the lungs or spine, they invariably escape; and, even when thus
mortally wounded, or even struck through the very heart, they will
frequently run a considerable distance before falling to the ground,
particularly if they see the hunter after the wound is given. If,
however, he keeps himself concealed after firing, the animal will
remain still, if it does not immediately fall. It is a most painful
sight to witness the dying struggles of the huge beast. The buffalo
invariably evinces the greatest repugnance to lie down when mortally
wounded, apparently conscious that, when once touching mother earth,
there is no hope left him. A bull, shot through the heart or lungs,
with blood streaming from his mouth, and protruding tongue, his eyes
rolling, bloodshot, and glazed with death, braces himself on his legs,
swaying from side to side, stamps impatiently at his growing weakness,
or lifts his rugged and matted head and helplessly bellows out his
conscious impotence. To the last, however, he endeavours to stand
upright, and plants his limbs farther apart, but to no purpose. As the
body rolls like a ship at sea, his head slowly turns from side to side,
looking about, as it were, for the unseen and treacherous enemy who has
brought him, the lord of the plains, to such a pass. Gouts of purple
blood spurt from his mouth and nostrils, and gradually the failing
limbs refuse longer to support the ponderous carcase; more heavily
rolls the body from side to side, until suddenly, for a brief instant,
it becomes rigid and still; a convulsive tremor seizes it, and, with a
low, sobbing gasp, the huge animal falls over on his side, the limbs
extended stark and stiff, and the mountain of flesh without life or
motion.
“The first attempts of a ‘greenhorn’ to kill a buffalo are invariably
unsuccessful. He sees before him a mass of flesh, nearly five feet
in depth from the top of the hump to the brisket, and consequently
imagines that, by planting his ball midway between these points, it
must surely reach the vitals. Nothing, however, is more erroneous
than the impression; for to ‘throw a buffalo in his tracks,’ which is
the phrase of making a clean shot, he must be struck but a few inches
above the brisket, behind the shoulder, where alone, unless the spine
be divided, a death-shot will reach the vitals. I once shot a bull,
the ball passing directly through the very centre of the heart and
tearing a hole sufficiently large to insert the finger, which ran
upwards of half a mile before it fell, and yet the ball had passed
completely through the animal, cutting its heart almost in two. I also
saw eighteen shots, the half of them muskets, deliberately fired into
an old bull, at six paces, and some of them passing through the body,
the poor animal standing the whole time, and making feeble attempts
to charge. The nineteenth shot, with the muzzle touching his body,
brought him to the ground. The head of the buffalo-bull is so thickly
covered with coarse matted hair, that a ball fired at half a dozen
paces will not penetrate the skull through the shaggy frontlock. I have
frequently attempted this with a rifle carrying twenty-five balls to
the pound, but never once succeeded.
“Notwithstanding the great and wanton destruction of the buffalo, many
years must elapse before this lordly animal becomes extinct. In spite
of their numerous enemies, they still exist in countless numbers,
and, could any steps be taken to protect them, as is done in respect
of other game, they would ever remain the life and ornament of the
boundless prairies, and afford ample and never-failing provision to
the travelers over these otherwise desert plains. Some idea of the
prodigious slaughter of these animals may be formed, by mentioning the
fact that upwards of one hundred thousand buffalo robes find their way
annually into the United States and Canada; and these are the skins of
cows alone, the bull’s hide being so thick that it is never dressed.
Besides this, the Indians kill a certain number for their own use,
exclusive of those whose meat they require; and the reckless slaughter
of buffalo by parties of white men, emigrants to the Columbia,
California, and elsewhere, leaving, as they proceed on their journey,
thousands of untouched carcases on the trail, swells the aggregate of
this wholesale destruction to an enormous amount.”
The keen scent of the buffalo and its apparent poor sight were noticed
by Ruxton, as they have been by so many others. What is perhaps not
generally known, because it has been forgotten, is that when running,
the buffalo commonly swings its head from one side to the other,
apparently in the effort to see what is going on on either side
and perhaps, to some extent, behind it. Other characteristics--its
harmlessness, and its occasional unconcern in the presence of
danger--are also shown here.
