Picture a wide, gently undulating expanse of land covered with tall
grass, over which, as it bends to the breeze, a gleam of light ever and
anon flashes brightly. It is a rolling prairie in North America, midway
between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. On either hand the earth and
sky seem to unite, without an object to break the line of the horizon,
except in the far distance, where some tall trees, by a river's side,
shoot up out of the plain, but appear no higher than a garden hedge-row.
It is truly a wilderness, which no wise man would attempt to traverse
without a guide.
That man has wandered there, the remnants of mortality which lie
scattered about--a skull and the bare ribs seen as the wind blows the
grass aside,--afford melancholy evidence. A nearer inspection shows a
rifle, now covered with rust, a powder-flask, a sheath-knife, a flint
and steel, and a few other metal articles of hunter's gear. Those of
more destructible materials have disappeared before the ravenous jaws of
the hosts of locusts which have swept over the plain. Few portions of
the earth's surface give a more complete idea of boundless extent than
the American prairie. Not a sound is heard. The silence itself is
awe-inspiring. The snows of winter have lain thickly on that plain,
storms have swept over it, the rain has fallen, the lightning flashed,
the thunder roared, since it has been trodden by the foot of man.
Perhaps the last human being who has attempted to cross it was he whose
bones lie blanching in the summer sun--that sun which now, having some
time passed its meridian height, is sinking towards the west.
Southward appear, coming as it were from below the horizon, some dark
specks, scattered widely from east to west, and moving slowly. On they
come, each instant increasing in numbers, till they form one dark line.
They are animals with huge heads and dark shaggy manes, browsing as they
advance, clearing the herbage before them. They are a herd of bison,
known by the wild hunters of the west as buffaloes--countless apparently
in numbers--powerful and ferocious in appearance, with their short thick
horns and long heads. Now they halt, as the richer pasturage entices;
now again advance. A large number lie down to rest, while others,
moving out of the midst, seem to be acting as scouts to give notice of
the approach of danger. They go on as before, darkening the whole
southern horizon. The wind is from the west; the scouts lift up their
shaggy heads and sniff the air, but discover no danger. From the east
another dark line rises quickly above the horizon: the ground shakes
with the tramp of horses. It is a troop of huntsmen--savage warriors of
the desert. What clothing they wear is of leather gaily adorned. Some
have feathers in their heads, and their dark red skins painted
curiously. Some carry bows richly ornamented: a few only are armed with
rifles. A few, who, by their dress, the feathers and adornments of the
head, appear to be chiefs, ride a-head and keep the line in order.
Every man holds his weapon ready for instant use. They advance
steadily, keeping an even line. Their leader waves his rifle.
Instantly the steeds spring forward. Like a whirlwind they dash on: no
want of energy now. The huntsmen are among the bewildered herd before
their approach has been perceived. Arrows fly in quick succession from
every bow--bullets from the rifles. The huntsmen have filled their
mouths with the leaden messengers of death, and drop them into their
rifles as they gallop on, firing right and left--singling out the
fattest beasts at a glance--and never erring in their aim. In a few
minutes the plain is thickly strewn with the huge carcasses of the
shaggy buffaloes, each huntsman, as he passes on, dropping some article
of his property by which he may know the beast he has killed. Now the
herd begin to seek for safety in flight, still keeping in the direction
they had before been taking, some scattering, however, on each side.
The eager hunters pursue till the whole prairie, from right to left, is
covered with flying buffaloes and wild horsemen; the crack of the rifles
sounding distinctly through the calm summer air, in which the tiny
wreath of smoke ascends unbroken and marks the hunter's progress.
Among the huntsmen rides one distinguished from the rest by his more
complete, yet less ornamented clothing; by a leather cap without
feathers, and by the perfect order of his rifle and hunting
accoutrements.
On a nearer inspection his skin--though tanned, and wrinkled, and
furrowed, by long exposure to the weather, and by age and toil--might be
discovered to have been of a much lighter hue originally than that of
his companions. Old as he was, no one was more eager in the chase, and
no one's rifle brought down so great a number of buffaloes as did his.
