C:\Users\John\Documents\H & I\Harry Turtledove - The Green Buffalo.pdb

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Harry Turtledove - The Green Bu

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31/12/2007

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THE GREEN BUFFALO
H a r r y T u r t l e d o v e

I’m stackin’sacks of beans in the back of my brother Pete’s general store when
the door through the false front opens up and hits the bell a whack. The beans
can wait. I hustle out front to see who it is.
“Mornin’, Mr. Hatcher,” I says, and touch one finger to where my hat brim’d be
if I was wearing a hat—Pete, he always says be polite. “What can I do for you
today? You haven’t come down to Lusk in a while.”
“Hello, Joe,” John Hatcher answers. He’s a little skinny fellow, already
mostly bald no matter that he can’t be more than thirty. He looks like an
undertaker, is what he looks like. Anyway, he goes on, “I came in to send a
new shipment off to Professor Marsh, and I figured I’d telegraph to let him
know it’s on the way.”
“Right you are.” I go on over to the telegraph clicker off in one corner, set
myself down. “Go ahead. You want to write your message out, or can you just
talk it to me?”
“I’ll talk it,” he says, the way he usually does—he knows how to say what he
thinks, does John Hatcher. “Let’s see, today’s the seventeenth, isn’t it? All
right, here we go, Joe: ‘August 17, 1890. To Othniel Charles Marsh, Yale
University, New Haven, Connecticut.’ ”
“Spell me ‘Othniel,’ ” I say. I’ve sent the man a dozen telegrams, and I never
can rightly remember how his name goes.
Hatcher spells it out, then goes on, “ ‘Coming east will be two skulls and
other skeletal remains ofTriceratops brevicornus —”
“Ofwhat? ” I say, and I take my hand off the key. “You know you got to spell
me out those funny names you throw around.” He spells out
T-R-I-C-E-R-A-T-O-P-S B-R-E-V-I-C-O-R-N-U-S, nice and slow, and I tap it out a
letter at a time. Then I ask him, “Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Hatcher, but what
the hell is a Triceratops brevi-whatever?”
“A dinosaur, Joe, a dinosaur with a skull as long as you are and ten times as
heavy.” John Hatcher’s been out here for years, diggin’ up old bones and
shippin’ ’em back east. Damn fool way for a grown man to spend his time if you
ask me, especially for a man as good with a deck of cards as Hatcher. Anyways,
he goes on, “ ‘—excavated from the Upper Cretaceous’ ”—I had him spell that
one, too—“ ‘Lance Creek beds. More to be forthcoming as discovered. John Bell
Hatcher.’ ”
I send it off, then count up the words and say, “That’ll be a dollar twenty,
Mr. Hatcher.” He tosses down a gold dollar and a couple of dimes. I ask him,
“What else can I do for you today?”
“Well, we’re running low on beans out at the camp,” he says, and it’s all I
can do to keep from cheering. I’d sooner sell beans than stack ’em, any day.
He wants some salt, too, and some flour, as much plaster of Paris as we have,
and a couple of other things I misremember. Then he says, “If you want to help

