THE BUFFALO HUNT
I question if Norse heroes of the sea could boast more thrilling
adventure than the wild buffalo hunts of American plain-rangers. A
cavalcade of six hundred men mounted on mettlesome horses eager for the
furious dash through a forest of tossing buffalo-horns was quite as
imposing as any clash between warring Vikings. Squaws, children and a
horde of ragged camp-followers straggled in long lines far to the
hunters' rear. Altogether, the host behind the flag numbered not less
than two thousand souls. Like any martial column, our squad had captain,
color-bearer and chaplain. Luckily, all three were known to me, as I
discovered when I reached Pembina. The truce, patched up between
Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers after Governor McDonell's surrender, left
Cuthbert Grant free to join the buffalo hunt. Pursuing big game across
the prairie was more to his taste than leading the half-breeds during
peace. The warden of the plains came hot-foot after us, and was promptly
elected captain of the chase. Father Holland was with us too. Our course
lay directly on his way to the Missouri and a jolly chaplain he made. In
Grant's company came Pierre, the rhymster, bubbling over with jingling
minstrelsy, that was the delight of every half-breed camp on the plains.
Bareheaded, with a red handkerchief banding back his lank hair, and clad
in fringed buckskin from the bright neck-cloth to the beaded moccasins,
he was as wild a figure as any one of the savage rabble. Yet this was
the poet of the plain-rangers, who caught the song of bird, the burr of
cataract through the rocks, the throb of stampeding buffalo, the moan of
the wind across the prairie, and tuned his rude minstrelsy to wild
nature's fugitive music. Viking heroes, I know, chanted their deeds in
songs that have come down to us; but with the exception of the Eskimo,
descendants of North American races have never been credited with a
taste for harmony. Once I asked Pierre how he acquired his art of
verse-making. With a laugh of scorn, he demanded if the wind and the
waterfalls and the birds learned music from beardless boys and
draggle-coated dominies with armfuls of books. However, it may have been
with his Pegasus, his mount for the hunt was no laggard. He rode a
knob-jointed, muscular brute, that carried him like poetic inspiration
wherever it pleased. Though Pierre's right hand was busied upholding the
hunters' flag, and he had but one arm to bow-string the broncho's
arching neck, the half-breed poet kept his seat with the easy grace of
the plainsman born and bred in the saddle.
"Faith, man, 'tis the fate of genius to ride a fractious steed," said
Father Holland, when the bronchos of priest and poet had come into
violent collision with angry squeals for the third time in ten minutes.
"And what are the capers of this, my beast, compared to the antics of
fate, Sir Priest?" asked Pierre with grave dignity.
The wind caught his long hair and blew it about his face till he became
an equestrian personification of the frenzied muse. I had become
acquainted with his trick of setting words to the music of quaint
rhymes; but Father Holland was taken aback.
"By the saints," he exclaimed, "I've no mind to run amuck of Pegasus!
I'll get out of your way. Faith, 'tis the first time I've seen poetry in
buckskin of this particular binding," and he wheeled his broncho out,
leaving me abreast of the rhymster.
Pierre's lips began to frame some answer to the churchman.
"Have a care, Father," I warned. "You've escaped the broncho; but look
out for the poet."
"Save us! What's coming now?" gasped the priest.
"Ha! I have it!" and Pierre turned triumphantly to Father Holland.
"The Lord be praised that poetry's free,
Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone,
That beauty's beauty for eyes that see
Without regard to a priestly gown----"
"Hold on," interrupted Father Holland. "Hold on, Pierre!"
"'Your double-quick Peg
Has a limp of one leg!'
"'Bone' and 'gown' don't fit, Mr. Rhymster."
"Upon my honor! You turned poet, too, Father Holland!" said I. "We might
be on a pilgrimage to Helicon."
"To where?" says Grant, whose knowledge of classics was less than my
own, which was precious little indeed.
"Helicon."
