"Guess we'll have to butcher it like we would a beef."
He hadn't any pulleys to hoist the enormous carcass into a tree, and
there weren't any trees to hoist it into. Joe bled the animal.
Unhitching the mules, he used them to turn the carcass over on its back.
Tad had shot better than he knew, for the buffalo was a barren cow and
that was always the best eating. Joe began at one haunch, Tad at the
other, and they skinned the dead beast. The freed skin was dropped on
both sides, so that no dirt would cling to the sticky, warm carcass.
Emma brought her carving boards and containers from the wagon.
Joe scratched his head, at a loss as to just what they should take and
what they should leave. Somewhere he had heard that the hump was the
best part of any buffalo, and certainly they'd want the liver. The rest
of the meat would have to cool and season before it would be fit for
use, but the liver they could eat tonight. However, before they could do
anything about the hump, the carcass would have to be made lighter.
Expertly Joe sliced around one of the haunches, and he was surprised
when he lifted it quite easily. It weighed, he estimated, no more than a
hundred pounds. Maybe buffalo looked bigger than they were. Joe laid the
haunch on a carving board and Emma stood ready with her knife.
"You finish what you're doing," she told him. "I'll take care of this."
She began slicing the haunch into steaks. Joe and Tad separated the
other haunch, and opened the belly cavity to get the liver. Of the front
quarters they took only the choicest parts, and Joe used his saw to cut
out the loin. He rolled the lightened carcass over on its side and
sliced experimentally at the hump. He was surprised to find a ridge of
bone there, and he stood to look down on it. Joe tried again, and
failed, to remove the hump. He shrugged. Evidently, whoever had said
that the hump was a choice part of any buffalo, didn't know what they
were talking about.
Joe, Emma and Tad worked with the meat, throwing away all tissue and
bone and keeping only what was edible. Because they were working under
adverse conditions, and without all the tools they needed, it took them
longer than it would have taken to prepare a steer's carcass. But when
they were finished, every meat box was filled and there was still much
of the buffalo left.
That night, the first in many, they camped among trees and had wood for
their fire. Joe ate what seemed to be a vast quantity of buffalo liver,
took a second helping, and was ashamed of himself. But Tad had four
helpings and Emma and Barbara each had two. It was good eating, but
there seemed to be in it a certain quality that enabled one to eat large
quantities and still want more. Joe said happily,
"Have some more, Joey? There's plenty."
"I might try another little piece."
Little Emma said, "I'm stuffed," and Alfred and Carlyle shook their
heads. They sat around the festive board, completely relaxed and happy.
Last night, after the crushing disappointment of missing the antelope
and knowing they had more mud to face, near despair had reigned. Tonight
they were on hard ground, with a wood fire, and there was more than
plenty for everyone. They would get through.
The next day the sun shone, and the day after that. But a cold wind
still blew in from the north and there was a promise of things to come.
It was a sinister promise, freighted with bitter and cold meanings, and
Joe hurried the mules as much as he could. He gave thanks because the
Trail remained dry and they could make good time. When he came to the
river he stopped for a few minutes.
It was a willow-bordered, slow-moving river that emptied into the
Platte, and it seemed a gentle thing. The tired mules halted in their
traces and Joe got down from the wagon seat. Mike and Tad beside him, he
walked back and forth on the bank of the river and tried to find an
answer to the riddle which he felt must exist here. The Trail went into
the river and out the other side; other wagons had forded it. But there
still seemed to be a question, and Joe was puzzled because he could see
no reason to question. He could not see the bottom of the river, but it
was muddy. How many other muddy rivers and creeks had he forded?
"Reckon we can make it?" he asked Tad.
"Other wagons made it."
"Well, we can too."
He climbed back onto the seat and picked up the reins. The mules
stepped forward, then suddenly sidewise. Joe's heart missed a beat and
he let them go, for now he saw why he had had an instinctive fear of
this river.
When the other wagons crossed, it must have been low, perhaps little
more than a trickle. But, doubtless due to upcountry rains, now it was
in flood and had undercut its banks. Where other wagons had found a safe
ford, he found only a treacherous shell of dirt. The wagon lurched
sickeningly, threatened to tip, then came out of a hole into which the
right front wheel had fallen. The mules strained with all their
strength, swung back toward solid ground, and Joe breathed his thanks
because he had mules. Horses or oxen would have gone right ahead,
leaving the wagon hopelessly mired and perhaps drowning themselves.
Mules did their own thinking.
For a brief second that lengthened into eternity, and while the mules
strove mightily to move it, the wagon stopped. Then it was moving again
and Joe felt sick. The right front wheel had gone down, and the right
front wheel was still down while the wagon dragged on its axle. The
wheel was broken, and he had a spare for everything except wheels. Then
he stifled his fright.
The mules came to safe ground and stopped, their sides heaving. Joe
stepped from the wagon to see what he knew he would find. The rim was
broken, and the spokes. There was no possibility of repairing the wheel.
Tad joined him, then Emma and Barbara.
"Why don't you fix it, Pa?" Tad asked.
"I can't." He looked levelly at Emma. "Are you afraid to stay with the
youngsters for a while?"
She looked at him, unable to answer.
"I'll leave the rifle with Tad."
"What are you going to do, Joe?"
"The only thing I can do, ride back to that abandoned wagon we saw and
take a wheel from it. The mules won't be hauling a wagon and I should be
able to make time. If I leave now, I can get a long way before dark."
She gritted her teeth. What must be, must be.
"I'll fix you some lunch."
"Thank you, darling. Tad, walk with me, will you?"
"Sure, Pa."
Tad beside him, Joe walked up the river bank. He swallowed hard. If
there were a fort, or even a house--But there wasn't any and he couldn't
build any. Joe turned to his son. He looked down in the wide, trusting
eyes, and he felt both proud and fearful.
"Tad, you must take over."
"Sure, Pa." His face was eager.
"I don't think you'll have any trouble. But if you do, if anyone at all
comes, don't try to defend the wagon. Walk away and let them have it."
"Suppose they come after us?"
"Then," Joe said grimly, "shoot and shoot to kill!"