A WILD CHASE.
The sun was just visible above the burnished peaks of the Rocky
Mountains, and its slanting rays rested like a halo on the tops of the
trees forming a pleasant grove near the Sweetwater river.
The river, meandering along between its verdant banks, shone and
sparkled like burnished silver, and rippled and chattered to itself, as
if it felt the exhilarating influence of the quiet breeze and pleasant
scene.
In the edge of the grove above mentioned, an emigrant-train was
preparing its night-camp. The scene was a merry and exciting one.
Children ran laughing and shouting in every direction; groups of women
chatted in cheerful voices around fires, or strolled in couples under
the trees; men, in knots of two or three, laughed, jested, and told
“yarns;” here a boy was training a dog, and yonder a woman perched on a
wagon-tongue, with arms akimbo, and laughing, eager face, surrounded
with young girls, whose sudden bursts of shrill mirth woke the
slumbering echoes of the grove and river.
A little apart from the busy scene stood two men, whom we wish more
particularly to introduce to the reader.
The first was an intelligent, manly-looking fellow of about twenty-three
years. His cap covered a profusion of brown hair, brushed carelessly
back from his forehead, a slight mustache covered his upper lip, and
half-shaded his firm, frank mouth.
For the past few minutes, he had been intently watching a small moving
speck away to the west, and now, turning his fine gray eyes upon his
companion, he called his attention to the same.
The man turned about, and drawing his form to its full hight, took a
sweeping view of the valley. As he stood thus, he presented a splendid
picture of a free trapper.
Medium-sized, with square shoulders, straight as a young pine and as
lithe, he was evidently a full match for any one. His fringed frock of
untanned buck-skin was belted tightly about his waist, in which stuck a
buckhorn-handled knife, and a small, handsomely-finished tomahawk. A
powder-horn and a six-shooter hung at his side, and he carried a long
rifle, that had evidently seen considerable service.
After a moment’s keen scrutiny, he turned to the young man, with a broad
grin illuminating his rough features, and said:
“That’s a small herd of buffler. They’re comin’ this way, an’ we’ll have
a few shots at ’em. Not much time tew be lost, either. Let’s tew horse!”
The word spread through camp like wildfire, and long before the
stampeded herd came near, the men were mounted and ready for them.
Hearing the unusual noise throughout the camp, a couple of girls came
hurriedly from the edge of the grove, where they had been strolling
around, with faces full of alarm and apprehension.
The tallest one, a pretty, slender maid, with dark eyes and floating
black curls, whose name was Marion Verne, ran up to the old trapper
before mentioned, and exclaimed:
“What is the matter, Vic? Have the Indians come?”
“Nary an Injun,” replied Vic Potter, springing into his saddle; “only a
herd of buffler. We’re goin’ to have a few shots at ’em. Ready, Kent?”
The young man replied in the affirmative, and as the herd was yet some
distance off, he walked his horse to the trapper’s side, and stood
talking with him and Marion Verne.
The herd came on grandly. It numbered only three or four hundred, and
was passing to the right of the camp, at the distance of half a mile. As
the first of the herd came opposite, Vic Potter gave the signal, and the
half-dozen mounted men dashed toward them.
There was no evidence in the herd that they were seen or noticed until
they were very close, when some agitation in the outskirts, and running
to and fro, showed they were discovered.
The hunters rode steadily abreast until within about twenty-five yards
of the herd, when they separated and broke into it.
Vic Potter selected a large cow, and brought her down at the first shot.
Leaving her, he dashed after an old bull, which showed symptoms of
fight, and charged his horse several times. He succeeded, after
considerable trouble and several shots, in bringing him to the ground.
Meantime the herd had passed on, leaving an immense cloud of dust, and
the hunters were preparing to cut up such of the game as they desired.
Vic Potter tied his horse to the horns of the cow he had secured, and
then looked around for his companions. All were near except Wayne Kent.
The trapper raised himself and gazed earnestly down the valley.
Far away toward the south-east he descried a small, moving object. One
whose eyes were less keen would never have seen it. The trapper shook
his head at the sight.
“The boy’s chasin’ a buffler, an’ he’s lettin’ his excitement run away
with his reason. Don’t he see thet the sun is down, an’ he’s plump tew
miles from camp, an’ goin’ like mad? He’s a new hand on the plains, an’
don’t know nothin’ about Injun ways. Like as not they’ll gobble him up.”
Muttering away, the hunter continued to watch the fast-receding figure,
until distance, and the fast-gathering dusk, hid it from view.
Then, after securing the choicest portions of the cow, he returned with
the others to the camp.
“Where is Kent?” was the question that greeted them on their arrival.
“He’s off chasin’ a buffler, an’ I’m thinkin’ he’ll git inter trouble,
tew,” replied Potter, throwing down his load. It was now dark, and
considerable anxiety was felt for the young man. Among the ones most
interested was Marion Verne, though she said nothing, and was, to all
appearances, indifferent as to whether Wayne Kent was there or in Nova
Zembla. Such is the hypocrisy of the fair!
Meanwhile, the dashing young hunter _was_ getting into trouble.
He had singled out a huge bull, on entering the chase, and fired several
shots at him. But the animal seemed possessed of a charmed life, and led
him a wild chase.
Excited by the sport, and eager to bring the noble animal down, he
followed him until the rapidly-gathering darkness warned him to stop.
Relinquishing his pursuit with reluctance, he pulled up his horse, and
stopped to look about him.
To his utter dismay, he found himself completely out of sight of camp,
and, as the sun was down, he was without a guide. He did not stop to
consider long, as it was already so dark that objects were
distinguishable only at a short distance, but headed his horse in the
direction he supposed the camp to be, and pushed forward rapidly.
The night proved to be a dark, cloudy one, so that he was without the
stars for a guide, and utterly at a loss. He wandered about, searching
vainly for the welcome light of the emigrant camp-fires, until nearly
morning, when, wearied with the unavailing search, he threw himself on
the ground, and securing his horse to a tree near, soon fell asleep.
He had slept about an hour, he judged, when he was awakened suddenly, in
that strange way that probably every one has experienced at some period
during his life, namely, that of feeling as if there was some one
present, though he heard nothing. Listening attentively, he soon heard
the low whinny of his horse. Raising himself to a sitting posture, he
listened again, and soon it was repeated, this time lower than before.
Rising silently, he went to the horse, and putting his hand on his neck,
whispered:
“What is the matter, Bayard? Danger?”
The animal replied with an inaudible whinny, then erected his head, and
appeared to be listening intently. Following his example, the young man
soon heard the sound of voices at some little distance off and, after
assuring himself that they were coming no closer, he whispered to the
horse to “be quiet,” and glided away in the darkness.
Proceeding noiselessly, and following the sound, he soon saw a sight
that made him start. Gathered around a smoldering fire, that flickered
faintly on their painted faces, were some twenty-five Indians!
Our hero only waited a moment to count their number, and then left the
vicinity as noiselessly as he had come. Proceeding at once to his horse,
he untied and mounted him, and was soon once more on the move. He did
not know which way he was going, only that it was away from his
unpleasant neighbors, who, fortunately for him, had not suspected his
presence.