Bison Hunt Poem by David Welch

There's this bison ranch in west Nebraska,
not all that far away from the Pine Ridge,
most of the time they make money off meat,
though when the weather gets colder than a fridge

they like to offer folks a private hunt,
to take a bison, just like the old days,
it really is quite an experience,
but the price is much more than I can pay.

Now every year they hold a lottery,
raffle off three hunts to those who apply,
for six years I had tried, always came up short,
until this year, one of those hunts is mine!

That's how I found myself inside of a truck,
driving across frozen sand hills, serene,
ace crunching loudly beneath the tires
and I gaze out upon a frosted scene.

In the truck sits one Bob Walking Bear,
a Pawnee, finally getting to chance
to hunt buffalo like his ancestors,
so excited there's a shake in his hands.

They leave one ticket for the tribes every year,
and Bob was lucky enough to win the draw;
the other is a Michigan deer hunter,
a gruff fellow known as Arnie McGraw.

There's also a guide who calls himself Gus,
who helps us find bills they want to remove,
they've marked out old bulls and cows for the hunt,
the health of the herd as a whole to improve.

Arnie was the first to go out and stalk
on the ranch's ten thousand-acre spread,
Bob and I remained inside of the truck,
we heard the shot, and towards the sound we sped.

Arnie stood over an older-looking cow,
while the rest of the herd rumbled away,
Arnie had made a fine hundred-yard shot,
for the gruff hunter it was a fine day.

He had a slight grin upon his bearded face,
and while Gus called for the butchering truck,
Arnie started field-dressing the large beast,
much meat was the big reward for his luck.

Gus left Arnie to await the vehicle,
then motioned Bob and I back to our own,
as he drove, he said, "We're heading for the spot
where several of our old bulls like to roam."

A mile further down the snow-crusted road,
we cam to a cottonwood grove by a creek,
Gus motioned us both to follow him out,
and down towards the timber we did creep.

We crouched low at about fifty-yard's space,
settled in for a chilly half hour,
then we saw a bull with a broken horn
lumber out, a grizzled vision of power.

This old bull has sired numerous calves,
but Gus said now his health was in decline,
he motioned to Bob to shoulder his gun,
behind the shoulder the cross-hairs aligned…

Bob's gun went off with a resounding bang,
the bull lurched, then slumped slowly to the snow.
Bob let out a loud cry of primal joy,
and down to his kill the three of us did go.

He gave up a short chant in the Pawnee tongue,
then pulled out his knife and got to work,
Gus called in to let the meat-cutters now,
when Bob reared up from the kill with a jerk.

He had cut a piece of the bull's liver,
and he proceeded to eat the chunk raw,
don't know if it was tradition or not…
one of the strangest things I ever saw.

Gus seemed to take the act all in stride,
then motioned me to come follow him out,
now was my chance to get myself a bill,
and I tell you my heart was beating loud.

We did not do back to where the truck sat,
just proceeded down a low ridge on foot,
Gus knew of another who hung out close,
we moved fast, the morning light was quite good.

It took nearly forty minutes to track
to the spot where we found the aging bull,
he pawed at hard snow, looking for grass,
his head huge, his form covered in wool.

This was the moment I'd been dreaming of,
I was too excited to feel much fear,
took my aim with an antique Sharp's rifle,
the sort that was used by the pioneers.

Off went the gun! The round hit hard and fast,
but the massive beast did not drop right there,
he charged angrily, and Gus screamed, "Move it! "
we booked booked it, heading for anywhere

But the charge was just a final outburst,
the big bull slowed and collapsed on his side,
by the time we stopped and turned to see it,
the aging bison had already died.

I took home a hide I used for a coat,
and ample meat, bison sure does grill well,
also the horns, but the best thing I got
was one hell of a story to tell…