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White Buffalo (standard:travel stories, 2132 words)
Author: Austen BraukerAdded: Oct 05 2010Views/Reads: 1405/912Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Ottawa Indian radicals kidnap a white buffalo from a Michigan farmer and attempt to take it to South Dakota to set it free.
 



WHITE BUFFALO 

By AUSTEN J. BRAUKER 

They had managed, so far, to pull off the bison-napping without hurting
anyone in the process, themselves included. 

A small group of overnight radicals, they had stormed the farm and took
the white buffalo at night. There had been only one old man working, 
depositing bails over the fence with an hydraulic tine. He gave them no 
fight but the men counted coup on his tractor by pissing in the tank. 
Each one of them took turns, letting out a war cry, mid-stream. The 
white bearded farm-hand stood, arms raised, watching the fiasco. 

Penny held a hand in her jacket pocket, faking a gun.  All of the
liberators wore red bandannas to cover their faces. 

“Let's go, Turd. Back it up,” ordered Crazy Bob, who had been the
instigator and self-appointed chief of the mission. 

“Man, don't use my real name! That farmer might hear you!” Turd
bellowed. His full name was Turtle, but it was shortened to Turd for 
obvious comical reasons. 

He backed up the trailer and the others set metal barricades on the
side, to force the animal in. It had been a good idea when they 
practiced it in the daylight, but the night was dark and the buffalo 
tripped on its way up the ramp. The beast floundered for a moment and 
then bolted into the darkness of the enclosure. Buffalo shoulder struck 
the front of the trailer and, with all its weight, made a large dent in 
the metal. 

John Boy secured the gate and they sped away from the farm, buffalo
snorts in their ears. 

Dog and Penny started to make-out in the back seat of the extended cab
truck. John Boy sat in the back next to them, oblivious to their 
fondlings, staring out the window. Crazy Bob was whooping a war cry 
from the passenger window and, when they finally hit the asphalt, the 
tires echoed his voice. The truck blew the first stop sign. Turd drove 
for hours before they finally stopped. He had a box of Little-Debbie's 
snack cakes and a two liter of Coke to keep him going. 

It would take a while for the authorities to find the old ranch hand. He
was locked in a shed. They had left him some crackers, a chunk of 
pickled bologna and some strange type of round fluffy bread. He had 
instinctively wrapped the fry bread around the pickled meat and ate it, 
never having heard of an “Indian Dog” in his life. It just seemed to be 
the natural thing to do. 

The bandits drove off into the night and, soon, it was morning. The
truckload of Indians beeped when they saw another Indian walking down 
the road. He had a stringer full of rainbows and a turkey slung over 
his shoulder. Crazy Bob hung out the window and waved his arms. 

“Red Power brother!” 

They whooped war cries as they passed. Turd beeped the horn and nodded.
Dog and Penny were under a blanket, sleeping this time. The Indian 
waved at the passing kids. Crazy Bob responded with a raised fist, in a 
gesture of Indian solidarity. It almost reminded Crane of the motion 
that German soldiers made as they marched to their fanatical solution. 

The truck and trailer pulled into a veterinary clinic. 

Three longhaired Indians piled out. Two wore jean jackets and one had on
a beat up old leather, but all were in Levi's. 

The veterinary assistant watched them, through the window. He thought of
hollywood. Today had been the first day he'd seen an Indian come in to 
the office, and now, here were three. 

The Indians talked in a small circle. Two of them waved their hands as
they spoke. The other one stared off to the west. Finally, the craziest 
looking one entered the office. 


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