He stared at the three figures so far below him in the field, suspended there in the wide, bright, brittle fullness of light, and he almost started up to call, to wave his arms, like a traveler lost in some desert country who sees far off, or thinks he sees, other men of his party moving confidently and serenely and unheedingly to disappear beyond some fold or abutment of the landscape, or into distance. But he did not. He lay on the ground, with his head on his arms, shaken, suddenly, by that common scene below him, more than he had been by the hardships of his flight, or the clung-to recollection of happinesses and distresses past, or the news of the birth of his son.

  ‘Oklahoma,’ Willie Proudfit said.

  ‘They say a man kin git a start,’ Sylvestus said.

  ‘A long time since I seen hit,’ Willie Proudfit said. He shifted a little, and the boards of the porch floor creaked in the dark. Then he said: ‘Folks was goen in, then. To git a start. And fer one reason or ’nuther. Some just a move-en kind of folks, just move-en on. Lak I was, them days. The buffalo petered out, and they wasn’t no more, whar I’d seen ’em black the ground off yander when a man looked. So I moved on, west. But I come back here. But a lot of folks, they ne’er come back, no-whar.’

  He waited awhile, then he said: ‘I come back, and left the dry country. But a man ne’er knows. Maybe I’ll be goen back. To Oklahoma, maybe.’

  ‘Sweat fer nuthen,’ the nephew said, ‘in this country.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll be goen agin,’ Willie Proudfit said, ‘and the time comes. If they’s a place for a man to go nowadays. My pappy up and left here, and he ne’er aimed to, till the time come. Hit was in ’sixty-one and the war a-starten. My pappy wasn’t easy in his mind. He never was no Bible-man exactly, but he studied on the shooten and the killen, and he prayed the Lord to show him which side to take. Which was the Lord’s side. One mornen he said, “I ain’t a-stayen in this country, on-easy in my mind and with my neighbors.” He said, “I’m a-leave-en.”

  ‘So he got shed of what he had, land and gear, what he couldn’t git on a wagon. And he put two span oxen to the wagon, and we all hit out towards north Arkansas. Pappy had a cousin in north Arkansas who wrote him a letter sayen north Arkansas was air man’s country, free fer the gitten, a fair land and flowen. We went down west Tennessee, whar hit was cotton, ever whar a man looked. And to Memphis. We got on a steamboat at Memphis and went down the Mississippi and up the Arkansas. Been took a long time. Then we come to Little Rock. We stayed in Little Rock nigh onto three weeks waiten fer pappy’s cousin. And me, I got so I knowed my way all over the hull town, you know how a kid is, a-pryen and a-prowlen. We was campen down on a little crick, and pappy was a-fretten and a-fume-en to be gitten on, and the season wearen. He wanted to be gitten some ground broke, even if hit was late, and a house up fore winter. And the drinken water in Little Rock, hit wasn’t so good and pappy one to be cantankerous about drinken water. They’s water in that country, but hit ain’t good water lak the water here. Lots of folks them days had the flux in Little Rock, they said, and hit was the drinken water.

  ‘But me, I was ten-’leven year old, and ever day Sunday. I’d go up and see the men drillen and gitten ready, some of them drillen with sticks, not have-en no guns yit. One day I says, “Pappy, ain’t you gonna be a sojer?” “Sojer, sojer,” he said, “you stay away from them sojers, or I’ll whale the tar.” But I’d slip off and go watch them sojers, lak a kid will. I had ne’er seen sich.

  ‘Then pappy’s cousin come. “Amon,” he said to my pappy, fer Amon was his name, “I been slow a-gitten here, but sumthen crost my path.” He taken a piece of paper outer his pocket, and he had drawed a map on hit, with ever thing marked good. My pappy studied on the map, then he said, “Ain’t you goen back?” “Naw, Amon, I ain’t,” pappy’s cousin said, “I’m a sojer now.”

  ‘ “Sojer,” my pappy said, and looked at him.

  ‘ “Sojer,” pappy’s cousin said, “but I ain’t a family man, lak you.”

  ‘Pappy shook his head, slow. “Naw,” he said, “hit ain’t that. I had me a good place in Kentucky. And my wife, she’s a clever woman and foreminded. I’ll lay her agin air woman I e’er seen. She and my boys, they could run my place, and I could been a sojer. If I had hit in my mind and heart. But I ain’t. I ain’t clear and easy in my mind, this rise-en and slayen and a man not knowen.”

  ‘So pappy taken the map, and we loaded up the wagon, and put the oxen in, and crost over the river. That same, blessed day. Fer north Arkansas.