“There are two methods of hunting buffalo--one on horseback, by chasing
them at full speed, and shooting when alongside; the other by ‘still
hunting,’ that is, ‘approaching,’ or stalking, by taking advantage
of the wind and any cover the ground affords, and crawling to within
distance of the feeding herd. The latter method exhibits in a higher
degree the qualities of the hunter, the former those of the horseman.
The buffalo’s head is so thickly thatched with long, shaggy hair that
the animal is almost precluded from seeing an object directly in its
front; and if the wind be against the hunter he can approach, with a
little caution, a buffalo feeding on a prairie as level and bare as a
billiard-table. Their sense of smelling, however, is so acute, that it
is impossible to get within shot when to windward, as, at the distance
of nearly half a mile, the animal will be seen to snuff the tainted
air, and quickly satisfy himself of the vicinity of danger. At any
other than the season of gallantry, when the males are, like all other
animals, disposed to be pugnacious, the buffalo is a quiet, harmless
animal, and will never attack unless goaded to madness by wounds, or,
if a cow, in sometimes defending its calf when pursued by a horseman;
but even then it is seldom that they make any strong effort to protect
their young.
“When gorged with water, after a long fast, they become so lethargic
that they sometimes are too careless to run and avoid danger. One
evening, just before camping, I was, as usual, in advance of the train,
when I saw three bulls come out of the river and walk leisurely across
the trail, stopping occasionally, and one, more indolent than the rest,
lying down whenever the others halted. Being on my hunting-mule, I
rode slowly after them, the lazy one stopping behind the others, and
allowing me to ride within a dozen paces, when he would slowly follow
the rest. Wishing to see how near I could get, I dismounted, and, rifle
in hand, approached the bull, who at last stopped short, and never even
looked round, so that I walked up to the animal and placed my hand on
his quarter. Taking no notice of me, the huge beast lay down, and while
on the ground I shot him dead. On butchering the carcase I found the
stomach so greatly distended, that another pint would have burst it. In
other respects the animal was perfectly healthy and in good condition.”
Ruxton was not only an earnest hunter and a hardy traveller, but he was
also a keen observer, and living as he did for long periods in the
open air and among the wild animals, he saw many curious things.
“The first mountain-sheep I killed, I got within shot of in rather a
curious manner. I had undertaken several unsuccessful hunts for the
purpose of procuring a pair of horns of this animal, as well as some
skins, which are of excellent quality when dressed, but had almost
given up any hope of approaching them, when one day, having killed
and butchered a black-tail deer in the mountains, I sat down with my
back to a small rock and fell asleep. On awaking, feeling inclined for
a smoke, I drew from my pouch a pipe, and flint and steel, and began
leisurely to cut a charge of tobacco. Whilst thus engaged I became
sensible of a peculiar odour which was wafted right into my face by
the breeze, and which, on snuffing it once or twice, I immediately
recognized as that which emanates from sheep and goats. Still I never
thought that one of the former animals could be in the neighbourhood,
for my mule was picketed on the little plateau where I sat, and was
leisurely cropping the buffalo-grass which thickly covered it.
“Looking up carelessly from my work, as a whiff stronger than before
reached my nose, what was my astonishment at seeing five mountain-sheep
within ten paces, and regarding me with a curious and astonished
gaze! Without drawing a breath, I put out my hand and grasped the
rifle, which was lying within reach; but the motion, slight as it was,
sufficed to alarm them, and with a loud bleat the old ram bounded up
the mountain, followed by the band, and at so rapid a pace that all my
attempts to ‘draw a bead’ upon them were ineffectual. When, however,
they reached a little plateau about one hundred and fifty yards from
where I stood, they suddenly stopped, and, approaching the edge,
looked down at me, shaking their heads, and bleating their displeasure
at the intrusion. No sooner did I see them stop than my rifle was at
my shoulder, and covering the broadside of the one nearest to me. An
instant after and I pulled the trigger, and at the report the sheep
jumped convulsively from the rock, and made one attempt to follow its
flying companions; but its strength failed, and, circling round once
or twice at the edge of the plateau, it fell over on its side, and,
rolling down the steep rock, tumbled dead very near me. My prize proved
a very fine young male, but had not a large pair of horns. It was,
however, ‘seal’ fat, and afforded me a choice supply of meat, which
was certainly the best I had eaten in the mountains, being fat and
juicy, and in flavour somewhat partaking both of the domestic sheep and
buffalo.”