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get my boxes down from the wagon over at the train station, there’s two
dollars gold in it for you.”
“I’m your man,” I say, and we both head out of the store. I shut the door
after me, but Pete comes up just then, all fresh-shaved from the barber shop.
“Got some stevedore work from Mr. Hatcher here,” I tell him. He waves for me
to go on, so I go.
Seems like half the menfolks in Lusk are already gathered round Hatcher’s
wagon by the time I get there. He needed us, too—we work and we work, and by
the time we wrestle this big crate off it and down the ramp to the ground,
we’re licked, I tell you. “What the devil you really got in there, anyways?”
somebody asks Hatcher.
“Dinosaur bones,” he answers, the same as he always does. He’s been shippin’
the things east out of Lusk for years now. ’Most everybody in town’s rode out
to his digs one time or another, to look things over. Ain’t nobody ever caught
him minin’ gold on the sly yet. Now he says, “I do thank you, gentlemen.
Drinks are on me.”
Nobody tells him no, either. We’re all sweaty from fightin’ the crate, and
even if we hadn’t been, who’s going to turn down a free shot? We all troop
over to the Rebel Yell, and Hatcher buys, just like he said he would. Then he
sits himself down at one of the tables, and five or six of the boys sit down
with him.
Me, I knock back my whiskey and get on out of there, before I’m fool enough to
try playin’ poker with John Hatcher again. That’s not a wise thing to do, and
I learned it the expensive way. So has every pokerplayin’ man in Lusk, but it
don’t stop some of’em from comin’ back after him. Some folks purely ain’t got
no sense, you ask me.
I go on back to the store and start stackin’ up what Hatcher ordered from me.
Pete asks me why I’m back so soon and I tell him the same thing I just told
you—“Hatcher’s in a poker game.” Pete, he only grunts. He’s stubborner’n me,
my brother is, so Mr. John Bell Hatcher won a good deal more money off him
than off me before Pete figured out he couldn’t lick him. You throw me in the
ocean, I’ll tell you pretty damn quick I’m in over my head. My brother, he’d
sooner try to wade to China, he would.
Maybe there’s some new suckers in the Rebel Yell that day, maybe the cards are
even hotter for Hatcher than usual, or maybe he’s just plain glad to be in
town—even a pissant excuse for a town like I know Lusk is—because he doesn’t
come in for his supplies all afternoon long. Come to think of it, maybe he
went upstairs a time or two, too, instead of playin’ cards all that while.
Women’s another thing you’ll find in town that’s in short supply diggin’ old
bones out by Lance Creek.
The sun’s close to setting when the telegraph clicker starts to chatter.
Pete’s closer to it than I am, so he gets the message down. When it’s done, he
gives it to me. “It’s for Hatcher,” he says. “Why don’t you take it on over to
him?”
So I take it. Sure enough, he’s still at the poker table when I walk back into
the Rebel Yell, and sure enough he’s got a nice stack of gold and silver in
front of him. He’s got a bottle in front of him, too, a bottle he’s been
workin’ on, but it don’t look to have made him lose his card sense, not one
bit of it.
“Telegram for you, Mr. Hatcher,” I says. “It’s from New Haven, it is.”
“I thank you kindly, Joe.” Hatcher takes the telegram from me, reads it
through, and then, so help me Hannah, he starts to howl like a coyote, he’s
laughin’ so hard.
“What’s funny?” I ask him. He’s been comin’ into Lusk three, four years now,
and I ain’t never heard him laugh like that before.
“Listen to this.” He picks up the telegram from where he’s dropped it on the
table, reads it out loud to me and everybody else. It goes like this: “ ‘To
John Bell Hatcher. The perfidious Cope may by pure luck have found and
described inMonoclonius the first of the ceratopsian dinosaurs, but my own’
(that’s Marsh talking, not me, mind you) ‘continued discoveries of these fine