  ‘Hit was air man’s country, and the Lord’s truth. Fair and flowen, lak pappy’s cousin done said. Pappy found him a place in a fork of two cricks, bottom ground and high ground layen to a man’s use-en, and a spring outer the ground, and timber standen, scalybark and white oak and cedar and yaller poplar and beech. And squirrels so thick they barked to wake you up of a mornen. “Lord God, Lord God,” pappy said real soft, just standen there looken, after he’d done settled his mind on a spot to set his house. Then he said to ma, right sharp and sudden: “Henrietta, gimme that axe!” And ma done hit.

  ‘Some of the folks round there went off and went to the war, like pappy’s cousin, but pappy never the hull duration. Folks would be a-talken, and a man mought name the war, and pappy, he’d just git up and walk off. Then word come the war was over. I was a big feller then, goen on sixteen, and handy if I do say so. Us boys worked with pappy round the place, and we done right well. Hit was a good country, fer fair.

  ‘Time come I was goen on nineteen, and I said to pappy, “Pappy, I been studyen about goen up to Kansas.”

  ‘And pappy said, “Boy, I been notice-en you sorter raise-en yore sap.”

  ‘So I taken out fer Kansas. Pappy gimme a horse and saddle and fifty dollars and hit gold. I figgered I’d go to Kansas and be a buffalo hunter, lak I’d heared tell. I figgered I was handy with a rifle as the next man. Many’s the time, shooten fer a steer, I’d took hind quarter, hide, and tallow, that being top man. Fellers would put up fifty cents a-piece and buy a steer and shoot fer choice, high man hind quarter, hide, and tallow, next man, hind quarter, and next man, fore quarter and head, and next man, fore quarter. Shoot at a shingle and a little heart drawed on hit in white clay, forty paces free style or sixty paces layen to a chunk.

  ‘Hit was in Hays City I taken up with a feller named Mingo Smith. He was a Yankee and he fit the war. He got mustered out and he come to Kansas. He’d been a muleskinner down to Santa Fe, and a bull-whacker out Colorado way, and a boss layen the Kansas Pacific railroad, and he’d hunted buffalo fer the railroad, too, to feed the men, they wasn’t nuthen he hadn’t took a turn to, hit looked lak. He was a long skinny feller, didn’t have no meat on his bones to speak of, and his face was all yaller and he didn’t have no hair to his head, and hit yaller, too. And him not more’n thirty. “Some day, I’ll shore be a disappointmint to a Cheyenne,” he’d say, and rub his hand over whar his hair oughter be. He figgered he’d take one more turn, the price on hides goen up lak hit was. Men come-en out to Hays City to buy hides, and all. Mingo, he had some money he’d got fer freighten up from Fort Sill, and a old wagon, and he bought and paid fer what all we needed, and said I could pay him my part outer what we took. So I thanked him kindly, and we hit out, him and me.

  ‘Seven-eight year, and durn, we was all over that-air country, one time and ernuther. North of Hays City to the Saline, and up Pawnee Creek and the Arkansas, and down in the Panhandle on the Canadian, and down to Fort Sill. They had been a time a man couldn’t git nuthen fer a hide not seasonable, with the fur good, and summer hunten didn’t pay a man powder and git. But we come in to Hays City our first trip, loaded down, and figgeren on what to do till the cold come, and a feller what bought hides for Durfee, over to Leavenworth — give us two dollars and a dime fer prime bull, I recollect — he says, “Boys, just belly up quick, and quench yore thirst, and hit out again, I’m buyen now, summer or winter, rain or shine!” “Is that a fact,” Mingo says, “summer hide?” “Hit’s a fact,” that feller says.

  ‘Mingo up and buys ernuther wagon, and hires two feller to skin — Irish, they was, the country was plumb full of Irish — and a feller to cook and stretch, and I says to him, “Lord God, Mingo, you act lak we was rich.” And he says, “We ain’t, but Lord God, we gonna be. And I’m durn tired of skinnen, durned if I ain’t. I don’t mind shooten, but I hate to skin. One thing hit was, shooten rebels, a man ne’er had to skin ’em. Hit’s gonna be shooten now, like a gentleman, till the barr’l hots.”