Among other notes about this species Ruxton speaks of several attempts
that had been made to secure the young of mountain sheep and transport
them to the States. None of these, however, had been successful. Old
Bill Williams even took with him into the mountains a troop of milch
goats, by which to bring up the young sheep, but, though capturing a
number of lambs, he did not succeed in reaching the frontier with a
single one.
He reports also the superstition of the Canadian trappers concerning
the carcajou, which we know as the wolverene, and tells of a reported
battle which an old Canadian trapper said that he had had with one of
these animals, and which lasted upward of two hours, during which he
fired a pouchful of balls into the animal’s body, which spat them out
as fast as they were shot in. Two days later, in company with the same
man, the author, in looking over a ridge, saw a wolverene, and shot
at it, as it was running off, without effect. For this he was derided
by the Canadian, who declared that if he had shot fifty balls at the
carcajou it would not have cared at all.
One night, when camped on the Platte, the author woke up, and looking
out of his blanket, saw sitting before the fire a huge gray wolf, his
eyes closed and his head nodding in sheer drowsiness.
The last day of April, Ruxton set out to cross the plains for Fort
Leavenworth, intending to return to England. Soon afterward they
reached Bent’s Fort, and a little later were joined by a number of
Frémont’s men, and by Kit Carson, who were returning from California.
They passed a Cheyenne camp, and before very long were well out on the
plains and in the buffalo country. Concerning the abundance of these
animals Ruxton tells the same extraordinary stories that all old-timers
relate. He hunted buffalo both by “approaching” and by running; and
tried many experiments with these great beasts. One night the camp was
almost run down by a vast herd of buffalo, but all hands being aroused,
they managed, by firing their guns and making all the noise they could,
to split the herd, so that the two branches passed around them.
At length the party approached Council Grove, and the more humid
country, where the eastern timber was found, which, to Ruxton and to
the Missourians of the party, looked like old friends.
Ruxton was a true outdoor man, loving the wilderness for itself alone,
accepting whatever of toil, exposure, or hardship might come to him,
feeling amply repaid for these annoyances by the joy of independence,
of the beauties that surrounded him, and of the absolute physical
well-being which was a part of this life.
The days when an existence such as is pictured in his accounts of
the Rocky Mountains could be enjoyed are long past, yet there are
still living some men who can absolutely sympathize with the feeling
expressed in the following paragraphs:
“Apart from the feeling of loneliness which any one in my situation
must naturally have experienced, surrounded by stupendous works of
nature, which in all their solitary grandeur frowned upon me, and
sinking into utter insignificance the miserable mortal who crept
beneath their shadow; still there was something inexpressibly
exhilarating in the sensation of positive freedom from all worldly
care, and a consequent expansion of the sinews, as it were, of mind and
body, which made me feel elastic as a ball of Indian rubber, and in
a state of such perfect _insouciance_ that no more dread of scalping
Indians entered my mind than if I had been sitting in Broadway, in
one of the windows of Astor House. A citizen of the world, I never
found any difficulty in investing my resting-place, wherever it might
be, with all the attributes of a home; and hailed, with delight equal
to that which the artificial comforts of a civilized home would have
caused, the, to me, domestic appearance of my hobbled animals, as
they grazed around the camp, when I returned after a hard day’s hunt.
By the way, I may here remark, that my _sporting_ feeling underwent
a great change when I was necessitated to follow and kill game for
the support of life, and as a means of subsistence; and the slaughter
of deer and buffalo no longer became _sport_ when the object was to
fill the larder, and the excitement of the hunt was occasioned by the
alternative of a plentiful feast or a banyan; and, although ranking
under the head of the most red-hot of sportsmen, I can safely acquit
myself of ever wantonly destroying a deer or buffalo unless I was in
need of meat; and such consideration for the feræ naturæ is common
to all the mountaineers who look to game alone for their support.
Although liable to an accusation of barbarism, I must confess that the
very happiest moments of my life have been spent in the wilderness of
the far West; and I never recall but with pleasure the remembrance
of my solitary camp in the Bayou Salado, with no friend near me more
faithful than my rifle, and no companions more sociable than my good
horse and mules, or the attendant coyote which nightly serenaded us.
