On the frontier every settlement has its professional hunter. Often
several, seldom less than two or three; their _metier_ being to supply
the settlers with meat and game--venison, the standing dish--now and
then bear hams, much relished--and, when the place is upon prairie-land,
the flesh of the antelope and buffalo. The wild turkey, too--grandest
of all game birds--is on the professional hunter's list for the larder;
the lynx and panther he will kill for their pelts; but squirrels,
racoons, rabbits, and other such "varmints," he disdains to meddle with,
leaving them to the amateur sportsman, and the darkey.
Usually the professional votary of Saint Hubert is of solitary habit,
and prefers stalking alone. There are some, however, of more social
inclining, who hunt in couples; one of the pair being almost universal a
veteran, the other a young man--as in the case of Sime Woodley and Ned
Heywood. By the inequality of age the danger of professional jealousy
is avoided; the younger looking up to his senior, and treating him with
the deference due to greater knowledge and experience.
Just such a brace of professionals has come out with the Armstrong
colony--their names, Alec Hawkins and Cris Tucker--the former an old
bear-hunter, who has slain his hundreds; the latter, though an excellent
marksman, in the art of _venerie_ but a tyro compared with his partner.
Since their arrival on the San Saba, they have kept the settlement
plentifully supplied in meat; chiefly venison of the black-tailed deer,
with which the bottom-land abounds. Turkeys, too, in any quantity;
these noble birds thriving in the congenial climate of Texas, with its
nuts and berry-bearing trees.
But there is a yet nobler game, to the hunting of which Hawkins and his
younger associate aspire; both being eager to add it to the list of
their trophies. It is that which has tempted many an English Nimrod to
take three thousand miles of sea voyage across the Atlantic, and by land
nearly as many more--the buffalo. Hawkins and Tucker, though having
quartered the river bottom, for ten miles above and below the
mission-building, have as yet come across none of these grand
quadrupeds, nor seen "sign" of them.
This day, when Armstrong has his dinner party, the hunters bethink
themselves of ascending to the upper plain, in the hope of there finding
the game so much desired.
The place promising best is on the opposite side of the valley, to reach
which the river must be crossed.
There are two fords at nearly equal distances from the old
mission-house, one about ten miles above, the other as many below. By
the latter the waggons came over, and it is the one chosen by the
hunters.
Crossing it, they continue on to the bluffs rising beyond, and ascend
these through a lateral ravine, the channel of a watercourse--which
affords a practicable pass to the plain. On reaching its summit they
behold a steppe to all appearance; illimitable, almost as sterile as
Saara itself. Treeless save a skirting of dwarf cedars along the
cliff's edge, with here and there a _motte_ of black-jack oaks, a
cluster of cactus plants, or a solitary yucca of the arborescent
species--the _palmilla_ of the Mexicans.
Withal, not an unlikely place to encounter the cattle with; hunched
backs, and shaggy shoulders. None are in sight; but hoping they soon
will be the hunters launch out upon the plain.
Till near night they scout around, but without seeing any buffalo.
The descending sun warns them it is time to return home; and, facing for
the bluff, they ride back towards it. Some three or four hundred yards
from the summit of the pass is a _motte_ of black-jacks, the trees
standing close, in full leaf, and looking shady. As it is more than
fifteen miles to the mission, and they have not eaten since morning,
they resolve to make halt, and have a sneck. The black-jack grove is
right in their way, its shade invites them, for the sun is still sultry.
Soon they are in it, their horses tied to trees, and their haversacks
summoned to disgorge. Some corn-bread and bacon is all these contain;
but, no better refection needs a prairie hunter, nor cares for, so long
he has a little distilled corn-juice to wash it down, with a pipe of
tobacco to follow. They have eaten, drunk, and are making ready to
smoke, when an object upon the plain attracts their attention. Only a
cloud of dust, and far off--on the edge of the horizon. For all that a
sign significant. It may be a "gang" of buffaloes, the thing they have
been all day vainly searching for.
Thrusting the pipes back into their pouches, they grasp their guns, with
eyes eagerly scanning the dust-cloud. At first dim, it gradually
becomes darker. For a whiff of wind has blown the "stoor" aside,
disclosing not a drove of buffaloes, but instead a troop of horses, at
the same time showing them to have riders on their backs, as the hunters
can perceive Indians.