  ‘And durn if he didn’t say the God’s truth. The barr’l hot to a man’s hand. The day a still day, and the smoke round a man’s head like a fog, and yore ears ringen. If’n you got a stand — the buffalo standen and graze-en — and drapped the lead one, the others mought just sniff and bawl, and not stampede. If you was lucky. Nuthen to hit then, keep on shooten fer the outside ones that looked lak they mought git restless, take hit easy and not git yore gun barr’l too hot. That next year, I mind me we got two good stand, Mingo one and me one. I was come-en up a little rise south of a crick runnen in the Pawnee, and I raised up my head, keerful, and thar they was, a passel of ’em. ’Bout a hundred and fifty paces off yander, and me down wind. I propped my Sharp’s to my prongstick, and cracked down. I started to git up — a man would git up and run to git him his next shot — and got on one knee, and I see they wasn’t no buffalo down. I figgered I’d missed, and a easy shot, and I laid back down fer a try. Then I seen a buffalo just lay down, and the rest standen thar, not move-en. I shot agin, and a buffalo come down, and the rest a-standen. And agin. I said, “Lord God,” I said, “I do believe hit’s a stand!”

  ‘A stand hit was. I laid thar, looken down the barr’l of my Sharp’s and the buffalo standen. I laid thar, counten out loud betwixt shots not to go too fast and hot the gun. A long time, and I could see ’em come down, slow, to the knees, when the ball found. Then keel over and lay. And the rest standen round, sniffen and bawlen. A man lays thar, the sun a-bearen down, and keeps on a-pullen on the trigger. He ain’t lak his-self. Naw, he ain’t. Lak he wasn’t no man, nor nuthen. Lak hit ain’t him has a-holt of the gun, but the gun had a-holt of him. Lak he mought git up and walk off and leave them buffalo down the rise, a-standen, and leave the gun lay, and the gun would be shooten and a-shooten, by hitself, and ne’er no end. And the buffalo, down the rise, standen and bawlen. Hit comes to a man that a-way.

  ‘Seventy-two buffalo I shot that afternoon, layen thar, a-fore they broke and run. Gitten on to sun, they broke. I laid thar, and seen ’em go, what was left, not nigh a score, and the dust a-rise-en behind ’em. They run north, I seen ’em past sight, but I kept on a-layen thar, lak I couldn’t uncrook my hand-holt off’n my Sharp’s, and the barr’l hot to a man’s flesh. I laid thar, lak a man past his short rows.

  ‘ “Durn,” Mingo said, “them buffalo down thar, and you a-layen here lak hit wasn’t nuthen!” I ne’er heared him come-en. “Boy, go git them Irish,” he said, “hit’s gonna be night work, a-skinnen.” I didn’t say nuthen, I taken out fer the wagons to git them skinners when they done got done with the ones they was skinnen. We got back hit was night, and Mingo down thar, skinnen and cussen. But the moon come up, red and swole layen thar to the east, bigger’n a barn. Ain’t no moons in this country lak them moons in west Kansas. We skinned by the moon. Didn’t nobody say nuthen. Nary a sound but a man grunten, or a knife whetten on a stell, maybe, soft and whickeren lak when hit’s a good temper to the blade, and the sound hit makes when the hide gives off’n the meat to a good long pull. Then, off a-ways, the coyotes singen, and come-en closter.

  ‘We skinned ’em all, all seventy-two, and taken the tongues. And the mops off’n the bulls. We loaded the wagon, and started up the rise, not have-en et, and plumb tuckered. Nigh half way up the rise, I recollect, I looked back. The moon was ride-en high, and the ground down thar looked white lak water, I recollect, and them carcases sticken up lak black rocks outer water.

  ‘But a man didn’t make him a stand ever day. Not by a sight, I kin tell you. He’d try the wind and git down wind, and start move-en in, slow and keerful, crawlen a good piece maybe. They started move-en, and hit was time. Two hundred paces and you was lucky. But a Sharp’s will shoot lak a cannon. Hit’s a fact. Three quarter mile ain’t nuthen fer a Sharp’s, not even on a bull buffalo, if’n you kin hit him. Which you caint. But two-fifty, three hundred paces, a man kin. And under the hump. You shoot, and the herd breaks and runs, and stops, and you run to ketch up, and lay and shoot. And they run agin. That a-way, till they done left you.

  ‘But one way and ernuther, by and large we taken our share, Mingo and me. Winter and summer. And not us only. In Charlie Rath’s sheds in Dodge City, many’s the time with my own eyes I seen fifty-sixty thousand hides baled up and waiten, and his loaden yard so thick with wagons a man could nigh cross hit and ne’er set foot to ground. Wagons standen nigh hub to hub, and loaded, and fellers just in and likkered up and rare-en and cussen, waiten to git shet of their take. A time hit was, with money free lak sweat on a nigger, and men outer the war and from fer countries, and the likker runnen lak water. A power of meanness, and no denyen. But a man could git a-long, and not have him no trouble to speak on. If’n he tended to his business, and was God-fearen, and ne’er taken no back-sass off’n no man.

