When Earl Dean and Lucille emerged from
their tent early the next morning, Spud stood in the corral with the saddled
buffalo looking like he was readying to leave. A water bag was tied to the back
of the saddle. Earl Dean was too concerned about his own busting head to mount
any kind of a resistance so he held back. Lucille approached him.
“What do you think you’re doing, Spud?”
she asked.
Spud put his boot toe in the stirrup and
swung his leg over the saddle. The saddle groaned and his spurs jingled―the
buffalo grunted. He gathered up the reins and then he straightened his hat
before he spoke. He looked into the coming dawn. “I been up all night mullin’
things over. Here’s what I come to―I’m gonna ride this here buffalo to my ma
and pa’s place.”
Lucille did not respond. She was too
tired.
“I figger there’s only two things you
can do now―either turn ‘em lose or hide ‘em―so I’m-a gonna take the old skutter
home and hide ‘em for ya.” He watched Lucille’s face. He was pleased to see her
eyes glimmer with tears. “The old buff’s rested up good and he’s grained good,
and so am I,” he said and then he smiled and patted his stomach. “We’re cuttin’
cross country,” He moved his hand in a dramatic sweep. Lucille smiled. “. . .
Gonna avoid towns and most folks. Don’t know how long it’ll take―travelin’ light.
Shoot my supper if I get that hungry. That is if you’ll give me back my
cartridges.” He smiled at her.
Lucille reached into a pocket and handed
him five .45 caliber cartridges. He juggled them in his hand and then he pulled
the gun from his belt and opened the loading gate. One at a time he inserted
each cartridge―the cylinder clicking as he turned it. When he finished, he spun
the cylinder and then stuck the big gun back into his belt.
“You an Earl Dean just go on back home
for now. I’ll get word to ya,” he said. And then, moved by his dramatics, he
leaned over to kiss Lucille. The buffalo reacted to the shifting of his weight
in the saddle by grunting and sidestepping away―leaving him grabbing for his
hat and saddle leather to keep his seat. “Haw now you old son of a bitch,” he yelled
out to the buffalo and then he quieted himself. “Tell Earl Dean I didn’t mean
nothin’ by tryin’ to shoot him. I warn’t gonna kill his ass.” He took another
read on her face. “You take care, now, ya hear?” And then he reined the buffalo
around and headed for the gate.
Lucille went ahead and opened it. She
watched them trot away―the buffalo’s tail swishing with every footfall. A knot
filled her stomach. The sun was coming up. Time was wasting if they intended to
strike camp and head back to Vinita. Lucille smiled and wiped her eyes with the
palms of her hands. “Well, futz,” she said to herself.
Earl Dean parked his weary bones on the
running board of the car with his head weighing heavy in his hands. He said in
a whisper when Lucille approached, “Where’s that son of a bitch going to with
your buffalo?”
“It’s
time for us to go home, baby,” was all Lucille said about it.
Earl Dean turned his bloodshot, swollen
eyes to her and a bewildered expression washed over his bloodless face.
“I’ll tell you all about it on the way
home. You rest and I’ll break camp and we can go,” she said. “I’ll drive.”
“Does this mean the honeymoon is over?”
Earl Dean asked.
“Yes, baby, it’s over,” Lucille said.
“Good,” Earl Dean said with a defeated
sounding chuckle. “I don’t think I could have lived through another day of it.”