Also that the troop is coming towards them, and advancing at such rapid
pace, that in less than twenty minutes after being descried, it is close
to the clump of black-jacks. Fortunately for Alec Hawkins and Oris
Tucker, the Indian horsemen have no intention to halt there, or rest
themselves under the shadow of the copse. To all appearance they are
riding in hot haste, and with a purpose which carries them straight
towards the pass. They do not even stop on arrival at its--summit; but
dash down the ravine, disappearing suddenly as though they had dropped
into a trap!
It is some time before the two hunters have recovered from their
surprise, and can compare notes about what they have seen, with
conjectures as to its bearing. They have witnessed a spectacle
sufficiently alarming,--a band of fierce-looking savages, armed with
spear and tomahawk--some carrying guns--all plumed and painted, all
alike terrible in aspect.
Quick the apparition has passed before their eyes, as suddenly
disappearing. The haste in which the Indians rode down the ravine tells
of their being bent on some fore-arranged purpose that calls for early
execution. It may be murder, or only plunder; and the men may be
Comanches--as in every likelihood they are.
"They're a ugly-looking lot," says Hawkins, after seeing them file past.
"If there were a hundred, instead o' twenty, I'd predict some danger to
our new settlement. They appear to be going that way--at all events
they are bound for the river bottom, and the lower crossing. We must
follow them, Oris, an' see if we can make out what's their game. The
red devils mayn't mean downright robbery, but like enough they intend
stealin'. Hitch up, and let's after em'."
In a trice the two hunters are in their saddles; and proceeding to the
summit of the pass, look down at the valley below. Not carelessly, but
cautiously. Hawkins is an old campaigner, has fought Indians before,
and knows how to deal with them.
Keeping himself and horse under cover of the cedars, after instructing
his comrade to do the same, he reconnoitres the bottom-land, before
attempting to descend to it.
As expected, he sees the Indians making for the ford. At the point
between the San Saba, and either of its bluffs is a breadth of some four
miles, part open meadow land, the other part, contiguous to the river
overgrown with heavy timber. Into this the red horsemen are riding, as
the two hunters reach the summit of the pass, the latter arriving just
in time to see their last files disappear among the trees. It is their
cue to descend also, which they do, without further delay.
Hastening down the ravine and on to the river ford, they discover that
the Indians have crossed it. The tracks of their horses are on both
banks. Beyond, the hunters cannot tell which way they have taken. For
though still only twilight it is dark as night under the thick standing
trees; and he keenest eye could not discover a trail.
Thus thrown off, they have no choice but continue on to the settlement.
Beaching this at a rather late hour, they do not enter the
mission-building nor yet any of the huts of the _rancheria_. Their own
residence is a tent, standing in the grove between; and to it they
betake themselves. Once under canvass their first thought is supper,
and they set about cooking it. Though they have brought back no buffalo
meat a twenty pound turkey "gobbler" has been all day dangling at the
horn of Hawkins' saddle--enough for a plentiful repast.
Oris, who acts as cook, sets to plucking the bird, while Hawkins
commences kindling a fire outside the tent. But before the fagots are
ablaze, the old hunter, all along abstracted, becomes fidgetty, as if
troubled with the reflection of having neglected some duty he ought to
have done.
Abruptly breaking off, and pitching aside the sticks, he says:--"This
wont do, Cris, nohow. I've got a notion in my head there's something
not right about them Indyens. I must up to the house an' tell the
Colonel. You go on, and get the gobbler roasted. I'll be back by the
time its ready."
"All right," rejoins Tucker, continuing to make the feathers fly.
"Don't stay if you expect any share of this bird. I'm hungry enough to
eat the whole of it myself."
"You needn't fear for my stayin'. I'm just as sharp set as yourself."
So saying, Hawkins strides out of the tent, leaving his comrade to
continue the preparations for their repast.
From the hunter's tent, the house is approached by a narrow path, nearly
all the way running through timber. While gliding silently along it,
Hawkins comes suddenly to a stop.
"Seems to me I heard a cry," he mutters to himself; "seems, too, as
'twar a woman's voice."
After listening awhile, without hearing it repeated, he adds:
"I reckon, 'twar only the skirl o' them tree-crickets. The warm night
makes 'em chirp their loudest."
Listening a little longer, he becomes convinced it was but the crickets
he heard, and keeps on to the house.