Buffalo Bill and the Cattalo

The hunters were out about six miles northwest of Ft. Harker when they spotted the herd of buffalo. A small herd, to be sure, Bill Cody noted. Probably no more than twenty head. The bigger herd was, no doubt, much further west along the Smokey Hills River, Cody surmised.

Charley Bell drew up alongside Cody. “Well, Buffalo Bill, when and where do you want to start the shoot.”

“I told you to cut out that ‘Buffalo Bill’ stuff,” Cody said. "Wish that newspaper had never called me that."

“It’s your own fault. You agreed to the shooting match with Bill Comstock. If you hadn’t killed more buffalo than he did, he’d be ‘Buffalo Bill’ instead of you. Might as well get used to it.”

“Tell you the truth, Charlie, it does swell my head a little. I’ve shot so many buffalo in the past year, I can’t keep accurate count. I reckon it’s nearing three thousand, maybe more.”

“Well there’s more up ahead,” Bell said, raising his rifle and peering through the attached scope. “Whoa. What the Hell’s that?”

“What?”

“Look through your scope to the left side of that herd.”

Cody raised his Springfield. “I’ll be goddamned! Looks like a big bull. But, damn, I ain’t never seen a buffalo that color red with white speckles. And look at those horns. Never seen a buffalo with horns like that.”

“Like a Texas Longhorn’s,” Bell said. “Let’s ease up and take a closer look. I’ll signal the wagons to stay put.”

The two stopped a distance downwind of the group of shaggy beasts grazing peacefully on the prairie grass. They edged the horses behind a grassy knoll.

“It’s a buffalo alright and a bull, but the strangest one I ever seen,” Cody said. “Not yet fully growed. Looks leaner than other bulls. Not as big a hump. But those horns…”

“Want me to take it down? ” Bell said, raising his rifle and taking aim.

“Nope,” Cody answered. “Looking at it now close up, I got an idea what it might be. Somehow, a wild Longhorn bull found a buffalo cow in heat, and that’s the result. Never knew cattle to mix with buffalo, although it sure looks like at least one did.”

“That one there acts kind of peculiar, now that I’m watchin’ him,” Bell said. “Look, he keeps right up with that small cow. Nudgin’ her every few steps. See that?”

“Looks older than a yearling, but probably hasn’t started mating yet. Odd that he’s still with his Ma if that’s what she is. And the chief bull of this herd, over to the far right, he don’t pay him no mind. That’s odd, too,” Cody said thoughtfully, lowering his rifle. “Well, Charlie, too late in the afternoon to do any shootin’ now. They’ll still be here tomorrow. Let’s head back.”

That evening after supper, Bill Cody and his hunting crew gathered around the campfire. It was a small outfit, Cody thought, but he liked it that way. The railroad paid him a goodly sum to provide meat for the workers, and the less expense he had to dish out the more he could keep. There was just himself, Charlie Bell, his assistant shooter, Whitey Woodbine, the skinner, big Olie Swenson, the butcher, and Burt McFadden, former cowboy and now teamster and cook. With the two big freight wagons, they had hauled back tons of meat and hides this past year. They were all veteran plainsmen, Cody thought, and although he was just twenty-two, he was the boss. Nice. He lit his pipe and sat back to listen to the conversation.

“Gettin’ mighty tired of buffalo meat,” Olie Swenson said, patting his more than ample belly. “Wish we’d spot a deer. Venison would make a nice change.”

“Or a cow, a real beef cow, not a half-cow like the one you spotted today,” Burt McFadden said.

“It was a bull, and I been thinking on that,” Cody said. “It’s such an oddity. What would people say about it if we could bring it back to the Fort or to Ellsworth.”

“Just shoot it. Don’t skin it. Haul it back and charge ’em for a look at the carcass,” Bell said, half-jokingly.

“Alive, I mean,” Cody said. “Say, McFadden, you been on cattle ranches. How do they capture a bull in a cattle herd?”

“They rope ’em just like I seen you do to haul in a bronco. But the big bulls are meaner than horses, and the bigger they are the harder it is. Longhorns especially. Them horns can spread to seven feet or more, tip to tip,” McFadden said.

Burt knew first hand, Cody thought. He still limped from being gored by one years ago.

“I heard that if you put a cover over their eyes so they can’t see, they gentle down,” Swenson offered.

“Who gets that job? Not me,” McFadden said.

“When I was a kid we had a blind milk cow. Followed the other cows around by keeping real close up to them,” Whitey Woodbine said, scratching his bald head after removing his sombrero. The smooth skin on top of his head was a startling white compared to the rest of his face, permanently bronzed from the hot sun of the plains.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Swenson said.

“Just saying,” Woodbine said, replacing his hat.

“Charlie,” Cody said. “That there bull kept nudging and following the cow. Do you think it could be blind like Whitey’s milk cow and just following his Ma around by touch and smell?”

“That might explain why the herd’s chief bull paid him no mind a-tall,” Bell said. “No competition.”