  ‘We got our’n and didn’t reckon on no end, hit looked lak. But a man’s that a-way. He sees sumthen, and don’t reckon on no end, no way, and don’t see hit a-come-en. They’s a hoggishness in man, and a hog-blindness. Down off’n Medicine Lodge Crick, one time, I was a standen on a little rise, in the spring, and the buffalo was a-move-en. North, lak they done. All the buffalo trails run north-south, and hit was spring. They was move-en north, and fer as a man could see, hit was buffalo. They was that thick. No pore human man could name their number, only the Lord on high. That a-way, and no man to say the end. But I seen ’em lay, skinned and stinken, black-en the ground fer what a man could ride half a day. A man couldn’t breathe fresh fer the stinken. And before you knowed hit, they wasn’t no buffalo in Kansas. You could go a hull day and see nary a one. “Hit’s me fer Oklahoma,” Mingo said, “whar thar’s buffalo yit. Down Cimarron way, or Beaver Crick.”

  ‘ “Hit’s Indian country,” I said. “I ain’t a-relishen no Indians.”

  ‘ “They’s fellers been down thar and done right good,” Mingo said. “I heared tell of a feller come out with nigh onto a thousand hides, and not down thar no time.”

  ‘ “And fellers been down thar and ain’t come back,” I said.

  ‘ “Indians,” Mingo said, “I fit Indians down in Oklahoma, when I was freighten. Hit ain’t nuthen to brag on. They ain’t got nuthen lak this-here.” And he give his Sharp’s a little h’ist. “The guns they got, ain’t no white man would have ’em.”

  ‘ “I ain’t skeered,” I said, “but hit ain’t the law. Hit’s Indian country down thar, by law.”

  ‘ “Indian country,” and Mingo give a spit, “hit ain’t Indian country fer long. A feller from Dodge City said they’s a gang gitten ready to go down fer buffalo, all together. Said Myers was gonna go down and buy hides and set up to do business right thar, down in Oklahoma, or maybe Texas toward the Canadian. Hit’s big doens.”

  ‘ “You figgeren on goen down with ’em?” I ast him.

  ‘ “Naw,” Mingo said, “folks gits under my feet.”

  ‘We went down to Oklahoma, just us and our skinners. New skinners, they was, our old skinners quitten, nor wanten to go to Indian country. We got two new ones, a French feller and a nigger. We had to give ’em eighty dollars a month and found, because hit was Indian country. We went down thar. ’Seventy-four, hit was, and a drout year with the cricks dryen. And they was grasshoppers come that year, I recollect. But we made out, and they was buffalo thar. Hit was lak a-fore, the buffalo move-en and fillen the land. Hit was lak new country. Fer a spell. And we worked fast and fer. But a man had to keep his eyes skinned, looken fer Indians. And somebody watchen all night, turn about. We ne’er seen none till we got our first take out, up to Dodge City, and come back. Then we seen some, one time. The nigger was down a little draw, skinnen some buffalo Mingo shot, and French was at the wagon, stretchen hides, and Mingo and me was move-en out in the open. They come over a rise, between the draw and the wagons and we seen ’em. We high-tailed fer home, and beat ’em to the wagons, and started shooten. “Whar’s the nigger?” Mingo said.

  ‘ “He ain’t here,” French said.

  ‘ “God dammit,” Mingo said, layen thar shooten, “that black bastud lets ’em slip up and git him, and me with a dislak fer skinnen lak I got. Hit’s the thanks a man gits fer fighten rebels four years to set a nigger free.”

  ‘We laid thar a-shooten at ’em all afternoon. French loaden, and Mingo and me shooten. When they was a-way off, we used our Sharp’s, and when they come ride-en in clost, we used our carbeen and Colt guns. A Spencer carbeen shoots twelve times without stoppen, and heavy lead. Hit was that a-way all afternoon, and hit was a clear night and they couldn’t git in clost and us not see. They tried hit but we seen ’em ever time. They left a-fore day.

  ‘Hit come day, and they was gone. They was some ponies layen off here and yander, and close in, not more’n fifteen paces, a Indian. I ne’er knowed one got that nigh, but night time’ll fool you. If’n we got airy other, they carried him off. But this one was too clost. We walked out to whar he was a-layen. “Tryen to make a coup,” Mingo said, “come-en in clost, that a-way. Wanted to git to be a chief.” He was a young Indian, and he was shot in the guts. “The durn fool,” Mingo said. He poked him with his foot. “Kiowa,” he said. Then he squatted down and taken out his knife.

  ‘ “What you aim to do?” I ast him.