With a plentiful supply of dry pine-logs on the fire, and its cheerful
blaze streaming far up into the sky, illuminating the valley far and
near, and exhibiting the animals, with well-filled bellies, standing
contentedly at rest over their picket-pins, I would sit cross-legged
enjoying the genial warmth, and, pipe in mouth, watch the blue smoke
as it curled upwards, building castles in its vapoury wreaths, and, in
the fantastic shapes it assumed, peopling the solitude with figures
of those far away. Scarcely, however, did I ever wish to change such
hours of freedom for all the luxuries of civilized life, and, unnatural
and extraordinary as it may appear, yet such is the fascination of the
life of the mountain hunter, that I believe not one instance could be
adduced of even the most polished and civilized of men, who had once
tasted the sweets of its attendant liberty and freedom from every
worldly care, not regretting the moment when he exchanged it for the
monotonous life of the settlements, nor sighing, and sighing again,
once more to partake of its pleasures and allurements.
“Nothing can be more social and cheering than the welcome blaze of
the camp fire on a cold winter’s night, and nothing more amusing or
entertaining, if not instructive, than the rough conversation of the
single-minded mountaineers, whose simple daily talk is all of
exciting adventure, since their whole existence is spent in scenes of
peril and privation; and consequently the narration of their every-day
life is a tale of thrilling accidents and hairbreadth ’scapes, which,
though simple matter-of-fact to them, appear a startling romance to
those who are not acquainted with the nature of the lives led by these
men, who, with the sky for a roof and their rifles to supply them with
food and clothing, call no man lord or master, and are free as the game
they follow.”
[Illustration: SKINNING A BUFFALO]
Some little time was spent at Fort Leavenworth, where Ruxton found the
change from the free life of prairie and mountain very unpleasant.
He suffered still more when he reached St. Louis, and was obliged to
assume the confining garb of civilization, and above all, to put his
feet into shoes.
Ruxton’s journey from St. Louis to New York was uneventful, and in July
he left for England, which he reached in the middle of August, 1847.
It was after this that he wrote a series of sketches, entitled “Life
in the Far West,” which were afterward published in _Blackwood’s
Magazine_, and finally in book form in England and America. These
sketches purport to give the adventures of a trapper, La Bonté, during
fifteen years’ wandering in the mountains, and set forth trapper and
mountain life of the day. They show throughout the greatest familiarity
with the old-time life. The author’s effort to imitate the dialect
spoken by the trappers makes the conversation not always easy to read;
but they are most interesting as faithful pictures of life in the
mountains between 1830 and 1840--at the end of the days of the beaver.
A BOY IN INDIAN CAMPS
I
AMONG THE CHEYENNES
One of the most charming books written about the early plains is Lewis
H. Garrard’s _Wah-To-Yah and the Taos Trail_. It is the narrative of a
boy, only seventeen years old, who, in 1846, travelled westward from
St. Louis with a train led by Mr. St. Vrain, of the firm of Bent, St.
Vrain & Co., and after some time spent on the plains and in Cheyenne
camps, proceeded westward to New Mexico and there saw and heard of many
of the events just antecedent to the Mexican War.
It is an interesting fact that the book, which, in its interest and its
fidelity to nature and to early times, equals the far more celebrated
_California and Oregon Trail_ of Parkman, tells of the events of
the same year as Parkman’s volume, but deals with a country to the
south of that traversed by him who was to become one of the greatest
historians of America. The charm of each volume lies in its freshness.
Neither could have been written except by one who saw things with
the enthusiastic eyes of youth, who entered upon each adventure with
youth’s enthusiasm, and who told his story with the frankness and
simplicity of one who was very young. After all, the greatest charm of
any literature lies in the simplicity with which the story is told, and
in both these delightful volumes is found this attractive quality.
Garrard reached St. Louis on his way to the Rocky Mountains in July,
1846, and there became acquainted with the firm of Pierre Chouteau,
Jr., & Co., so well known in the fur trade of the West. Here, too,
he met Kenneth McKenzie, one of the first traders with the Blackfeet
Indians, and Mr. St. Vrain.