“Interesting. Well, gents, stars are out. See you all at sunup,” Cody said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe. “We’ll ease up slow to where the herd is grazing. Charlie, you’ll scout ahead early and let us know their exact whereabouts.”

The herd had not wandered very far during the night, although many herds will graze all night through the morning and rest up in the hot afternoon, Cody knew. He kept the wagons well back and downwind.

“This shoot will be like the usual except for one thing. Me and Charlie will drop as many as we can including the herd bull, but we don’t touch the half-bull and its Ma,” he said to his crew gathered around him. “I aim to try and take them alive. Burt, I want you to saddle up one of the big draft horses. You’ll ride with me and Charlie. Bring an extra rope or two and your rifle just in case. Hopefully, you’ll just be ropin’.”

When they neared the herd, Cody and Bell left their horses behind with McFadden and crept forward, careful to remain downwind. They found the perfect shooting stand of tall prairie grass on a rise about 200 yards from the closest buffalo and plopped down on their bellies.

“Charlie, start with the chief bull, then work around the cow and the half-bull, but not too close. You take those in front of them, I’ll get the ones behind. We’ll try to isolate the two completely.”

“So what’s your plan? You never did explain how to you expect to bring that bull in alive.”

“Depends on whether he’s blind or not. If he ain’t, doubt if my idea will work. But if he is, there’s a chance,” Cody said. “If we can kill the rest off without spookin’ them, the three of us will ride in very carefully, and Burt and me will rope the cow.”

“The shootin’ won’t spook ’em. They’re stupid as hell and just keep grazing. Always amazed me,” Bell said. “But trying to rope the cow, now that’s another thing altogether. Why the cow and not the bull?”

“I figure if the bull ain’t blind, he’ll get the hell out of there when the cow puts up a fuss. But if he is, he won’t really know and might stay put.”

“Then what?”

“Why, we lead that cow back to camp, and he’ll follow as he’s always done.”

“That’s some far-fetched plan if I ever heared one, Buffalo Bill.”

“Don’t start that 'Buffalo Bill' stuff again. Let’s get to work.”

For the next hour and a half, the two took turns shooting, slow and easy. There were twenty-two buffalo all together, and they were spread out. Cody and Bell were close enough so that there were few misses, far enough away so the sounds of their shots did not scramble the beasts more than a few feet. They kept shooting until only the cow and the half-breed, buffalo bull were left still grazing, the fallen buffalo dotting the prairie around them.

“Goddamn, Bill. We done it.”

“Next comes the hard part. Let’s get back to Burt and the horses.”

Now mounted, Cody and McFadden with Charlie trailing, carefully approached the two remaining beasts. Incredibly, Cody thought, his plan was working. He would come in on one side of the cow and Burt on the other. Burt was the more experienced roper and would throw the moment the cow lifted its head. He would follow. Would the big half-buffalo bull run or charge? Or is it really blind? The moment was at hand, Cody thought, as he readied his rope, watching carefully.

The cow lifted its shaggy head just as the two riders approached and began to move. Both threw their ropes almost simultaneously, the lassos neatly settling around the surprised cow’s thick neck. Each rider wrapped his rope around the pommel of his saddle. Brigham, Cody’s well-trained pony, stopped short and the rope became rigid as the frightened cow tried to run forward. The big draft horse with Burt atop had no problem bracing against the pull of the straining cow.

Cody looked back. The bull didn’t run. It kept moving up next to the cow, nostrils working. “Blind as a bat, Charlie,” he called out as Bell rode up. His plan, as cockeyed as it seemed, was working.

“We’ll move up in front of her, but keep the ropes taut,” he called to McFadden who was grinning widely.

They made a strange-looking procession back to the camp, the two horsemen in front lightly leading the cow with their ropes, the cow trotting along without much resistance, and the big, half-buffalo bull with the red and white-speckled hide and wide horns trotting docilely behind the cow, sniffing and nudging her as they moved. Once back at camp, they tied the cow securely to the heavy freight wagon and brought in a plentiful supply of prairie grass. Then Woodbine, the skinner and Swenson, the butcher, took the other wagon out to do the jobs they were paid to do.

“You know what?” Cody said to Charlie Bell later, “We’re gonna sneak them buffalo out to my friend Artie Kimble’s farm just this side of Ellsworth and hide them in his barn. Then we’re gonna charge admission to see them. Listen to what I wrote up:

‘Bill Cody presents the Cattalo, strangest looking beast ever to roam the plains. No other like it in existence. A cross between a wild Texas Longhorn and a wild buffalo, with horns four feet from tip to tip. Come see this one-of-a-kind wonder.’ Well, what do you think?”

“What’s a Cattalo?” Bell asked.

“I made that up. Combination of cattle and buffalo…cattalo.”

“I suggest only one change,” Bell said.

“What’s that?”

“Make it Buffalo Bill Cody presents…”

The End