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specimens ofTriceratops serve to cast him into the shade which is his natural
home. Signed, O.C. Marsh.’ ”
I’m not the only one inside the Rebel Yell scratchin’ my head over all that.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Hatcher, but I don’t quite see the joke,” I say.
“Well, for one thing, Marsh and Cope have hated each other’s guts for twenty
years now. If Cope were in a firepit of hell and screaming out for water,
Marsh would hand him a bottle of kerosene—and the other way round, too. So if
I’ve found a bigger fancier dinosaur that’s related to one Cope found first,
half the reason Marsh is tickled about it is that he gets to score points off
Copes hide.”
“I always thought professors were quiet, peaceable sorts,” I says.
Hatcher commences to laugh again, but this time he gets hold of himself before
it runs away with him. He goes on, “For another thing, notice they’re his
dinosaurs, even if I’m the one who’s excavating them and shipping them off to
him. He named the strata—the rock formations—from which we’re
diggingTriceratops the Ceratops bed, and traced them eight hundred miles along
the flanks of the Rockies, and carefully explored them, too, all in the space
of three and a half days’ time in the field.”
“He did?” I say.
“He says he did.” Hatcher lays a finger alongside of his nose.
“This here’s a professor? Sounds more like a snake-oil salesman to me.”
“He is. And if he were selling, you’d buy, too. He’s like that.” Hatcher sets
down the telegram again, picks up his cards, just like he’s forgot what he’s
holding. He tosses a gold half-eagle and then an eagle onto the middle of the
table, careless-like. “See your five dollars, Fred, and I’ll raise you ten.”
Long as I’m at the Rebel Yell, I figure I’ll buy me a drink. So I do, and sure
as hell Fred loses that hand. He stomps out, all disgusted, but somebody else
with more money’n sense sits down in his seat. John Hatcher, he doesn’t even
smile.
I go on back to the store, work some more. Hatcher’s stuff is all piled up
nice and neat, but he doesn’t come get it. The fellow who took Fred’s seat
must be one natural-born greenhorn. Finally Pete and me, we go on up to bed up
in the attic.
Hatcher finally shows up the next morning. I hear later he’d played poker all
night long, but he doesn’t look it. I help him and his people load up their
wagon—believe me, what we throw in isn’t near as heavy as them bones we’d took
out the day before. He pays me off, starts to get up onto the wagon, then
stops and rubs his chin like he’s just thought of somethin’.
He had, too. He turns around, says to me, “Joe, how would you like to ride out
to camp with us. We’re short of fresh meat, but we’ve been too busy digging to
do much in the way of hunting. Maybe you and a couple of other folks from Lusk
can shoot some for us.”
“Three dollars a day, like the last time?” I ask. He just nods. It doesn’t
faze him a bit. I don’t know whether he’s spending Marsh’s money or what he
wins at poker, but he always seems to have plenty. I say, “Let me go in and
ask Pete.”
I do. Pete says, “Sure, go on. I’ll do well enough alone for a few days, and
you’ll have yourself a good time.” So I go get my Winchester and two, three
boxes of shells, walk over to the livery stable for my horse, and I’m back to
Hatcher’s wagon inside half an hour. By then he’s not there—he’s off gettin’
his other people. My pa, he fought in the States War. He always used to say
soldierin’ was like that—as soon as one thing’s ready, another one ain’t. So I
light up a cigar and I wait.
Hatcher, he comes back before too real long, I will say. Then up ride Jake
Snow and Clancy O’Doole, one after the other. Clancy works for his brother
Charlie, the farrier. Jake, he just drifts. Sometimes he rides herd, sometimes
he does odd jobs, sometimes he just sits in the Rebel Yell cadgin’ drinks.
Can’t deny he’s a good man with a gun, though.
We ride out of Lusk, must have been a little past eight. The sun’s right nice
that time o’ day. It lights up the red cliffs west of town pretty as a penny

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postcard. And you know what else? The air’s a sight fresher out of town too,
away from the chimneys and the stables and the privies. I ought to get out
more often. I really should.
We rattle along, not in any tearin’ hurry but makin’ good time all the same.
Somewhere around noon, Hatcher goes inside the wagon, lays down, and damned if
he doesn’t lay himself out on top of the beans and go to sleep. How he can
have such a clear conscience after skinnin’ so many folks at the card table is
purely beyond me. But when he comes out a couple of hours later he’s cheery as
could be, might as well have slept the whole night long.
By the time the sun goes down, we’re every one of us ready for bedrolls. We’re
still half a day out from where the rest of Hatcher’s crew is digging. He
wants to talk about his bones, but he’s the one had a nap. The rest of us are
too worn (and I’m too sore-assed; I hadn’t been in the saddle all day for a
while) to listen long.
Anyway, we get to Hatcher’s camp a little past noon the next day. He set
himself up by this outcrop of rock in the middle of nowhere, near as I can
see, but seein’ the way he knows poker, I figure he knows his own game, too.
When we ride up, a couple of his people that was still there come runnin’ over
and shoutin’ like they found gold or somethin’ really good.
But it’s only more bones. They’re carryin’ on somethin’ fierce about a fibia
and tibula or tibia and fibula or whatever the hell the right names of ’em
are.
Hatcher gets all excited too. He jumps down from the wagon and goes runnin’
over like wolves are after him. Over his shoulder, he says, “Joe, Jake,
Clancy, this is what we spend our time doing out here, if you care to see it.”
I get down from my horse and go on over after him. Sure as hell, his people’ve
dug a couple of great big bones out of the rock. There’s picks leaned up
against the outcrop, and chisels, and little awls and things like a dentist
uses to poke inside your mouth with.
John Hatcher, he’s carryin’ on like my sister Betty did after she had her
baby. He’s as careful with those bones as Betty was with Tyler, too—he touches
’em like they’d break if he looked at ’em sideways. Then one of the fellows
who was there when we came in says, “We saved these so you could have a look
at them. We’ll protect them now.”
Well, blast me if they don’t start coatin’ them old, dead bones with plaster,
just like a sawbones would do if I busted an arm. Hatcher sees I’m kind of
starin’ like, so he says, “We don’t want them to break either on the way to
the train or going east on it. They can’t grow back together again, you know.”
He’s just about readin’ my mind. No wonder he’s such a blamed good poker
player.
Jake hasn’t even got off his horse. He shifts his chow, spits, and says,
“Let’s get huntin’, if we’re gonna get huntin’.”
“Yeah,” Clancy says. So I mount up and the three of us, we ride on out of that
camp. When we’re out of earshot, Clancy grins and says, “And if we take a
little longer to find meat than we reckoned, well, at three dollars a day,
who’s gonna complain?”
“You got that right,” Jake says, and spits again.
Twenty years ago, you ride around in this part of the country and you’d fall
over buffalo, there was that many of ’em. They’re a lot thinner on the ground
nowadays, what with repeatin’ rifles and all. Truth is, I wasn’t lookin’ to
come onto a trail. Pronghorn, I figured, ’d be about the best we can do.
But I’d just stuck a cigar in my mouth late that afternoon when blast me if we
don’t came across a buffalo track runnin’ east, and a fresh one, too. Jake
looks at Clancy, Clancy looks at me. “If we take it kind of easy,” I say
finally, “we won’t catch up to ’em tonight. We’ll worry about ’em again come
mornin’.”
“I purely like the way you think, Joe,” Clancy says.
So we make ourselves a little fire and gnaw on some jerked beef and hard
bread. I brew up a pot of coffee, we all drink some, then we draw straws for
who gets first watch. I get the short one, worse luck for me. But what with