To all appearance he was as active and strong as the youngest huntsman
of the band. In the course of the hunt he had reached the extreme left
of the line. A superb bull appeared before him. "I'll have you for
your robe, if not for your meat, old fellow," exclaimed the hunter,
galloping on towards the animal's right flank, so as to turn him yet
further from the herd, and to obtain a more direct shot at his head or
at his shoulders. There are occasions when the most practised of shots
will find himself at fault--the firmest nerves will fail. The old
hunter had reached a satisfactory position--he raised his rifle, and
fired. At that instant, while still at full speed, his horse's front
feet sunk into a hole made by a badger, or some other of the smaller
creatures inhabiting the prairie; and the animal, unable to recover
itself, threw the hunter violently forward over its head, where he lay
without moving, and apparently dead. The horse struggled to free
itself; and then, as it fell forward, gave utterance to one of those
piercing cries of agony not often heard, and, when heard, not to be
forgotten. Both fore legs were broken. Its fate was certain. It must
become the prey of the ravenous wolves, who speedily scent out the spots
where the hunters have overtaken a herd of buffaloes. Meantime the
buffalo, who had been struck by the hunter's bullet, but not so wounded
as to bring him instantly to the ground, galloped on for some distance
in the direction he was before going, when, feeling the pain of his
wound, or hearing the cry of the horse, he turned round to face his
enemies. Seeing both steed and rider prostrate, he tossed his head, and
then, lowering his horns close to the ground, prepared to charge. The
last moments of the old hunter seemed approaching. The cry of agony
uttered by his favourite steed roused him. He looked up and saw the
buffalo about to make its charge. His hand had never relaxed its grasp
of his rifle. To feel for his powder-flask and to load was the work of
an instant; and, without an attempt to rise, he brought the muzzle of
his piece to bear on the furious animal as it was within a few paces of
him. "Rob Nixon never feared man nor beast, and will not this time; let
an old bull bellow as loud as he may," he muttered, as he raised his
rifle and fired. The bullet took effect, but did not stop the headlong
career of the enraged monster, which came on, ploughing up the ground,
towards him. The hunter saw his danger and tried to rise, but in vain.
He then made a desperate endeavour to drag himself out of the way of the
creature. He but partially succeeded, when the buffalo, sinking down,
rolled over and over, crushing, with his huge carcase, the already
injured legs and lower extremities of the unfortunate hunter. In spite
of the pain he was enduring, the old man, raising himself on his elbow,
grimly, surveyed his conquered foe--"You've the worst of it, though you
nearly did for me, I own," he exclaimed, nodding his head; "but a miss
is as good as a mile, and when I'm free of you, maybe I'll sup off your
hump."
To liberate himself from the monster's carcase was, however, no easy
task, injured as he was already by his fall, and by the weight of the
buffalo pressing on him. He made several attempts, but the pain was
very great, and he found that his strength was failing him. While
resting, before making another attempt to move, he perceived his poor
horse, whose convulsive struggles showed how much he had been injured.
On looking round, also, he discovered that the accident had taken place
in a slight hollow, which, shallow as it was, shut him out from the view
of his companions, who were now pursuing the remainder of the herd at a
considerable distance from where he lay. Again and again he tried to
drag his injured limbs from beneath the buffalo. He had never given in
while consciousness remained, and many were the accidents which had
happened to him during his long hunter's life. Would he give in now?
