The Night We Stole The White Buffalo

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By the time the argument ended, they had already stormed the farm, frightened the old ranch hand half to death, and were relieving themselves into the tractor’s fuel tank while shouting war cries.

It had been, given the circumstances, a very successful operation.

The ranch hand, a white-bearded man in overalls, stood beside the tractor with both hands raised as if surrendering to history itself. Penny stood nearby with one hand tucked inside her jacket pocket, pretending it held a gun.

All of them wore red bandannas across their faces.

“Let’s go, Turd. Back it up,” said Moon Dog, the self-appointed chief of the operation.

Man, don’t use my real name!” Turd yelled. “That farmer might hear you!”

His real name was Turtle, but sometime around fourth grade the nickname Turd had attached itself permanently.

He backed the trailer toward the pen while the others dragged metal barricades into position to guide the buffalo up the ramp. The plan had worked perfectly during their practice earlier that afternoon.
Reality disagreed.

The buffalo staggered halfway up the ramp, nearly knocking over John Boy, then lunged forward with raw power. Its shoulder slammed into the front wall of the trailer with a metallic boom that left a dent the size of a suitcase.

John Boy slammed the gate shut.

“Go!”

The truck roared off into the night with buffalo snorts echoing from the trailer behind them.
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Dog and Penny almost immediately started making out in the back seat of the extended cab.

John Boy sat beside them, staring out the window like a monk trying to resist earthly temptation.

Moon Dog leaned halfway out the passenger window, howling war cries into the darkness. When they finally hit the highway, the tires joined him in song.

The first stop sign didn’t slow them down.

Turd drove for hours, fueled by Little Debbie snack cakes and a two-liter bottle of Coke.
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Back at the farm, the old ranch hand remained locked in a storage shed.

The kidnappers had left him provisions.

Crackers.

A chunk of pickled bologna.

And a round piece of unfamiliar bread.

After some thought, he wrapped the bread around the bologna and ate it like a sandwich, never having heard of an “Indian dog” in his life. It simply seemed like the natural thing to do.

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Morning found the truck somewhere along a narrow highway bordered by pine forests.

They passed another Indian walking along the roadside with a stringer of rainbow trout and a wild turkey slung over his shoulder.

Moon Dog leaned out the window.

“Red Power, brother!”

War cries erupted inside the cab.

The man waved politely as they roared past.

Moon Dog raised his fist in solidarity.

Watching the gesture, Taleko felt a tense flicker of memory—German soldiers marching in rigid lines years earlier.

He said nothing.
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Eventually, they rolled into the gravel parking lot of a veterinary clinic.

Three long-haired Indians climbed out of the truck. Two wore denim jackets, and one wore an ancient leather coat, but all of them wore Levi’s.

Inside the office, the veterinary assistant watched through the window.

In his entire life, he had seen exactly one Indian come through the clinic doors.
Today there were three.

Hollywood had clearly misinformed him.

The men stood in a small circle talking. Two waved their hands as they spoke while the third stared west toward the trees.

Finally, the craziest looking pushed through the door.
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Meanwhile, under a blanket in the truck, Dog and Penny were having their first meaningful conversation.

They had spent most of the two days naked.

Conversation had seemed unnecessary.

“So,” Dog asked carefully, “how old are you really?”

Penny shrugged while fastening her bra.

“You won’t be mad?”

“No.”

“I’m fifteen.”

Dog choked.

“Fifteen?!”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty,” he muttered. “Old enough to go to jail for you.”

Dog threw the blanket aside. His hair shot out in every direction from static electricity.

“And you said you’re from Traverse City?”

“Yeah.”

“My uncle’s from there.”

“What’s his name?”

“Amos.”

Penny froze.

“That’s funny,” she said slowly.

“That’s my dad’s name.”

They stared at each other.

Then both exploded out of the truck.

“Fucking cousins!” Penny yelled.

“Not again,” Dog groaned.
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Inside the clinic, Moon Dog faced the veterinarian.

“Yeah, uh… we’ve got a hurt buffalo.”

“His leg.”

The veterinarian studied him.

“Bring the trailer around to the side doors.”
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When the door opened, the buffalo burst into the corral like an avalanche made of snow and muscle.

It circled the enclosure twice in anger before slowing down, limping heavily.

Only then did the veterinarian truly see it.

The animal was completely white.

“Oh, my God.”

Behind her, the Indians exchanged quiet glances.

“Jale,” she said calmly, though her pulse had doubled, “prepare the tranquilizer gun.”

The dart struck the buffalo’s hindquarters with a soft thud.

Minutes later, the massive animal sank slowly to the ground.

They worked quickly.

The bone was reset.

Splinted.

Bandaged.

The buffalo never stirred.

When the work was finished, they dragged the sleeping animal back into the trailer using a heavy canvas tarp.

Two more Indians had appeared during the procedure—a young couple who stood silently watching.
Jale counted them.

Six Indians.

That seemed statistically unlikely.
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“How much do we owe you?” Moon Dog asked.

The veterinarian wiped her hands on a towel.

“That’s a very rare animal,” she said. “Where did you say you were from?”

Moon Dog shifted his weight.

“How much?”

“One-fifty.”

He peeled two hundred-dollar bills from a thick roll.

“Keep the change,” he said, nodding toward Jale.

The veterinarian watched them leave.

Only after the trailer door slammed shut did the realization settle in.

Those men had not looked proud of the animal.

They had looked reverent.
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They drove north through Wisconsin and then west until the highways gave way to smaller roads.

Eventually, the pavement gave way to gravel.

Then dirt.

The prairie opened around them under a sky so wide it felt unfinished.

Moon Dog told Turd to stop.

The engine died.

Silence flooded the night.

They opened the trailer.

The buffalo stepped down slowly.

For a moment, it simply stood there breathing into the cold air.

None of them spoke.

Taleko stepped forward first.

He placed one hand gently against the animal’s white fur and whispered something softly in Odawa.

No one understood the words.

But everyone understood the silence that followed.

The buffalo lifted its head toward the dark hills in the distance.

Then it began to walk.

The white shape drifted slowly across the prairie grass until it became little more than a pale ghost beneath the stars.

It disappeared into the hills.
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Turd broke the silence.

“So… now what?”

Moon Dog rubbed his chin.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I guess the Buffalo Liberation Team has completed its first mission.”

John Boy looked out toward the empty prairie.

“You think anyone will believe this story?”

Moon Dog grinned.

“Hell no.”
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Far away in the dark hills, a buffalo moved beneath the stars.

And for the first time in many years—

A white messenger walked the prairie again.