Small puffs of dust marked the hooffalls of the horses as they pulled the rattling wagon across the Kansas prarrie. Summer on the plains was a hot dry time, and the herds of Bison had moved north. The hide hunters followed in thier twaine.
Three of them were on horseback out in front of the lurching wagon, and as they made their way up a small rise, they dismounted and walked up to the crest of the rise in a low croutch. Peering over the crest of the hill, there was the bison herd spread out below. Going back down the hill, they retieved thier rifles and motioned for the wagon to stay put. Going back up, each shooter took a position and made ready. Two of them used a pair of shooting sticks, but one lay down behind his rifle and laid it across a bedroll. English Charlie, as he was known to his fellow hunters, had learned his trade in England as a poacher. Cought and sentanced to prison, he was given a chance to serve in the British army. Soon after being posted in Canada, he chose to desert, and go to the land of the free and home of the brave, as he put it. Apparently army life did not agree with him as he bore the marks of a flogging on his back. Like the other shooters, he was using a Sharps rifle in 50-70. There were other calibers available in the Sharps, but it was the 50-70 that had earned the nickname "Old Reliable". The heavy grain 50 caliber slug would drop a large buffalo with said reliable mannor.
With all three men ready, they went to work. The range was long enough that the buffalo would not be spooked by the sound of shots, which would sound like very distant thunder at that long a range. After a few shots, the buffalo milled slowly about as if aware of something wrong, but not comprehending just what. After several more shots the smell of blood spooked them, and they ran off to the north a few miles. Behind them, like brown heaps of distant dirt piles, lay the carcasses of the dead. Now the real work began.
Getting thier horses and followed by the wagon, they came over the hill and down to the slaughter sight. Each man picked an animal and drew his skinning knife. In each case it was a John Russell Company Green River knife. With blades dark grey from the staining of blood and flesh, each man made sure his knife was razor sharp. A couple of them gave the blades a light touch up on the big whet stone just inside the tailgate of the wagon.
Of all the knives shipped west from the industialized New England states, none was as prolific as the John Russell company. Ten's of thousands of knives went west with homesteaders, hide hunters, trail blazers and traders. Renegades and Texas Rangers carried the knife as thier cutting tool to survive in a harsh land not yet tamed.
The English cutlery firms considered the young John Russell Company such a threat to the American trade, that firms like I. Wilson and George Wostenholm would dump tons of knives on the American market in attempts to drive him out of buisness. Sometimes those knives would be sold at a loss in a war of attrition, hoping to mortally wound the American company. The Russell Company survived. At one time in the west, a Russell Green River knife was worth a trade for a horse among the indians.
On this hot summer day on the plains, each man went about his skinning with the measured movements of somebody who had done this hundreds of times. A cut down the belly, down the legs, and the slow peeling back of the hide, working the blade under it to free it up from the meat of the carcass. The large butcher shaped knives with 7 and 8 inch blades was a perfect tool for this. When one side of the buffalo was done, and the hide peeled back to the spine, a horse was hitched up to a rope to the hooves of the bison. The horse was used to pull the buffalo over so the hide could be skinned back on the other side. With the hide finaly off the animal, half the work was done.
At this point the man wiped off the knife blade on the dry brown grass and sheathed it. Staking out the hide, he took a more curved sheep skinner knife from the wagon. This knife had the edge ground off and resharpened on just one side. This was to scrape the hide clean. All fat and tissue had to be sraped off and the hide salted down. They had been out long enough, that the wagon was near full of hides.
English Charlie paused in his work and straitened a crick in his back. He wiped the back of his hand over his brow.
"They say the fancy saloons in Dodge City have fine liquir from all over the world." he remarked. "I'd love to have a nice strong brandy like we had back home."
"Just gimme a bottle of whisky and a woman that smells better than you bunch, and I'm happy." said a tall sallow faced man. He was called Wilkes. Nobody knew any other name for him, but he was a dead shot and did his share of the work, so nobody asked. "How about it boss, we ain't but a weeks travel from Dodge City and we got near a full wagon of hides? "
The question was addressed to a short but stocky muscular man, who spit a brown stream of tobacco juice as he thought over the question. He was the boss of the outfit, and all the rest of the men looked to him. He glanced over at the laden wagon as he ran the back of his hand over his thick brown beard.
"Ya'all git this bunch of hides done and we'll head in. We're 'bout outa whiskey anyways."
With renewed vigor the hide hunters got the dirty work done, and the hides loaded by nightfall. That night over a dinner of fried up buffalo hump steaks they talked about the trip to Dodge City. English Charlie mused about fine brandy, Wilkes about a woman. Suddenly the boss spoke up.
"Eggs." was all he said. Not being a real talkitive man, the rest of the crew thought about his one word statement. Finally it was English Charlie who spoke up.
"You want to elaborate on that, Boss?"
"Eggs. I want a breakfast of eggs and bacon. And coffee out of a china pot at a table with a cloth on it. "
That night as each man cleaned his rifle and honed his Green River knife, he thought about all that he had missed out on the endless plains. And each hoped to find it in Dodge City.