To the modern reader it seems odd to see it stated in the first two
lines of the book that a part of the necessary preparations for the
trip before him was the “laying in a good store of caps, fine glazed
powder, etc.,” but in those days the percussion cap was still a new
thing, and of the guns used west of the Missouri River the great
majority still used the flint to strike fire to the charge.
Besides Garrard, there were others in St. Vrain’s company, who were new
to the plains. Of these one was Drinker, a Cincinnati editor; another,
a Mr. Chadwick. Besides these there were General Lee of St. Louis, a
friend or two of St. Vrain’s, and various employees of the traders.
Bent’s train was encamped not far from Westport, and here Garrard got
his first taste of wild life, sleeping on the ground in the open. Here,
too, he saw his first Indians, the Wyandottes, who, in 1843, had been
moved westward from their homes in Ohio. Here, of course, he met those
who for months were to be his travelling companions, and he paints us a
fresh picture of them in these pleasing words:
“There were eighteen or twenty Canadian Frenchmen (principally from
St. Louis) composing part of our company, as drivers of the teams. As
I have ever been a lover of sweet, simple music, their beautiful and
piquant songs in the original language fell most harmoniously on the
ear, as we lay wrapped in our blankets.
“On the first of September, Mr. St. Vrain’s arrival infused some life
into our proceedings, but nothing more worthy of note occurred, except
riding and looking at horses, of which Drinker and I were in need; one
of which, Frank De Lisle, ‘_le maitre de wagon_,’ sold me for fifty
dollars, whom, from his fanciful color, brown and white spots, and
white eyes, was designated by the descriptive though not euphonious
name of, ‘_Paint_.’ He was a noted buffalo chaser, and I anticipated
much excitement through his services.
“The way the mules were broken to wagon harness would have astonished
the ‘full-blooded’ animals of Kentucky and other horse-raising States
exceedingly. It was a treatment none but hardy Mexican or scrub mules
could survive. They first had to be lassoed by our expert Mexican,
Bias, their heads drawn up to a wagon wheel, with scarce two inches of
spare rope to relax the tight noose on their necks, and starved for
twenty-four hours to subdue their fiery tempers; then harnessed to a
heavy wagon, lashed unmercifully when they did not pull, whipped still
harder when they ran into still faster speed, until, after an hour’s
bewilderment, and plunging and kicking, they became tractable and
broken down--a labor-saving operation, with the unflinching motto of
‘kill or cure.’”
The pulling out of the train from near Westport was an interesting
and exciting event. Teamsters were shouting to their newly yoked
bulls; the herders were driving along the caballada; mounted men were
hurrying back and forth; the leader of the company and his wagon-master
were constantly passing to and fro from one end of the train to the
other, seeing how things went, and looking for weak spots among the
teams and the wagons. A few days later came the first rain-storm--a
dismal occasion to the young traveller on the plains. There are few
old plainsmen but can still recall something of the discomfort of a
long day’s travel in the storm; of the camping at night with clothing
thoroughly wet and bodies thoroughly chilled, and the sitting or lying,
or perhaps even sleeping in the wet clothing. “The wagons being full of
goods, and we without tents, a cheerless, chilling, soaking, wet night
was the consequence. As the water penetrated, successively, my blanket,
coat, and shirt, and made its way down my back, a cold shudder came
over me; in the gray, foggy morning a more pitiable set of hungry,
shaking wretches were never seen. Oh! but it was hard on the poor
greenhorns!”
At Council Grove, which they reached the last of September, the train
remained for two days, and as this was the last place travelling
westward where hardwood could be procured, the men felled hickories and
oaks for spare axle-trees, and swung the pieces under their wagons.
Young Garrard was an eager hunter, and set out from camp in search of
wild turkeys, whose cries he could hear, but he got none.
Here is another picture of that early life which may call up in the
minds of some readers pleasant memories of early days when they, too,
were a part of such things: “So soon as a faint streak of light appears
in the east, the cry ‘_turn out_’ is given by De Lisle; all rise, and,
in half an hour, the oxen are yoked, hitched and started. For the
purpose of bringing everything within a small compass, the wagons are
corralled; that is, arranged in the form of a pen, when camp is made;
and as no animals in that country are caught without a lasso, they are
much easier noosed if driven in the corral. There, no dependence must
be placed in any but one’s self; and the sooner he rises, when the cry
is given, the easier can he get his horse.