The Way of the Buffalo

I found this story the other day, but I wrote it about a year ago (I think). 

The Way of the Buffalo

 

“Please, Elktail!” I ran after my older brother, a renowned hunter of our tribe.  “No. You should stay here.” “Why?” He hesitated as he searched for an answer and I pounced on his silence.  “See,” I mocked, “you can’t think of a good reason!  I’m coming.” Sighing, he nodded and reached down from atop his horse.  Ignoring his offer of assistance, I swung myself up behind him and held on as the three of us galloped away across the plain. 

                As we caught up to the main body of warriors, one called playfully to my brother, “An extra rider? Your horse can barely carry you!”  “Windfeather is stubborn,” was the only explanation Elktail offered, scowling.  He seemed angry, but we all knew better.  Since our mother died in our childhood, we had shared a special friendship.  He would often return from a hunt with something just for me.  A hawk’s tail feather or the soft skin of a hare.  The bond between us was rare in our culture and tribe.  Most men wouldn’t give their sisters a second glance as they went about their “squaw work.”  And they certainly wouldn’t take them along on a buffalo hunt! 

                The sun had moved forward in its rotation when we approached the place where a scout had reported a buffalo herd the day before. We grew quiet, listening.  There was no sound aside from the wind-rustled prairie grass and the breathing of men and horses.  Then through the silence came the gloating cry of a vulture.  All of the hunters turned their faces upwards to look towards the sound.  Fifteen vultures or more dotted the brilliant sky.  I drew in my breath softly.  What would we find when we rode over the next hill?  A deer carcass, perhaps?  An unfortunate coyote?  Undoubtedly, it was a large beast for so many sky-scavengers to be circling, their ominous forms black against the sun.

                We rode over the crest of the hill and I felt my brother stiffen.  One of the older warriors muttered a white-man’s curse under his breath.  I swung myself down to see what had caused the sudden chill on the men’s faces.  Knee-deep in dry prairie grass, I stared in horror, my mouth opened in a silent gasp.  Hundreds of buffalo littered the plain.  But these were not the living, snorting buffalo we had come to hunt.  They were all dead.  Stripped of their skins, they lay red in the grass.  The whole scene was still except for the swooping vultures and the ever-waving grass.

                “This is the white men’s work!” My brother’s voice burst angry in the gaping silence.  His shout kindled the anger in my own heart.  The wasteful carnage in the valley sickened and infuriated me.  When our people took the life of a buffalo, we honored it, using every part of its body.  Our food, clothing and tools all came from the buffalo.  Did the white men not see the treasures they left to rot in the prairie sun? No. The skin was all that they wanted, all that was worth their paper money.  Around me the hunters murmured angry words, but my eyes were fixed on a lone buffalo, now no more than a perch for greedy bald-headed birds.  If this horrible deed had been done in one day, how long would it be before the buffalo disappeared from the plain entirely, murdered by the white man and his extravagances?  How long would it be until our people could no longer follow the way of the buffalo?