At that Father Holland burst in such roars of laughter, the rhymster
took personal offense, dug his moccasins against the horse's sides and
rode ahead. His fringed leggings were braced straight out in the
stirrups as if he anticipated his broncho transforming the concave into
the convex,--known in the vernacular as "bucking."
"Mad as a hatter," said Grant, inferring the joke was on Pierre. "Let
him be! Let him be! He'll get over it! He's working up his rhymes for
the feast after the buffalo hunt."
And we afterwards got the benefit of those rhymes.
The tenth day west from Pembina our scouts found some herd's footprints
on soggy ground. At once word was sent back to pitch camp on rolling
land. A cordon of carts with shafts turned outward encircled the camping
ground. At one end the animals were tethered, at the other the hunter's
tents were huddled together. All night mongrel curs, tearing about the
enclosure in packs, kept noisy watch. Twice Grant and I went out to
reconnoitre. We saw only a whitish wolf scurrying through the long
grass. Grant thought this had disturbed the dogs; but I was not so sure.
Indeed, I felt prepared to trace features of Le Grand Diable under every
elk-hide, or wolf-skin in which a cunning Indian could be disguised. I
deemed it wise to have a stronger guard and engaged two runners, Ringing
Thunder and Burnt Earth, giving them horses and ordering them to keep
within call during the thick of the hunt.
At daybreak all tents were a beehive of activity. The horses, with
almost human intelligence, were wild to be off. Riders could scarcely
gain saddles, and before feet were well in the stirrups, the bronchos
had reared and bolted away, only to be reined sharply in and brought
back to the ranks. The dogs, too, were mad, tearing after make-believe
enemies and worrying one another till there were several curs less for
the hunt. Inside the cart circle, men were shouting last orders to
women, squaws scolding half-naked urchins, that scampered in the way,
and the whole encampment setting up a din that might have scared any
buffalo herd into endless flight. Grant gave the word. Pierre hoisted
the flag, and the camp turmoil was left behind. The _Bois-Brulés_ kept
well within the lines and observed good order; but the Indian rabble
lashed their half-broken horses into a fury of excitement, that
threatened confusion to all discipline. The camp was strongly guarded.
Father Holland remained with the campers, but in spite of his holy
calling, I am sure he longed to be among the hunters.
Scouts ahead, we followed the course of a half-dried slough where
buffalo tracks were visible. Some two miles from camp, the out-runners
returned with word that the herds were browsing a short distance ahead,
and that the marsh-bed widened to a banked ravine. The buffalo could not
have been found in a better place; for there was a fine slope from the
upper land to our game. We at once ascended the embankment and coursed
cautiously along the cliff's summit. Suddenly we rounded an abrupt
headland and gained full view of the buffalo. The flag was lowered,
stopping the march, and up rose our captain in his stirrups to survey
the herd. A light mist screened us and a deep growth of the leathery
grass, common to marsh lands, half hid a multitude of broad, humped,
furry backs, moving aimlessly in the valley. Coal-black noses poked
through the green stalks sniffing the air suspiciously and the curved
horns tossed broken stems off in savage contempt.
From the headland beneath us to the rolling prairie at the mouth of the
valley, the earth swayed with giant forms. The great creatures were
restless as caged tigers and already on the rove for the day's march. I
suppose the vast flocks of wild geese, that used to darken the sky and
fill the air with their shrill "hunk, hunk," when I first went to the
north, numbered as many living beings in one mass as that herd; but men
no more attempted to count the creatures in flock or herd, than to
estimate the pebbles of a shore.
Protruding eyes glared savagely sideways. Great, thick necks hulked
forward in impatient jerks; and those dagger-pointed horns, sharper than
a pruning hook, promised no boy's sport for our company. The buffalo
sees best laterally on the level, and as long as we were quiet we
remained undiscovered. At the prospect, some of the hunters grew
excitedly profane. Others were timorous, fearing a stampede in our
direction. Being above, we could come down on the rear of the buffaloes
and they would be driven to the open.
