"the nature of valor "--part 2

buffalo hunt on the southern plains

1806 painting --lewis and clark marveled at the abundant game , wild life, plants and fruit trees of the region and wrote repeatedly in their journals "this is paradise." later explorers remarked, "the plains are a sea of grass and black with herds of bison"--estimates place buffalo populations at 30 to 60 million before the US civil war

1870 --man atop a mountain totally consisting of buffalo skulls

1870s pile of buffalo hides--by 1880s the herds had been reduced from 30 to 60 million to less than one hundred--almost extinction levels--the greatest animal kill off in human history

When I arrived in Bingham it was amazing how much the town had grown since I’d last seen it. Like the outskirts had been steadily rolling forward, farther away from the center of town, rushing out to greet you. The next amazing thing was that I’d forgotten my pockets were empty, completely neglecting the fact you really need some serious money in these towns.

For years I didn’t have to worry about money, I’d just bring in some furs to swap. Some deerskin, elk, mule deer, pronghorn antelope, or buffalo robes. Wolf, puma, lynx, bobcat, otter ,and beaver pelts. That, or just some fresh game meat to trade, but everything was different now. The bottom dropped out of the fur trade--first, as otter and beaver became more and more impossible to find and later, the slaughter of the bison herds caused a glut in buffalo robes that dropped prices down to almost zero and put the nail in the coffin for the fur trade.

I was scouting around town, sizing the place up before asking strangers about Major Carleton, and just when I was thinking I’d stop at one of the stables to see if I could shovel out the stalls for some pocket money and a bed later that night up in the straw loft--I saw a crowd gathering.

This tall gent in a frock coat was standing out in the street yelling he’s got 50 dollars in gold pieces--five Golden Eagles--for any man who can put up five dollars and last three rounds with the middleweight boxing champion of Dublin--“Irish Jimmy Doyle“. This little feller’s out there with his shirt off and jumping around showing off his footwork, boxing his shadow.

The tall gent looks at me and says, “What about you, Tex? You want a chance at this 50 in gold?“ he jingles the coins together to make it all sound more enticing.

‘Well, I wouldn’t mind having those Eagles jingling my pockets, but I don’t have five dollars. Fact is, I was looking for a little odd work around here, maybe for…”

“Never mind, Tex. No money, no chance. You couldn’t win anyway.”

Frock Coat dismissing me like that started to make me curious if I could take the little feller. He didn’t look that tough to me. And suddenly, this cowboy-- looking like he’d been ‘tying one on’ all night--starts waving his money in the air and hollering, “I got five on Tex !” Then a stout feller in a barkeep’s apron pulls out some money and says, ” I got ten on the little man. “

Before I can say anything, people are pulling out more money than I’ve seen in some banks and are making bets left and right--for me--against me.

I try again to tell them I don’t have five dollars, but a bunch of folks, throw in a nickel there, two bits here, a dollar there--until there’s more than five dollars. Now, everybody’s looking at me.
” Well, what are you gonna do? You gonna fight him, Tex?”

It was like I’d been down this trail before. Too many times. Everybody looking at me and expecting something. I could recall old faces, their voices still whispering inside my head .

“Sergeant Cantrell, they’ve fixed bayonets and they’re forming up skirmish lines--Do we fight or run? What are we gonna do? “

“Waldo, it looks like the Cheyenne are coming --What are we gonna do? Maybe we should run ?”

I figured that despite all of Jimmy Doyle’s fancy boxing, he wasn’t big enough to really hurt me. I could last the three rounds and win that fifty dollars. With five Golden Eagles I wouldn’t have to shovel manure and sleep in a hayloft near the animals--I could sleep in a bed like a human being. I could buy tobacco, cloth, a few sacks of flour, some beans and salt meat as gifts--I wouldn’t have to face the embarrassment of visiting my Kiowa in-laws empty handed. With 50 dollars, I wouldn’t seem so destitute when I found Major Carleton and asked him to help me get my army back pay. There seemed a lot more reasons to try my luck against skinny Irish Jimmy’s footwork and quick little fists, than not.