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Indians and outlaws and all, you don’t have somebody up at night and you’ll
wake up with an extra eyehole right in the middle of your forehead.
I wake Clancy and go to bed. When Clancy wakes Jake, he’s loud enough so he
wakes me too, but not for long. Next thing that wakes me is the sun. We eat
same more bread, pour down some more coffee, and off we go.
The buffalo, they haven’t been gallivantin’ around in the night time either,
so we know pretty soon we’re gainin’ on ’em. Up ahead we see the cloud of dust
the herd is raisin’. I peer toward the cloud, tryin’ to make out critters
through that dust. I just about think I can when the god-damnedest thing
happens. I don’t hardly know how to put it into words.
One minute I’m ridin’ along without a care in the world but for tryin’ to spot
buffalo, the next I’m so dizzy I almost fall off my horse. He snorts too, like
he don’t like what’s goin’ on either, and damn near stumbles, which doesn’t
make stayin’ in the saddle any easier. Jake cusses and Clancy yells, so I’m
not the only one who feels somethin’ peculiar.
The dizzies go away after a few seconds, thank you Jesus. I guess they do for
Clancy too, ’cause he says, “That was right strange.”
And it gets stranger, let me tell you. My horse puts his head down to snatch a
bite to eat. Everybody knows what Wyoming prairie’s like—sagebrush and
tumbleweed and grass, all of it dry and yellow by the time August rolls
around. Well, may God strike me dead if my horse isn’t chewin’ on ferns like
you’d see if you was by a streambank up in the mountains somewheres, and them
just as fresh and green and pretty as ever you’d hope to find.
Not far away is a kind of plant like I never seen before. You take a palm
tree—you know, one of those funny ones they have down near the Mexican border,
looks like a feather duster for a giant—and forget about the trunk, just have
the leaves comin’ out of a knobby thing down low to the ground, and you’ll get
the idea.
Well, I could go on a while long, on account of there’s a lot more funny
plants around, but I reckon you’d think I was just makin’ it up, so I’ll leave
well enough alone. It was purely perplexin’, I tell you that. Like I said,
Jake, he’s done a deal o’ driftin’, so I turn to him and say, “Did you ever
see the like?”
“Not even close,” he answers. Just then a lizard scurries out from under one
fern and over to another. I’m not talkin’ about some little fence lizard or
horny toad, mind you; this critter’s big as my arm and half again as thick.
When Jake sees it, I thought he was gonna swallow his chaw. That’s always
worth a laugh, watchin’ a fellow puke up his guts, but he kept it where it
belongs. He spits again, and says, “Let’s us head on outa here.” Nobody argues
with him, no sirree.
We ride on about a quarter mile maybe, then the dizzies hit me again. This
time, though, they’re not so bad as they was before. My horse missteps, but I
jerk his head up and he’s all right too. When I look down, the prairie’s back
to bein’ the prairie, just like it ought to.
Jake and Clancy, they see that too. Clancy says, “Next time I drink in the
Rebel Yell, I’m gonna watch the barkeep closer. I think maybe he put locoweed
in my whiskey.”
“We all saw the same thing, Clancy,” I tell him. Then I stop and think—how do
I know that’s so? So I say, “The ferns and funny kind of squashed-down palm
and that big fat lizard—”
When I talk about the lizard, Jake spits again, so I know he seen it. Clancy
nods too. I tell you true, I’m right relieved.I wouldn’t want to think I made
that stuff up out of my own head.
We ride on after the buffalo. They’d gained some on us—I guess we spent a
while gawpin’ after we got dizzy the first time. Pretty soon, though, we come
close enough to ’em to really start pickin’ ’em out one by one. We ride
closer, lookin’ ’em over. Finally we’re within a couple hundred yards, and
nobody’s sayin’ a thing. I got to know if Jake and Clancy see the same thing I
do. I just got to, so I say, “Boys, ain’t one of them buffalogreen? ”
Clancy, he ups and crosses himself and shouts out, “Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and