Grant scouted the counseled caution. The hunters loaded guns, filled
their mouths with balls to reload on the gallop and awaited the
captain's order. Wheeling his horse to the fore, the warden gave one
quick signal. With a storm-burst of galloping hoofs, we charged down the
slope. At sound of our whirlwind advance, the bulls tossed up their
heads and began pawing the ground angrily. From the hunters there was no
shouting till close on the herd, then a wild halloo with unearthly
screams from the Indians broke from our company. The buffaloes started
up, turned panic-stricken, and with bellowings, that roared down the
valley, tore for the open prairie. The ravine rocked with the plunging
monsters, and reëchoed to the crash of six-hundred guns and a
thunderous tread. Firing was at close range. In a moment there was a
battle royal between dexterous savages, swift as tigers, and these
leviathans of the prairie with their brute strength.
A quick fearless horse was now invaluable; for the swiftest riders
darted towards the large buffaloes and rode within a few yards before
taking aim. Instantly, the ravine was ablaze with shots. Showers of
arrows from the Indian hunters sung through the air overhead. Men
unhorsed, ponies thrown from their feet, buffaloes wounded--or
dead--were scattered everywhere. One angry bull gored furiously at his
assailant, ripping his horse from shoulder to flank, then, maddened by
the creature's blood, and before a shot from a second hunter brought him
down, caught the rider on its upturned horns and tossed him high. By
keeping deftly to the fore, where the buffalo could not see, and
swerving alternately from side to side as the enraged animals struck
forward, trained horses avoided side thrusts. The saddle-girths of one
hunter, heading a buffalo from the herd, gave way as he was leaning over
to send a final ball into the brute's head. Down he went, shoulders
foremost under its nose, while the horse, with a deft leap cleared the
vicious drive of horns. Strange to say, the buffalo did not see where he
fell and galloped onward. Carcasses were mowed down like felled trees;
but still we plunged on and on, pursuing the racing herd; while the
ground shook in an earthquake under stampeding hoofs.
I had forgotten time, place, danger--everything in the mad chase and was
hard after a savage old warrior that outraced my horse. Gradually I
rounded him closer to the embankment. My broncho was blowing, almost
wind-spent, but still I dug the spurs into him, and was only a few
lengths behind the buffalo, when the wily beast turned. With head down,
eyes on fire and nostrils blood-red, he bore straight upon me. My
broncho reared, then sprang aside. Leaning over to take sure aim, I
fired, but a side jerk unbalanced me. I lost my stirrup and sprawled in
the dust. When I got to my feet, the buffalo lay dead and my broncho was
trotting back. Hunters were still tearing after the disappearing herd.
Riderless horses, mad with the smell of blood and snorting at every
flash of powder, kept up with the wild race. Little Fellow, La Robe
Noire, Burnt Earth, and Ringing Thunder, had evidently been left in the
rear; for look where I might I could not see one of my four Indians.
Near me two half-breeds were righting their saddles. I also was
tightening the girths, which was not an easy matter with my excited
broncho prancing round in a circle. Suddenly there was the whistle of
something through the air overhead, like a catapult stone, or recoiling
whip-lash. The same instant one of the half-breeds gave an upward toss
of both arms and, with a piercing shriek, fell to the ground. The fellow
caught at his throat and from his bared chest protruded an arrow shaft.
I heard his terrified comrade shout, "The Sioux! the Sioux!" Then he
fled in a panic of fear, not knowing where he was going and staggering
as he ran; and I saw him pitch forward face downwards. I had barely
realized what had happened and what it all meant, before an exultant
shout broke from the high grass above the embankment. At that my horse
gave a plunge and, wrenching the rein from my grasp, galloped off
leaving me to face the hostiles. Half a score of Indians scrambled down
the cliff and ran to secure the scalps of the dead. Evidently I had not
been seen; but if I ran I should certainly be discovered and a Sioux's
arrow can overtake the swiftest runner. I was looking hopelessly about
for some place of concealment, when like a demon from the earth a
horseman, scarlet in war-paint appeared not a hundred yards away.
