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Content Warning: This section of the guide includes discussion of animal cruelty and animal death, substance use, sexual content, and death.
Williams systematically dismantles the romanticized mythology of the American frontier by exposing the material and ideological realities underlying westward expansion. In the introduction to Butcher’s Crossing, In the book’s Introduction, Michelle Latiolais situates Will Andrews’s westward journey within a familiar American literary tradition:
Andrews wants to go where no man has gone before, and though he’s leaving the house in which he was born and raised, he isn’t yet born, nor is he yet grown. It is a story you have heard before, an ur-story, one of self-discovery, a dream sought, and a setting out fearlessly and confidently to achieve this realization, a young man going west (Introduction).
Williams, however, deliberately subverts this tradition, creating a revisionist Western that inverts such ideological assumptions while exposing the fragility of human ambition in the face of nature’s inexorable persistence.
Andrews embarks on his journey, finding inspiration in Transcendentalist ideals drawn from Emerson and believing that immersion in the wilderness will yield spiritual insight. His own reflections underscore this expectation: “[W]herever he would live hereafter, he was leaving the city more and more, withdrawing into the wilderness. He felt that was the central meaning he could find in all his life” (48). Williams methodically subverts this romantic premise, instead revealing the frontier as a theater of commercial exploitation and environmental devastation. Andrews’s withdrawal from civilization stems from a search for meaning, yet isolation exposes his vulnerability rather than clarifying his identity. The wilderness offers no proving ground for heroism; instead, obsession, moral ambiguity, and physical limitations govern outcomes in an indifferent landscape.
The buffalo hunter Miller inverts the myth of the frontiersman. Rather than embodying self-reliant individualism, he pursues the hunt with monomaniacal obsession driven by profit and personal compulsion. The wholesale slaughter of buffalo herds represents an industrial operation characterized by mechanical efficiency and staggering waste. The buffalo hunt, a climactic symbol of human ambition, degenerates into overkill and waste, demonstrating the destructive consequences of attempting to dominate a landscape that won’t yield to human mastery.
Williams challenges the foundational myth that frontier hardship produces moral transformation or self-knowledge. The narrative denies the classical rewards of the Western, presenting no clear heroes and villains, no moral compensation for struggle, no ethical vindication in triumph, and no narrative closure in heroism. When the hunting party finally returns to Butcher’s Crossing after winter imprisonment in the mountains, they discover that the buffalo economy has collapsed. Market forces render Andrews’s spiritual quest meaningless, suggesting that the frontier’s significance was always economic rather than metaphysical.
Butcher’s Crossing is thus an anti-Western that investigates the mythologies of the American frontier. By contrasting Andrews’s idealistic aspirations with the harsh realities of the landscape and McDonald’s obsessive destructiveness, Williams challenges the narrative of moral or spiritual fulfillment through westward expansion. Rather than elevating the men who enter it, the wilderness reveals their limitations. In Williams’s frontier, ambition receives no reward of insight or triumph but stands exposed as folly by a landscape that human desire or suffering can’t move.
The novel opens with two epigraphs—one from Ralph Waldo Emerson’s “Nature” and one from Herman Melville’s The Confidence-Man. These epigraphs frame the philosophical conflict that Butcher’s Crossing sets out to dismantle. Emerson’s claim that nature “‘judges like a god all men that come to her’” (5) expresses faith in the wilderness as morally clarifying and spiritually responsive. Conversely, Melville’s blunt rhetorical questions—“‘Who froze to death my teamster on the prairie? And who made an idiot of Peter the Will Boy?’” (5)—strip nature of intention, justice, or design.
By placing these statements together, Williams stages a confrontation between Transcendentalist optimism and naturalistic skepticism. The novel proceeds to test Emerson’s vision against material reality and resolves the conflict decisively in Melville’s favor. Nature doesn’t judge; it simply is. Responsibility dissolves because no moral agent is at work beyond physical circumstance. From this foundation, Butcher’s Crossing adopts a rigorously naturalistic worldview shaped by determinism and the classic man-versus-nature conflict. The wilderness isn’t a moral proving ground but an autonomous system governed by weather, geography, and biological necessity. Human intention carries little weight against these forces. Williams aligns the novel with survival narratives in which the environment dictates behavior, while free will contracts under pressure.