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all the saints be praised, I’m not the only one!” He must be plumb shook
up—first time I ever heard him sound like an Irishman. Jake spits twice and
nods, so I figure he sees it too.
We don’t none of us say anything again for awhile, but we don’t need to,
either. We’re all makin’ for that green buffalo. The closer we come, the odder
it looks. I start to figure the green’s some kind of nasty mange, on account
of it don’t look to have any hair anywhere, just the bare hide. That makes me
want to forget about killin’ it—the stuff might be catchin’. Then I figure I
better kill it, so it can’t spread the sickness to the rest of the herd, or to
the cattle the ranchers run hereabouts.
And then I get a look at its horns. They’re bigger’n any I’ve ever seen on a
buffalo, the ones above its eyes, I mean. But on top of those—not, not on top,
in front—oh, hell, you know what I mean—it had another horn, a third one,
right on its snout. I’m not makin’ that up, so help me. Never seen one like
that before nor since. Never seen a green one before nor since, either, come
to that.
The regular buffalo, it’s like they don’t know what to make of the green one
any more’n me and Clancy and Jake do. There’s considerable pushin’ and
snortin’ and shovin’. Some of the bigger bulls, they jostle the green buffalo
pretty hard. He jostles right back, too. He’s as big as any of ’em, bigger if
you count his tail, which you ought to do, ’cause it’s bigger and fatter than
a buffalo tail has any business bein’. A buffalo he jostles stays jostled, if
you know what I mean. Those horns have a lot to do with that—he pretty near
outdoes the rest of the herd put together with ’em.
Those horns! I mean, you’d have to be a natural born fool not to want to kill
somethin’ with horns as fine as that. I swing up my rifle to my shoulder and
fire off a round. Jake and Clancy, they’re still right with me, so I don’t
know to this day if I fired first.
The buffalo, they commence to bellowin’, the way buffalo do when you shoot at
’em, and they run like a freight train comin’ down out of the Rockies with its
brakes gone. I see dust puff up on the green buffalo’s flank, so I know we hit
him, but he don’t go down. Sometimes buffalo, they’re purely hard to kill.
Kill ? Hell, far as I can tell, the green one isn’t even fazed. He runs right
along with the rest of the herd. The three of us are gallopin’ alongside ’em.
I chiefly hope my horse don’t stick his foot in a prairie dog hole. If he
does, he breaks his own fool neck and mine along with it.
The chase goes on longer than you’d think, because the green one stays in the
middle of the herd for a while. Usually in a hunt like that you take whatever
critter you can get. Me, Jake, and Clancy, though, we all want him. If we
can’t get a clear shot at him, we let the others go.
Finally, when I’m startin’ to wonder who has more wind, the herd or our
horses, the green buffalo commences to drop a little behind the rest. We start
shootin’ again soon as we see the chance. I reckon we miss a few times, too,
or maybe more’n a few. You try aimin’ from a runnin’ horse at a runnin’
buffalo, my friend, before you laugh at us for it.
But we make some hits, too. The green buffalo slows down some more, then comes
to a stop. Blood’s runnin’ down his side in little red streams. His flanks
heave like he can’t get enough air. His head hangs down the way they do when
they’re hurt too bad to go on much farther. When he opens his mouth to pant,
he drools pink. There’s pink froth around his nostrils, too, so he must’ve
been bleedin’ in the lungs.
When they stop like that, the kill’s easy. You gauge by the hump where to put
the next shot right through the heart. But the green buffalo, even his hump
isn’t right, and he’s got a bony frill, I guess you’d call it, that runs up
from his neck over the fore part of his back. Growin’ something that unnatural
must’ve been a torment to him, so I’d say he’s lucky we come along to put him
out of his misery.
I ride up close to do what needs doin’. I guess the best I can where his heart
is, take dead aim, and squeeze the trigger. I have guessed better, indeed I
have. When the bullet hits him, the green buffalo lifts up that big old head