"No, not I," he muttered; "Rob Nixon is not the boy for that." At
length, however, his spirit succumbed to bodily suffering, and he sank
back exhausted and fainting, scarcely conscious of what had happened, or
where he was. Had he retained sufficient strength to fire his rifle he
might have done so, and summoned some of the hunters to his assistance;
but he was unable even to load it, so it lay useless by his side. Thus
he remained; time passed by--no one approached him--the sun sank in the
horizon--darkness came on. It appeared too probable that the fate of
many a hunter in that vast prairie would be his. How long he had
remained in a state of stupor he could not tell; consciousness returned
at length, and, revived by the cool air of night, he sat up and gazed
about him. The stars had come out and were shining brilliantly
overhead, enabling him to see to the extent of his limited horizon. The
dead buffalo still pressed on his legs--a hideous nightmare; his horse
lay near giving vent to his agony in piteous groans, and every now and
then making an attempt to rise to his feet. "My poor mustang, you are
in a bad way I fear," said the hunter, in a tone of commiseration,
forgetting his own sufferings; "I would put an end to thy misery, and so
render thee the only service in my power, but that I cannot turn myself
to load my rifle. Alack! alack! we shall both of us ere long be food
for the wolves; but, though I must meet my fate as becomes a man, I
would save you--poor, dumb brute that you are--from being torn by their
ravenous fangs while life remains in you." Such were the thoughts which
passed through the hunter's mind, for it can scarcely be said that he
spoke them aloud.
He would probably again have relapsed into a state of stupor, but that a
hideous howl, borne by the night breeze, reached his ears. "Wolves!" he
exclaimed; "ah! I know you, you brutes." The howl was repeated again
and again, its increased loudness showing that the creatures were
approaching. The well-known terrible sounds roused up the old hunter to
make renewed exertions to extricate himself. This time, by dint of
dragging himself out with his arms, he succeeded in getting his feet
from under the buffalo; but he then discovered, to his dismay, that his
thigh had either been broken, or so severely sprained by his fall, that
to walk would be impossible. He managed, however, to load his rifle.
Scarcely had he done so when the struggles of his horse reminded him of
the pain the poor animal was suffering. Although he knew that every
charge of powder in his flask would be required for his own defence, he
did not hesitate in performing the act of mercy which the case required.
He uttered no sentimental speech, though a pang of grief passed through
his heart as he pointed the weapon at the horse's head. His aim was
true, and the noble animal fell dead. "He's gone; not long before me, I
guess," he muttered, as he reloaded his piece. "Those brutes will find
me out, there is no doubt about that; but I'll have a fight first--Rob
Nixon will die game." The old hunter drew a long knife from a sheath at
his side, and, deliberately examining its point, placed it on the ground
near him while he reloaded his rifle. Thus did the old man prepare for
an inevitable and dreadful death, as he believed; yet not a prayer did
he offer up, not a thought did he cast at the future. Eternity, heaven,
and hell, were matters unknown; or, if once known, long since forgotten.
Yet forgetfulness of a fact will not do away with it. They are awful
realities, and will assuredly be found such, however much men may strive
to banish them from their thoughts. The young especially are surprised
to hear that old men have forgotten what they learned in their youth,
that they neglect to pray, to read the Bible, to think about God and
their own souls; but let them be assured that if once they give up the
habit of praying, of studying God's holy Word, of obeying His commands,
there is one ever ready to persuade them that there is no harm in this
neglect; that it will save them much trouble; and that it is far more
manly to neglect prayers, to be irreligious and profane, than to love,
serve, and obey their Maker. A downward course is sadly easy; let them
beware of taking the first step. Each step they take in the wrong
direction they will find it more and more difficult to recover, till,
like the old huntsman, they will cease to care about the matter, and God
will no longer be in their thoughts. There lay that old man on the wild
prairie, a melancholy spectacle,--not so much that he was surrounded by
dangers--that he was wounded and crippled--that wild beasts were near
him--that, if he escaped their fangs, starvation threatened him,--but
that he had no hope for the future--that he had no trust in God--that he
had not laid hold of the means of salvation.
