I was special, for thinking that the wilderness would single me out for the unique honor of immunity from its many dangers.
It is ever so. We think bad things will happen to others but not to us. The life breathed into us is somehow different from the breath of life in everyone else. Ours cannot be extinguished by random happenstance. We are special.
A common delusion, I daresay.
I am not overly religious, and I make no claim to understanding Scripture better than anyone else, but there is a quote that has stuck with me and sums up the state of our existence to a remarkable degree. He sends rain on the just and the unjust, or something to that effect. Could it possibly be any clearer? None of us merit special treatment. We are one and the same with everyone else. We are fodder in the panorama of life. Nothing more, nothing less.