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of his and out comes a noise like a locomotive with a busted boiler. Then he
wheels round and runs right at me.
He’s bigger and meaner’n any longhorn you ever seen. I shoot at him again, but
you got to be lucky with a head shot on a buffalo, hit him in the eye or
somethin’ like that. Otherwise the slug’ll just bounce off his skull. That’s
just what happens here, too. I rowel my horse for all I’m worth. He springs
forward like you wouldn’t believe, and the buffalo can’t quite shift fast
enough to spike me with his horn.
He lets out that squealin’ bellow again, tries to change the way he’s goin’ so
he can make another run at me. All the while, though, Jake and Clancy keep on
pumpin’ bullets into him. He takes so many I reckon when we butcher him he’ll
be as full of lead as a shotgunned mallard.
I turn around to shoot some more too, but this time I see it really isn’t
needful. That last charge of his took all the strength he has left in him. He
wobbles like a drunk goin’ out of the Rebel Yell, then kind of folds up on
himself and falls over. He heaves out another breath or two, then he’s finally
done.
“Thought he was gonna use you for a pincushion there, Joe,” Clancy says.
“You’re not the only one,” I tell him. “I thought he was through. When he came
at me, I like to’ve pissed myself.”
“Don’t blame you a bit.”
Jake says, “Let’s cut him up.” Jake, he takes care of what needs doin’ first
and worries about everything else afterwards.
I climb down from my horse, tether him to a clump of sagebrush that sticks up
higher above the ground than anything else thereabouts. Then I pull out a
knife and walk up to the green buffalo. I’m ready to run like hell, I tell
you. After that last scare, I figure he might just be shammin’.
But he’s not, not this time. The one eye I can see doesn’t blink. It just
stares up at the sky. Flies have already started walking along the tracks of
blood on his flank. One ambles down into a bullet hole, comes back out a
second later and starts wipin’ its little thread of a neck with its legs the
way they do.
I take out my knife, give the green buffalo a poke. The mange or whatever it
is has the hide all rough and scaly, but it’s not any thicker than the usual
run of buffalo hide. You have to put some arm into what you’re doin’, but you
can cut yourself a good slice.
Once they see I’m not trampled, Jake and Clancy give me a hand with the
butchering. We hack off steaks and chops and roasts till we’ve got as much as
we can carry withour pack horse and tied behind us. It’s not as easy as it
ought to be. Instead of havin’ the ribs stop at what’d be the bottom of a
man’s chest, they keep right on going, down to the critter’s hipbones—that
green buffalo isn’t normal any which way. We’re bloody to the elbows and dead
beat by afternoon, but we get the job finished.
By the time we’re done, the buzzards are already circlin’ overhead, waitin’
for their share. Soon as we take off, I figure they’ll argue it out with the
coyotes. Before too long, even the bones’ll be gone. That’s the way the world
is. If it wasn’t like that, we’d all be ass-deep in bones, and then what would
ornery professors like Hatcher’s Marsh and Cope do for fun?
We ride on back the way we came. Followin’ our own tracks is the easiest way
to get on back to Hatcher’s camp. It’s gettin’ close to sundown when Clancy
says, “Ain’t this about the place where we all got dizzy?”
I look around. He’s right. But there’s no ferns there now, no funny plants
that look like squashed feather dusters. Just prairie, lots of it. Clancy
points. “Look, there’s our tracks, right?”
I nod. Sure enough, those are our outbound tracks. Jake spits. Clancy rides on
a few more feet. I walk my horse up after him. He keeps pointin’ down to the
ground. All at once he says, “There!”
I see what he’s pointin’ at, too. Right at the spot where he said “There!” our
tracks just up and disappear. It’s not like the wind blew dust over’em. It’s
like they never, ever happened. “That’s queer, all right,” I say. Jake nods.