Brandishing his battle-axe, he came towards me at furious speed. With
weapons in hand I crouched as his horse approached; and the fool mistook
my action for fear. White teeth glistened and he shrieked with derisive
laughter. I knew that sound. Back came memory of Le Grand Diable
standing among the shadows of a forest camp-fire, laughing as I struck
him.
The Indian swung his club aloft. I dodged abreast of his horse to avoid
the blow. With a jerk he pulled the animal back on its haunches. Quick,
when it rose, I sent a bullet to its heart. It lurched sideways, reared
straight up and fell backwards with Le Grand Diable under. The fall
knocked battle-axe and club from his grasp; and when his horse rolled
over in a final spasm, two men were instantly locked in a death clutch.
The evil eyes of the Indian glared with a fixed look of uncowed hatred
and the hands of the other tightened on the redman's throat. Diable was
snatching at a knife in his belt, when the cries of my Indians rang out
close at hand. Their coming seemed to renew his strength; for with the
full weight of an antagonist hanging from his neck, the willowy form
squirmed first on his knees, then to his feet. But my men dashed up,
knocked his feet from under him and pinioned him to the ground. La Robe
Noire, with the blood-lust of his race, had a knife unsheathed and would
have finished Diable's career for good and all; but Little Fellow struck
the blade from his hand. That murderous attempt cost poor La Robe Noire
dearly enough in the end.
Hare-skin thongs of triple ply were wound about Diable's crossed arms
from wrists to elbows. Burnt Earth gagged the knave with his own
moccasin, while Ringing Thunder and Little Fellow quickly roped him neck
and ankles to the fore and hind shanks of the dead buffalo. This time my
wily foe should remain in my power till I had rescued Miriam.
"_Monsieur! Monsieur!_" gasped Little Fellow as he rose from putting a
last knot to our prisoner's cords. "The Sioux!" and he pointed in alarm
to the cliff.
True, in my sudden conflict, I had forgotten about the marauding Sioux;
but the fellows had disappeared from the field of the buffalo hunt and
it was to the embankment that my Indians were anxiously looking. Three
thin smoke lines were rising from the prairie. I knew enough of Indian
lore to recognize this tribal signal as a warning to the Sioux band of
some misfortune. Was Miriam within range of those smoke signals? Now was
my opportunity. I could offer Diable in exchange for the Sioux captives.
Meanwhile, we had him secure. He would not be found till the hunt was
over and the carts came for the skins.
Mounting the broncho, which Little Fellow had caught and brought back, I
ordered the Indians to get their horses and follow; and I rode up to the
level prairie. Against the southern horizon shone the yellow birch of a
wigwam. Vague movements were apparent through the long grass, from which
we conjectured the raiders were hastening back with news of Diable's
capture. We must reach the Sioux camp before these messengers caused
another mysterious disappearing of this fugitive tribe.
We whipped our horses to a gallop. Again thin smoke lines arose from the
prairie and simultaneously the wigwam began to vanish. I had almost
concluded the tepee was one of those delusive mirages which lead prairie
riders on fools' errands, when I descried figures mounting ponies where
the peaked camp had stood. At this we lashed our horses to faster pace.
The Sioux galloped off and more smoke lines were rising.
"What do those mean, Little Fellow?" I asked; for there was smoke in a
dozen places ahead.
"The prairie's on fire, _Monsieur_! The Sioux have put burnt stick in
dry grass! The wind--it blow--it come hard--fast--fast this way!" and
all four Indians reined up their horses as if they would turn.
"Coward Indians," I cried. "Go on! Who's put off the trail by the fire
of a fool Sioux? Get through the fire before it grows big, or it will
catch you all and burn you to a crisp."