Three of them were on horseback out in front of the lurching wagon, and as they made their way up a small rise, they dismounted and walked up to the crest of the rise in a low croutch. Peering over the crest of the hill, there was the bison herd spread out below. Going back down the hill, they retieved thier rifles and motioned for the wagon to stay put. Going back up, each shooter took a position and made ready. Two of them used a pair of shooting sticks, but one lay down behind his rifle and laid it across a bedroll. English Charlie, as he was known to his fellow hunters, had learned his trade in England as a poacher. Cought and sentanced to prison, he was given a chance to serve in the British army. Soon after being posted in Canada, he chose to desert, and go to the land of the free and home of the brave, as he put it. Apparently army life did not agree with him as he bore the marks of a flogging on his back. Like the other shooters, he was using a Sharps rifle in 50-70. There were other calibers available in the Sharps, but it was the 50-70 that had earned the nickname "Old Reliable". The heavy grain 50 caliber slug would drop a large buffalo with said reliable mannor.
With all three men ready, they went to work. The range was long enough that the buffalo would not be spooked by the sound of shots, which would sound like very distant thunder at that long a range. After a few shots, the buffalo milled slowly about as if aware of something wrong, but not comprehending just what. After several more shots the smell of blood spooked them, and they ran off to the north a few miles. Behind them, like brown heaps of distant dirt piles, lay the carcasses of the dead. Now the real work began.
Getting thier horses and followed by the wagon, they came over the hill and down to the slaughter sight. Each man picked an animal and drew his skinning knife. In each case it was a John Russell Company Green River knife. With blades dark grey from the staining of blood and flesh, each man made sure his knife was razor sharp. A couple of them gave the blades a light touch up on the big whet stone just inside the tailgate of the wagon.
Of all the knives shipped west from the industialized New England states, none was as prolific as the John Russell company. Ten's of thousands of knives went west with homesteaders, hide hunters, trail blazers and traders. Renegades and Texas Rangers carried the knife as thier cutting tool to survive in a harsh land not yet tamed.
The English cutlery firms considered the young John Russell Company such a threat to the American trade, that firms like I. Wilson and George Wostenholm would dump tons of knives on the American market in attempts to drive him out of buisness. Sometimes those knives would be sold at a loss in a war of attrition, hoping to mortally wound the American company. The Russell Company survived. At one time in the west, a Russell Green River knife was worth a trade for a horse among the indians.
On this hot summer day on the plains, each man went about his skinning with the measured movements of somebody who had done this hundreds of times. A cut down the belly, down the legs, and the slow peeling back of the hide, working the blade under it to free it up from the meat of the carcass. The large butcher shaped knives with 7 and 8 inch blades was a perfect tool for this. When one side of the buffalo was done, and the hide peeled back to the spine, a horse was hitched up to a rope to the hooves of the bison. The horse was used to pull the buffalo over so the hide could be skinned back on the other side. With the hide finaly off the animal, half the work was done.
At this point the man wiped off the knife blade on the dry brown grass and sheathed it. Staking out the hide, he took a more curved sheep skinner knife from the wagon. This knife had the edge ground off and resharpened on just one side. This was to scrape the hide clean. All fat and tissue had to be sraped off and the hide salted down. They had been out long enough, that the wagon was near full of hides.
English Charlie paused in his work and straitened a crick in his back. He wiped the back of his hand over his brow.
"They say the fancy saloons in Dodge City have fine liquir from all over the world." he remarked. "I'd love to have a nice strong brandy like we had back home."
"Just gimme a bottle of whisky and a woman that smells better than you bunch, and I'm happy." said a tall sallow faced man. He was called Wilkes. Nobody knew any other name for him, but he was a dead shot and did his share of the work, so nobody asked. "How about it boss, we ain't but a weeks travel from Dodge City and we got near a full wagon of hides? "
The question was addressed to a short but stocky muscular man, who spit a brown stream of tobacco juice as he thought over the question. He was the boss of the outfit, and all the rest of the men looked to him. He glanced over at the laden wagon as he ran the back of his hand over his thick brown beard.
"Ya'all git this bunch of hides done and we'll head in. We're 'bout outa whiskey anyways."
With renewed vigor the hide hunters got the dirty work done, and the hides loaded by nightfall. That night over a dinner of fried up buffalo hump steaks they talked about the trip to Dodge City. English Charlie mused about fine brandy, Wilkes about a woman. Suddenly the boss spoke up.
"Eggs." was all he said. Not being a real talkitive man, the rest of the crew thought about his one word statement. Finally it was English Charlie who spoke up.
"You want to elaborate on that, Boss?"
"Eggs. I want a breakfast of eggs and bacon. And coffee out of a china pot at a table with a cloth on it. "
That night as each man cleaned his rifle and honed his Green River knife, he thought about all that he had missed out on the endless plains. And each hoped to find it in Dodge City.
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