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Clancy looks west, points again, this time toward the horizon. “We came from
that way, right?” he says. He knows he’s right, and doesn’t wait for an
answer. He walks his horse real slow and easy westward, Iookin’ down every
foot of the way. After a quarter mile or so, maybe a tad more, he rides a
little ways south, then a little ways north, like a dog castin’ about for
ascent, Finally he says, “Ha!”
I’m right with him. He’s picked up our outbound tracks again. He rides back
east just a few feet and goes “Ha!” one more time, and then, “Goddam!” I say
“Goddam!” myself, on account of he’s found the other side of where our tracks
disappear. It’s like we didn’t ride over the stretch between, the stretch with
the ferns and all the other stuff that had no call bein’ in the Wyoming
praire.
“Hell with it,” Jake says, “Let’s cook some of this here buffalo meat. We
don’t stop and cook it pretty soon, I’ll eat it raw.” Comin’ out of Jake,
that’s a speech.
So we stop, we get a fire goin’, and we carve off chunks of meat and toast ’em
on sticks over the flames. Before long, my mouth gets to waterin’ so hard I
can’t wait any more. I blow and I blow and I blow on my chunk, then I sink my
teeth in.
I’ve had buffalo a good many times. It’s not that far from beef, a little
leaner, a little tougher, a little gamier. This green buffalo—not that his
meat was green, you understand, or the buzzards and coyotes would’ve been
welcome to it—he doesn’t taste like any buffalo I ever ate before. But he’s a
long way from bad.
Clancy says what I’m thinkin? “Reminds me more of dark-meat chicken than any
proper buffalo.” Jake doesn’t say anything. He just ups and cuts himself off
another piece.
We ride out again next mornin; and have as peaceful a trip as you please back
to Hatcher’s camp. We get there late afternoon, and everyone’s right glad to
see us, and to see the meat we’ve fetched. Hatcher’s boys, they cook some of
it and start smokin’ the rest so as it’ll keep.
I wait for Clancy or Jake to come out with the story of the green buffalo, and
I guess they wait for me too, but nobody ends up tellin’ it. I like a tall
tale as well as the next fellow, but usually a tall tale, you know the one
who’s tellin’ it is yarnin’. Speakin’ not a word but the truth and having it
taken for a tall tale, that’ll just ruin your day.
Tall tale or no, though, the meat’s still good. Me and Clancy and Jake, we sit
down around a fire and fill ourselves up again. I’m at the teeth-pickin’ stage
when Hatcher comes over. He’s chewin’ on a roasted buffalo rib. While he pays
us off, some of his boys start laughin’ over by his wagon.
“What’s funny?” I ask him.
“I picked up my mail in Lusk, along with supplies,” Hatcher answers. “O.C.
Marsh sent me a copy ofPunch with a cartoon of himself in it.”
“Punch?What’sPunch? ”
“It’s a British comic magazine. It has a picture of Marsh as a circus
ringmaster. He’s standing on aTriceratops skull—doubtless one of the ones
we’ve excavated hereabouts—and putting a whole troupe of dinosaur skeletons
through their paces, as if they were so many trained bears or lions or
elephants. Would you like to have a look?” He uses the rib bone to point back
where the magazine is.
I think it over, then shake my head. “I thank you kindly, Mr. Hatcher, but
I’ll take a miss on that. You’re the one knows about these here dinosaur
things, not me.”
“However you like, Joe. I thank you for the tasty meat you brought back.” By
now, he’s gnawed everything off of that bone, so he tosses it on the ground.
Then he reaches into his waistcoat pocket, comes out with a deck of cards.
“Care for a little game to make the time go by?”
“I’ll pass on that, too, Mr. Hatcher,” I tell him. He’s just tryin’ to skin me
out of the wages he paid so next time he needs me, he can give me the same
money again. I’m wise to that one, I am. So are Clancy and Jake, when he tries

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it on them. We may not know these dinosaurs, but we’re nobody’s fools.

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