Once again as the crowd swarmed ,whooped and roared, the “great” Waldo Cantrell felt that same familiar helplessness that overwhelmed me so many times before, as the pull of events bigger than myself--were irresistibly drawing me forward.

After the first round, I have to admit I hadn’t landed one good punch--yet I was pretty well spent. My face felt like a swarm of hornets used it for target practice. My jaw was numb and the old legs had no spring left in them. Guess old Waldo may not be as young as he once was.

I was about to call it quits, when all of a sudden, it popped into my head to grab the little feller--which I did, and tossed him to the ground--on his head. He wasn’t hurt too bad--he was still breathing--but was knocked out cold. And Frock Coat was jumping up and down yelling that I had fouled Jimmy--calling for me to be disqualified.

“Disqualified how ?” yelled the drunken cowboy.

I was just glad it was over--too beat up and exhausted to speak.

Frock Coat continued to argue and the crowd--the ones betting on me as a long shot--started getting ugly. Finally, this ancient-looking clown in patched pants and run over shoes with an old Confederate nine-shot LeMat pistol strapped to his hip, intervened. He pointed to me and announced, “I rule in this man’s favor .”

“Who the hell are you?” Frock Coat asked .

“ The Honorable MacArthur T. Foley--acting 13th circuit court judge for these territories. “ The Judge pulled back his own coat revealing the considerable firepower in the holster he was wearing.

“ This man cheated!” Frock Coat yelled pointing at me. “He threw Jimmy on his head --violated Marquis of Queensberry Rules.“

“No sir, “ Foley replied, “You never stipulated what rules were in effect. Under London Prize Ring Rules, holds, throws and spiked shoes-within reason- are all legal. Your man had 30 seconds to rest after going down and eight seconds more to get back out there ready to fight. Your boy’s been out cold for more than a minute now. Rules say if a fighter fails to ‘come to scratch’ in 38 seconds--the fighter left standing at the ‘scratch line’ where the fight began--in this case, that pathetic-looking Texan over there--wins the bout. “

The judge had given his verdict--the crowd--the ones that bet on me--cheered. The five Golden Eagles felt good in my palm--even better in my pocket--but my hands told me my face was raw meat.

“ Thank you, your honor,” I said through swollen, bleeding lips .

“Go to hell, Tex. I lost five dollars on that imbecile. Personally, I thought he’d kill you.“

“Sorry for not dying, your honor,” sarcasm eased the pain of my swollen face.

“ You can at least buy me a drink--you Texas ingrate.“ Foley grumbled.

“Ain’t from Texas.”

The drunken cowboy staggered over, grabbed my arm and held it up in victory.
“We got the new middleweight champeen of Dublin, Ireland right here! Tex…uhhh…Tex…What‘s your surname, Tex?”

“Name ain’t Tex, It’s Waldo, ” I told him.

“ Tex Waldo--the new champ!“ the cowboy’s whiskey continued babbling. “We got the title--Dublin’s gotta come fight us, they want it back!“

“Waldo?“ Foley’s ears picked up like a curious mule. “Not Waldo Cantrell?”

I nodded my head.

“You’re Waldo Cantrell? THE Waldo Cantrell?” asked Foley.

“ Afraid so.”

“ MY GOD, Man! Why the hell didn’t you tell us?”

Foley pulled the LeMat from its holster pointed up into the air and fired three blasts. The noisy bunch of rowdies froze.

“Boys , we got a genuine American hero among us! Hero of the battles of Cero Gordo and Vera Cruz. Hero of Vicksburg and Chattanooga, hero of the battle of Adobe Plains--and now the undisputed middleweight champion of Dublin, Ireland--Ladies and Gentlemen--I give you Waldo Cantrell !

Before I could utter a word they snatched me up in the air on their shoulders. Hauled me like a sack of potatoes to the nearest saloon. The back patting and drink buying went ahead as scheduled. It smelled like wildfire again --best I could do was warm my feet. It was crazy.