Will Andrews enters the frontier convinced that nature possesses an intelligible order responsive to human intuition. He “believed—and had believed for a long time—that there was a subtle magnetism in nature, which, if he unconsciously yielded to it, would direct him aright” (47). This belief reveals an unexamined arrogance as Andrews assumes that the wilderness isn’t only meaningful but benevolent, capable of shaping his identity. The hunt destroys this assumption. Once the men are trapped in the valley by snow, the landscape offers no guidance or revelation. Hunger, cold, exhaustion, and isolation displace reflection. Nature doesn’t correct Andrews’s thinking, nor does it inspire creativity or contemplation. Determinism becomes unavoidable as men’s lives narrow to routine labor and physical endurance. Time loses coherence, and choice gives way to necessity. Actions arise from environmental pressure rather than from deliberation. Andrews’s intellectual ambitions collapse as consciousness shrinks to the management of pain, hunger, and survival. Human agency proves shallow when stripped of comfort and structure.
Miller embodies an even starker form of determinism. Initially cast as an expert hunter, he’s gradually revealed as a product of his environment rather than its conqueror. Andrews “[comes] to see Miller as a mechanism, an automaton, moved by the moving herd, “[comes] to see Miller’s destruction of the buffalo […] as a cold, mindless response to the life in which Miller had immersed himself” (136). Miller’s violence is conditioned. He persists because no alternative framework exists. The novel offers no reconciliation between humanity and nature. There is no lesson, balance, or triumph, only the painful exposure of weakness and vulnerability. Williams replaces the frontier myth of mastery and self-realization with a landscape that absorbs human ambition, leaving it diminished and revealing the fragility of meaning in an indifferent world.
Butcher’s Crossing traces Will Andrews’s passage from innocence to awareness, a central motif in American literature, through both psychological and physical transformation. Francine, in a pivotal early encounter, warns him, “[Y]ou’ll be back; but you won’t be the same. You’ll not be so young; you will become like the others” (61). Her words foreshadow the ways that the frontier and the hunt slowly strip away his youthful idealism. Andrews arrives in Butcher’s Crossing with Romantic visions of adventure, self-discovery, moral refinement, and communion with untouched nature. However, the valley and mountains systematically dismantle these illusions, confronting him with mortality, human cruelty, and the limits of control.
The buffalo hunt crystallizes this transformation. Observing the slain animals, Andrews “regarded the felled buffalo with some mixture of feeling. On the ground, unmoving, it no longer had that kind of wild dignity and power that he had imputed to it only a few minutes before” (129). The creatures he once saw as majestic symbols of the untamed frontier become objects of slaughter and utility. The wilderness, far from elevating him, exposes the harsh reality of exploitation and mortality, dislodging his previous reverence for nature. Simultaneously, the hunt leaves its mark on Andrews physically. His beard grows long and tangled, and his body hardens under labor and exposure, reflecting the internalization of his experiences. This corporeal change parallels the erosion of his innocence.
Andrews’s encounter with Francine after the hunt underscores the complications of his coming-of-age. No longer a virgin in either experience or expectation, he discovers that physical intimacy doesn’t clarify his identity or provide philosophical insight. Their time together leaves him adult yet unmoored: Crossing this threshold into maturity has only deepened the ambiguity of his self-conception. McDonald’s reflection further situates Andrews’s disillusionment within a broader critique of societal illusions: “You get born, and you nurse on lies, and you get weaned on lies, and you learn fancier lies in school. You live all your life on lies, and then maybe when you’re ready to die, it comes to you” (249). Andrews’s journey demonstrates that experience inevitably erodes innocence. By the novel’s end, he has gained awareness, but the frontier offers neither moral clarity nor spiritual consolation, only sober recognition of human frailty, the dangers of idealism, and the complexities of emerging adulthood.



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