The gathering smoke was obscuring the fugitives and my Indians still
hung back. Where the Indian refuses to be coerced, he may be won by
reward, or spurred by praise of bravery.
"Ten horses to the brave who catches a Sioux!" I shouted. "Come on,
Indians! Who follows? Is the Indian less brave than the pale face?" and
we all dashed forward, spurring our hard-ridden horses without mercy.
Each Indian gave his horse the bit. Beating them over the head, they
craned flat over the horses' necks to lessen resistance to the air. A
boisterous wind was fanning the burning grass to a great tide of fire
that rolled forward in forked tongues; but beyond the flames were
figures of receding riders; and we pressed on. Cinders rained on us like
liquid fire, scorching and maddening our horses; but we never paused.
The billowy clouds of smoke that rolled to meet us were blinding, and
the very atmosphere, livid and quivering with heat, seemed to become a
fiery fluid that enveloped and tortured us. Involuntarily, as we drew
nearer and nearer the angry fire-tide, my hand was across my mouth to
shut out the hot burning air; but a man must breathe, and the next
intake of breath blistered one's chest like live coals on raw flesh.
Little wonder our poor beasts uttered that pitiful scream against pain,
which is the horse's one protest of suffering. Presently, they became
wildly unmanageable; and when we dismounted to blindfold them and muffle
their heads in our jackets, they crowded and trembled against us in a
frenzy of terror. Then we tied strips torn from our clothing across our
own mouths and, remounting, beat the frantic creatures forward. I have
often marveled at the courage of those four Indians. For me, there was
incentive enough to dare everything to the death. For them, what motive
but to vindicate their bravery? But even bravery in its perfection has
the limitation of physical endurance; and we had now reached the limit
of what we could endure and live. The fire wave was crackling and
licking up everything within a few paces of us. Live brands fell thick
as a rain of fire. The flames were not crawling in the insidious line of
the prairie fire when there is no wind, but the very heat of the air
seemed to generate a hurricane and the red wave came forward in leaps
and bounds, reaching out cloven fangs that hissed at us like an army of
serpents. I remember wondering in a half delirium whether parts of
Dante's hell could be worse. With the instinctive cry to heaven for
help, of human-kind world over, I looked above; but there was only a
great pitchy dome with glowing clouds rolling and heaving and tossing
and blackening the firmament. Then I knew we must choose one of three
things, a long detour round the fire-wave, one dash through the
flames--or death. I shouted to the men to save themselves; but Burnt
Earth and Ringing Thunder had already gone off to skirt the near end of
the fire-line. Little Fellow and La Robe Noire stuck staunchly by me. We
all three paused, facing death; and the Indians' horses trembled close
to my broncho till I felt the burn of hot stirrups against both ankles.
Our buckskin was smoking in a dozen places. There was a lull of the
wind, and I said to myself, "The calm before the end; the next hurricane
burst and those red demon claws will have us." But in the momentary
lull, a place appeared through the trough of smoke billows, where the
grass was green and the fire-barrier breached. With a shout and heads
down, we dashed towards this and vaulted across the flaming wall, our
horses snorting and screaming with pain as we landed on the smoking turf
of the other side. I gulped a great breath of the fresh air into my
suffocating lungs, tore the buckskin covering from my broncho's head and
we raced on in a swirl of smoke, always following the dust which
revealed the tracks of the retreating Sioux. There was a whiff of singed
hair, as if one of the horses had been burnt, and Little Fellow gave a
shout. Looking back I saw his horse sinking on the blackened patch; but
La Robe Noire and I rode on. The fugitives were ascending rising ground
to the south. They were beating their horses in a rage of cruelty; but
we gained at every pace. I counted twenty riders. A woman seemed to be
strapped to one horse. Was this Miriam? We were on moist grass and I
urged La Robe Noire to ride faster and drove spurs in my own beast,
though I felt him weakening under me. The Sioux had now reached the
crest of the hill. Our horses were nigh done, and to jade the fagged
creatures up rising ground was useless.
