Walk on Earth a Stranger

“That’s no storm,” Jefferson says.

“Buffalo!” Craven shouts. “Run back and warn everyone. They must stay in the wagons!”

Jefferson reacts instantly, sprinting away with his long legs, hollering as he goes.

But I’m frozen by the sight. It’s not possible. How can there be so many of one animal in the world? They are a frothing sea of heads bowed low and whipping tails and flying mud.

Craven grabs my arm. “C’mon, you fool—unless you want to get trampled.”

His words unstick my legs. We turn and run.

Jefferson’s warning cries have drawn everyone out. They linger about the wagons, sleepily curious. Jeff grabs Henry and forces him toward his wagon, then does the same to Jasper. No one is moving fast enough.

“Hide!” I scream as we run down the slope. “Hide!”

I know the exact moment the buffalo crest the rise behind me, because curiosity turns to terror. Men blunder over their rifles and ramrods while mothers grab their children and run for cover. Jefferson hefts Andy under one arm and drags Olive by the hand, toward Mrs. Joyner. Thunder vibrates all around me. I expect hooves to impale me at any moment.

Yards short of safety, my toe catches on a hole in the cattle-churned sod. I fly out, hit the ground hard. My lungs won’t draw air. My head spins. I’m scrambling to my feet when I feel the first hard impact on my back.

I scream, but it’s only Jefferson’s hands. He grabs me by my suspenders and the waist of my pants and heaves me up onto the wagon bench. I turn to pull him to safety beside me, but he has already rolled between the wheels to the other side. He glances back, just quick enough to make sure I’m secure, then he starts herding families toward the shelter of their wagons.

A rifle booms a few feet away, and I duck. Buffalo pour down the slope like a muddy brown flood. More gunshots crack the air, though I barely hear them through the roar of hooves. A few buffalo drop and tumble, but there are so many it makes no difference. Major Craven rips off his shirt and stands before the lead wagon. He whips it through the air and hollers, as if the buffalo are nothing but giant cows, easily herded by a little yelling and waving.

They are not cows. A great horned creature with a giant black head is nearly upon him. Finally, he turns to run.

“Major!” I scream.

He makes it three steps before he drops and disappears beneath a cloud of dust and hooves.

“Major!”

A buffalo slams into my wagon. It teeters violently, and I slide across the bench, grabbing the footboard to keep from falling off. Their wet noses and glossy eyes are close enough to touch as they twist aside.

The herd breaks on the wagon circle like a river flowing around an island. I clutch the footboard with all my might for a minute or ten or maybe twenty. Dust clogs the air, filling it with a heavy, musty-fur scent, choking me. Buffalo snort and pound. Wagons rattle and shake. Oxen scream.

My arms tremble from clinging to the footboard. I raise my head, praying that I will see Jefferson, sheltered somewhere safe. He’s nowhere to be found, but I watch, heart in my throat, as two wagons topple over. Buffalo get tangled in the hoops of one. They stomp and knock it about with their heads until it’s in splinters, dusted over with white flour and sprinkled with feathers from someone’s pillow.

I can’t tell if there are bodies in the wreckage.

Suddenly, the buffalo are a trickle. And then they’re gone, disappeared as quickly as they came. The thunder of their hooves fades; the dust settles. I cling to the footboard a few seconds more, unable to make my limbs move.

Finally, I slide from the bench seat. Oxen and horses mill about in panic. People call out to one another. Mrs. Joyner climbs shakily from their wagon bed, Andy in her arms. The college men are whooping and slapping one another on the backs, like they’ve just seen the greatest wonder of their lives. Mrs. Hoffman’s brood is gathered around, like a clutch of chicks. I suck in a breath when I spot Jefferson safe among them.

“Peony!” I call out frantically. “Peo—” There she is, right by the Joyner wagon. Her sides heave, but she seems unharmed. The other animals seem unharmed too. Except for the two toppled wagons and one trampled cook fire, our camp is mostly untouched.

I stagger toward the area where I saw Major Craven go down, afraid of what I’ll find. A weak voice drifts toward me.

“Help . . .”

I’m trembling, like wheat in the wind, and my knees are so wobbly I can barely run.

“Oh, Lord, help me. . . .”

An ox lies on its side in the dirt, its ribs caved in, blood pooling around it. Rope from a clothesline is twisted around its neck. I leap over it. “Major! Where are you?”

“Here . . .” He’s crumpled in the dust, at least twenty yards from the spot where he went down. Everything about him is the gray-brown color of dirt, except for the leg of his trousers, which shows a splash of red and a snow-white splinter of bone.

“Hold tight, Major.” I turn toward the wagons and wave my arms, hollering, “Help! Somebody help over here.”

Everyone is busy looking to others or cleaning up. I yell again, and this time Jasper sees me. I beckon urgently. He grabs hold of Tom and Henry, and all three college men come running.

“Don’t worry, Major,” I tell him. “Help is coming.”

“Son,” he starts, but his breath is choked off with pain. He tries again. “Not much help for this.”

The college men fall to their knees around him. Henry blanches. Tom averts his eyes.

Jasper grabs the Major’s hand and leans close. He says, “Is anything else hurt, Major Craven?”

“A couple ribs . . . Hard to breathe.”

“Can you move your toes?”

“Do I have to try?”

Jasper looks at me. “Get a blanket roll or something we can use to prop his leg.”

I sprint over to the smashed wagon, noting with relief the absence of bodies, and I grab a roll of canvas from the ground. A voice hollers behind me. “Hey, where are you going with that?”

But I’m already gone, dashing back to the Major’s side.

Jasper nods approval. “When I lift his leg, you slide that underneath.” To the Major, he says, “This is going to hurt.”

“I already hurt—” He gasps as Jasper lifts his leg with both hands. I jam the canvas batten underneath and follow Jasper’s directions until it’s situated exactly where he wants it. Only then does he lower the broken limb.