As Rob Nixon lay on the ground supporting his head on his arm, he turned
his gaze round and round, peering into the darkness to watch for any
thing moving near him. He knew that before the sun set his Indian
comrades would have carried off the flesh from the buffaloes they had
killed, and that after that they, would move their camp to a distance,
no one being likely to return. He probably would not be missed for some
time, and when missed, it would be supposed that he had fallen into the
hands of the Salteux, or Ojibways, the hereditary enemies of their
nation, and that already his scalp had been carried off as a trophy by
those hated foes. "They'll revenge me; that's one comfort, and the
Ojibways will get paid for what the wolves have done." These were
nearly the last thoughts which passed through the brain of the old
hunter, as the howls and yelps of the wolves, which had formed a
dreadful concert at a distance around him, approached still nearer. "I
guessed the vermin wouldn't be long in finding me out," he muttered;
and, on looking up, he saw through the darkness, glaring fiercely down
on him from the edge of the hollow in which he lay, the eyes of a pack
of wolves. "I'll stop the howling of some of you," he exclaimed,
lifting his rifle. There was no cry; but a gap in the circle of eyes
showed that a wolf had fallen, and instantly afterwards the loud barking
and yelping proved that the savage creatures were tearing their
companion to pieces. This gave time to the old man to re-load and to
pick off another wolf. In this manner he killed several, and though he
did not drive them away, they were prevented from approaching nearer.
On finding that such was the case, his hopes of escaping their fangs
rose slightly, at the same time that the lightness of his powder-flask
and bullet bag, told him that his ammunition would soon fail, and that
then he would have his hunting knife alone on which to depend. He
accordingly waited, without again firing, watching his foes, who
continued howling and wrangling over the bodies of their fellows. Now
and then one would descend a short way into the hollow, attracted by the
scent of the dead horse and buffalo, but a sudden shout from the old
hunter kept the intruders at a respectful distance. He was well aware,
however, that should exhausted nature for one instant compel him to drop
asleep, the brutes would be upon him, and tear him limb from limb. Thus
the hours of the night passed slowly along. Many men would have
succumbed; but, hardened by a long life of danger and activity, Robert
Nixon held out bravely, in spite of the pain, and thirst, and hunger,
from which he was suffering. Never for one moment was his eye off his
enemies, while his fingers were on the trigger ready to shoot the first
which might venture to approach. More than once he muttered to himself,
"It must be near morning, and then these vermin will take themselves
off, and let me have some rest. Ah, rest! that's the very thing I have
been wanting," he continued; "it's little enough I've ever had of it.
I've been working away all my life, and where's the good I've got out of
it? There's been something wrong, I suppose; but I can't make it out.
Best! Yes, that's it. I should just like to find myself sitting in my
lodge among a people who don't care, like these Dakotahs, to be always
fighting or hunting: but they are not a bad people, and they've been
good friends to me, and I've no fault to find with their ways, though
I'll own they're more suited to young men than to an old one like me.
But there's little use my thinking this. Maybe, I shall never see them
or any other of my fellow-creatures again." It was only now and then
that his mind framed any thoughts as coherent as these; generally he
remained in a dreamy condition, only awake to the external objects
immediately surrounding him. Gradually, too, his strength began to
fail, though he was not aware of the fact. The howls, and barks, and
snarling, and other hideous sounds made by the wolves, increased. He
could see them moving about in numbers, around the edge of the basin,
their red fiery eyes ever and anon glaring down on him. At last they
seemed to be holding a consultation, and to have settled their disputes,
probably from not having longer a bone of contention unpicked among
them. They were evidently, once more, about to make an attack on him.
A large brute, who had long been prowling round, first crept on,
gnashing his teeth. The old man lifted his rifle and the creature, with
a loud cry, fell dead. Another and another came on, and before he could
load, the foremost had got close up to him. He fired at the animal's
head. It rolled over, and, the flash of his rifle scaring the rest,
with hideous yelps, they took to flight, the old man firing after them
directly he could re-load. He could scarcely believe that he was to
remain unmolested, and once more loading his rifle, he rested as before
on his arm, watching for their re-appearance. Gradually, however,
exhausted nature gave way, and he sank down unconscious on the ground,
to sleep, it might be, the sleep of death.