When we finally reached the height, the Sioux were far down in the
valley. It was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. Ah! It is easy
to face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! But the
hardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable,
to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity!
I still had Diable in my power. We headed about and crawled slowly back
by unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters.
Little Fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. Burnt Earth and
Ringing Thunder awaited us near the ravine. The carts were already out
gathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. We made what poor speed we
could among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left Le Grand
Diable. It was Little Fellow, who was hobbling ahead, and the Indian
suddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, I knew it boded
misfortune. Running forward, I could hardly believe my eyes. Fools that
we were to leave the captive unguarded! The great buffalo lay
unmolested; but there was no Le Grand Diable. A third time had he
vanished as if in league with the powers of the air. Closer examination
explained his disappearance. A wet, tattered moccasin, with the
appearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. He had evidently
bitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away the
hare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed his
hands, untied himself and escaped.
Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counsel
with Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on the
Missouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory.
The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year.
Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep track
of the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.
Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could not
close my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I had
no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great
success. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and I
heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast.
With hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, the
last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and
skins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one was
busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal
greed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well might
they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would follow
a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp
was laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for they
were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from
gluttony at their masters' tents.
Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and
plastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voices
of the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chanting
the song of the buffalo hunt:
Now list to the song of the buffalo hunt,
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave!
We are _Bois-Brulés_, Freemen of the plains,
We choose our chief! We are no man's slave!
Up, riders, up, ere the early mist
Ascends to salute the rising sun!
Up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds
Sniff morning air for the hunter's gun!
They lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass,
Down in the gorge, where the prairie dips.
We've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze,
Where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips.
We've followed their tracks from the rolling plain
Through slime-green sloughs to a sedgy ravine,
Where the cat-tail spikes of the marsh-grown flags
Stand half as high as the billowy green.
The spear-grass touched our saddle-bows,
The blade-points pricked to the broncho's neck;
But we followed the tracks like hounds on scent
Till our horses reared with a sudden check.
The scouts dart back with a shout, "They are found!"
Great fur-maned heads are thrust through reeds,
A forest of horns, a crunching of stems,
Reined sheer on their haunches are terrified steeds!
Get you gone to the squaws at the tents, old men,
The cart-lines safely encircle the camp!
Now, braves of the plain, brace your saddle-girths!
Quick! Load guns, for our horses champ!
A tossing of horns, a pawing of hoofs,
But the hunters utter never a word,
As the stealthy panther creeps on his prey,
So move we in silence against the herd.
With arrows ready and triggers cocked,
We round them nearer the valley bank;
They pause in defiance, then start with alarm
At the ominous sound of a gun-barrel's clank.
A wave from our captain, out bursts a wild shout,
A crash of shots from our breaking ranks,
And the herd stampedes with a thunderous boom
While we drive our spurs into quivering flanks.
The arrows hiss like a shower of snakes,
The bullets puff in a smoky gust,
Out fly loose reins from the bronchos' bits
And hunters ride on in a whirl of dust.
The bellowing bulls rush blind with fear
Through river and marsh, while the trampled dead
Soon bridge safe ford for the plunging herd;
Earth rocks like a sea 'neath the mighty tread.
A rip of the sharp-curved sickle-horns,
A hunter falls to the blood-soaked ground!
He is gored and tossed and trampled down,
On dashes the furious beast with a bound,
When over sky-line hulks the last great form
And the rumbling thunder of their hoofs' beat, beat,
Dies like an echo in distant hills,
Back ride the hunters chanting their feat.
Now, old men and squaws, come you out with the carts!
There's meat against hunger and fur against cold!
Gather full store for the pemmican bags,
Garner the booty of warriors bold.
So list ye the song of the _Bois-Brulés_,
Of their glorious deeds in the days of old,
And this is the tale of the buffalo hunt
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, have proudly told.