Free Across the Endless River by Thad Carhart

beard. From the frenzy of the chase the atmosphere was transformed into an eerie quiet, an intimacy between hunter and prey. Paul could hear the bull’s labored breathing, their isolation accentuated by the distant cries of the others. Two or three times the buffalo turned its head, its glassy eyes staring dully, as if waiting for something. Paul felt for his belt and found his small revolver. He removed it as he started to coax his horse toward the bull. A close-range shot to the head would surely be an adequate coup de grâce.
    â€œStop!” he heard Baptiste cry. He was descending the nearby rise at a gentle gallop. As he drew close, he explained. “Pistol shot won’t do a thing to that animal except rile him up.” He walked his horse carefully to the other side of the bull. “Yearling bulls usually have a lot more fight left in them than you would think.” He loaded his rifle with a tamping iron that was slung around his neck, raised the barrel, and drew a bead behind the bull’s shoulder blade, aiming to pierce its heart. He fired, and the bull shuddered, fell on its knees, then rolled heavily onto its side as blood poured from its mouth. Its outstretched legs shivered violently, and it was still.
    In the excitement of the breakneck pursuit Paul had lost all notion of time or distance. As they made their way back to the river, he took in how much ground he had covered in the chase. They had traveled several miles. He and Baptiste came upon small groups of Indians skinning and butchering the dead animals. The air was thick with the drone of flies and yellow jackets as the hunters stacked pieces of bloody raw meat next to the carcasses. Paul watched the Indians work their knives quickly to separate flesh from bone, occasionally stopping to eat a choice morsel sliced from the innards.
    They passed three Pawnees gathered around a massive bull in a small hollow. One of the hunters was a boy Paul judged to be no more than twelve years old. As he and Baptiste drew near, the boy shouted and laughed to his companions and reached into the gut of the buffalo with his knife. He withdrew a steaming mass of dark brown jellylike flesh and held it high above his head and twirled around in a little dance. Then the boy took a bite of the dripping viscera and his friends shouted their approval. Paul was astonished, but curiosity quickly overcame his surprise. Baptiste turned in his saddle to explain.
    â€œIt’s his first buffalo. He’s eating the liver to celebrate.”
    The boy saw them watching and ran to where their horses stood, holding the liver up to Paul and nodding exuberantly as he offered his trophy. Baptiste said, “It’s a great honor to taste his first kill.” Seeing Paul’s eyes widen in disbelief at what was expected, he added, “Even a very small bite is enough to save him from insult.” Paul nodded slowly, breathed deeply, then leaned down to taste the boy’s prize. He felt the warm ooze of liquid on his moustache and chin as he bit off a piece of liver and closed his mouth. He swallowed without breathing, tasting the bitterness of the buffalo’s gut and his own bile rising. Baptiste also took a bite of the liver, bestowing signs of congratulation on the boy, who had become a man that day.
    Vultures wheeled thickly above them as they continued toward the river. They encountered others collecting the spoils of the hunt. Women had appeared with packhorses and dogs fitted with travois poles to carry the meat back to camp. The groups laughed and shouted as they butchered the dead buffalo that lay all around.
    Not far from the river, they found Schlape in the company of three Pawnee women. He was lying on a buffalo hide watching them remove the tendons of a cow, his face, hands, and shirtfront covered with blood. Paul leaped from his saddle and approached him anxiously, fearing a serious wound, but Schlape, guessing Paul’s concern, shook his head