hunters. They sang as they skinned the shaggy beasts, their sharp knives making quick work of the task before them. She was not yet strong enough for the initial skinning, but she helped cut up the meat.
That evening the smoke from the campfires was seasoned with the warm, rich odor of roasting flesh. Fresh skins hung over poles or lay in heaped bundles. People called good-naturedly to one another. Heavy shoulders lifted and aching muscles were forgotten.
Where there were buffalo, there was plenty. Soon too-lean bodies would be fleshed out again and strength would return to weakened arms and legs. Tent skins could be replaced, so that the harsh prairie wind could be kept beyond the entrance flap. Bone needles and coarse thread could be made for stitching tents and clothing and moccasins. Yes, the buffalo meant life and health and a future to Running Fawn’s people.
Chapter Six
Loss
The Reverend Martin Forbes stretched comfortably before his own worn tent. His back ached, his arms felt weighted, but he smiled softly to himself as he remembered the feast and enjoyed the feeling of a satisfied stomach. God had answered prayer. The people had been saved from sure disaster. There was food for the body.
He bowed his head in deep gratitude to God who had provided—then added to his prayer a further petition.
“Lord, may they soon be as interested in food for their souls.”
During the summer that followed, they were forced to break camp often in order to follow the small herds, but they did not mind the travel. As long as they had buffalo, their world was secure. And so they stayed south of the border, even through the winter, the next spring, and another summer.
But many other small Indian bands had made the same arduous trek. And each one knew that beyond the hills were other hunters. The Peigans, the Bloods, and Sarcee from beyond the border had crossed to hunt, joining the tribes that already counted the Montana plains as their hunting grounds. Running Fawn heard the elders’ concerns that the buffalo were being depleted too quickly.
There were a few minor skirmishes as hunters contested the hunting rights, but no major confrontations took place. Each band knew that the herds were vanishing. That the few buffalo that remained would not last for long. It brought both anxiety and a strange generosity. Underlying the tensions of past wars and hatred for enemy tribes was a common bond of unity. They were of one skin. They were brothers. They must all live—or die—together.
So they eyed with mutual suspicion and distaste the wood-frame settlements and the scattered white dwellers who plowed under the prairie grasses and fenced the land with sharp barbed wire.
It was no wonder that the settlers’ steers disappeared from rangelands, even though beef, having less flavor than the wild meat, was not the Indians’ preference.
It was their land. Had always been their land. Theirs to hunt. Theirs to dispute. Theirs to fight over until the strong forced out the weak. It had always been so.
But now they were helpless to show their strength. Enemy guns, carried by blue-coated soldiers, outnumbered their own weapons. Striking out at the conquering would only bring deadly reprisal.
And so they moved in a daze through the heated months of summer, following the diminishing herds, pretending in their hearts that the buffalo would always be there, that the mother herd was just over the next rise of hills.
But it was not to be. By the time the autumn breezes were bending low the browned prairie grasses, the last of the buffalo had been slaughtered. The great herds were no more.
Around the campfires, impassioned discussions concluded that surely there were still buffalo to be hunted. They might be just beyond the camp, just beyond that row of hills. But hunting scouts returned from far afield bringing the disturbing news that no buffalo were to be seen.
Perhaps the animals had gone back north across the border. But eventually
That evening the smoke from the campfires was seasoned with the warm, rich odor of roasting flesh. Fresh skins hung over poles or lay in heaped bundles. People called good-naturedly to one another. Heavy shoulders lifted and aching muscles were forgotten.
Where there were buffalo, there was plenty. Soon too-lean bodies would be fleshed out again and strength would return to weakened arms and legs. Tent skins could be replaced, so that the harsh prairie wind could be kept beyond the entrance flap. Bone needles and coarse thread could be made for stitching tents and clothing and moccasins. Yes, the buffalo meant life and health and a future to Running Fawn’s people.
Chapter Six
Loss
The Reverend Martin Forbes stretched comfortably before his own worn tent. His back ached, his arms felt weighted, but he smiled softly to himself as he remembered the feast and enjoyed the feeling of a satisfied stomach. God had answered prayer. The people had been saved from sure disaster. There was food for the body.
He bowed his head in deep gratitude to God who had provided—then added to his prayer a further petition.
“Lord, may they soon be as interested in food for their souls.”
During the summer that followed, they were forced to break camp often in order to follow the small herds, but they did not mind the travel. As long as they had buffalo, their world was secure. And so they stayed south of the border, even through the winter, the next spring, and another summer.
But many other small Indian bands had made the same arduous trek. And each one knew that beyond the hills were other hunters. The Peigans, the Bloods, and Sarcee from beyond the border had crossed to hunt, joining the tribes that already counted the Montana plains as their hunting grounds. Running Fawn heard the elders’ concerns that the buffalo were being depleted too quickly.
There were a few minor skirmishes as hunters contested the hunting rights, but no major confrontations took place. Each band knew that the herds were vanishing. That the few buffalo that remained would not last for long. It brought both anxiety and a strange generosity. Underlying the tensions of past wars and hatred for enemy tribes was a common bond of unity. They were of one skin. They were brothers. They must all live—or die—together.
So they eyed with mutual suspicion and distaste the wood-frame settlements and the scattered white dwellers who plowed under the prairie grasses and fenced the land with sharp barbed wire.
It was no wonder that the settlers’ steers disappeared from rangelands, even though beef, having less flavor than the wild meat, was not the Indians’ preference.
It was their land. Had always been their land. Theirs to hunt. Theirs to dispute. Theirs to fight over until the strong forced out the weak. It had always been so.
But now they were helpless to show their strength. Enemy guns, carried by blue-coated soldiers, outnumbered their own weapons. Striking out at the conquering would only bring deadly reprisal.
And so they moved in a daze through the heated months of summer, following the diminishing herds, pretending in their hearts that the buffalo would always be there, that the mother herd was just over the next rise of hills.
But it was not to be. By the time the autumn breezes were bending low the browned prairie grasses, the last of the buffalo had been slaughtered. The great herds were no more.
Around the campfires, impassioned discussions concluded that surely there were still buffalo to be hunted. They might be just beyond the camp, just beyond that row of hills. But hunting scouts returned from far afield bringing the disturbing news that no buffalo were to be seen.
Perhaps the animals had gone back north across the border. But eventually
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