A GREAT CAPTAIN
The band of Nez Perces had done very well thus far, and so had the band
of white miners, but there had been one other band of travellers which
had accomplished a good deal by reason of having an uncommonly good
commander.
The wicked old mule that had engineered the stampede of the Nez Perce
ponies had continued to hold his position as captain. He could out-kick
and out-bray any other mule there, and no mere pony would have dreamed
of disputing him. There was some grass to be had, next day after the
escape, and there was yet a little water in the pools rapidly drying
away, but there was nothing anywhere to tempt to a stoppage. On he went,
and on went the rest after him, and the reason why the warriors could
not find his trail was because he did not leave any. He obeyed the
strong instinct of all large animals, and some smaller ones, to "follow
a beaten path and keep in a travelled road." He struck the well-made
buffalo trail and did not find any reason for wandering from it.
Multitudes of men have a precisely similar instinct, and keep in any
particular path in life mainly because they are in it; they stick all
the closer if they can see anybody else doing the same thing. That was
what the wicked old mule saw, and he may have imagined that the squad or
rather string of bisons ahead of him knew where they were going and what
for. At all events he led his band closely behind them, and they plodded
on in a way that carried them ahead quite rapidly. It carried them into
the pass and through it, mule, ponies and all, and there was no one to
tell them of what had happened there before or what was about to occur.
Something had happened--something that is pretty sure to come to all
bisons, sooner or later. In due season their great bodies reel and fall,
and the wolves and buzzards are fed. But for such things the wolves
would all die, and they have an unerring judgment as to the condition of
an ailing bison. They never attack a healthy bull or cow unless they are
in great force and the animal is alone.
The migration of bisons from the parching plain to better pasture had
been going on for some time, and the coyotes had followed it as a matter
of course. The very day that the old mule halted his runaways at the
spring for all the water they could hold, there should have been a
painter on the great ledge which was followed by the trail in the middle
of the pass. There was a tragedy there worth sketching.
Herd after herd of bisons had gone along that ledge road in clumsy
safety, but right there now, at the curve of the projecting rock, stood
one who could go no farther. A fragment of an arrow still sticking
through one of his hind-legs told what had made him lame in the first
place, and the marks of wolf-teeth explained why he had grown lamer and
lamer until all he could do was to turn his back to the rock and stand
at bay.
Mile after mile of weary walking and painful struggling the poor old
beast had contended with the enemies now swarming around him; they had
assailed him always from behind, and they had altogether crippled him.
His great, terrible head was lowered threateningly, and his deep,
sonorous bellow was thick with pain and fury. The watching coyotes sat
down or walked around, barking, yelping, howling, snapping their teeth
like castanets, sure of a feast to come and hungrily impatient for its
beginning. One, hungrier or bolder than the rest, made a rush too soon,
and the quick horn of the old bison caught him. Up, up he went, whirling
over and over, and his last yelp went down with him into the deep canon.
The head of the bison sank again, and his bloodshot eyes grew filmy; he
was faint and sinking, and he swayed staggeringly to and fro. He gave a
great lurch forward as his faintness grew upon him, and in an instant he
seemed to be all but covered with wolves. They attacked every square
foot of him at the same moment, climbing over each other, yelling,
tearing, and the bison's time had come. The terror and agony stirred all
his remaining life for one last, blinded rush. His instinct was to
"charge" and he made one lumbering plunge. The trail at that point
afterwards but barely passed the wagon-wheels, and there was no room to
spare for the bison's last effort. It bore him heavily, helplessly over
the sickening edge, and half a dozen of clinging coyotes went down with
him. Hundreds of whirling feet the hunters and the hunted-down bison
fell together, to be dashed to pieces upon the rocks at the bottom.
A chorus of howls arose from the remaining wolves, but it did not
express pity or horror. Only for a moment did they seem to be in doubt
as to what was best to be done. After that it was a wolf-race as to
which should first get back to the point at which they could safely
clamber and tumble to the bottom of the pass. Their feast had been
provided for them, and they ate every part of it, buffalo meat and wolf
meat alike, with the help of some buzzards, before Two Arrows or any
other human being entered the canon to disturb them. Then they followed
their prospect of further feasting, and it led them on into the grassy
valley.
The wicked old mule knew nothing of all this. No coyotes annoyed him or
his command, but not a mouthful to eat did they find until they came
out where they could see the ancient ruins. At sight of these, hinting
of human presence, they halted briefly and then sheered away so as not
to approach too nearly so very unpleasant a suggestion. The bisons had
led them well, whether or not the mule got the credit of it. Also, there
was a fair degree of justification of the instinct concerning beaten
paths. New ones may be better, and somebody must hunt them up all the
while, but the old roads will do very well for most people until the new
ones are fairly mapped out. Christopher Columbus had a hard time of it,
and Captain Cook got himself eaten up at last, after finding ever so
many new things.
It was a matter of course that the runaways should feel their way
farther and farther down the valley, and all sorts of happiness seemed
to be before them. Grass, water, nice weather, no masters, no
responsibilities, and plenty of good company among themselves. It was a
time to grow fat, and to think well of the world they lived in.
The wicked old mule had done his work, but he had gained neither name
nor fame by it. He looked sidewise more slyly, whisked his ropy tail
more demurely, and kicked his nearest neighbors more viciously than
ever. Still, all he or they had gained was a vacation; no work to do for
anybody but themselves, but with winter only a few months ahead and with
a certainty that wolves, buzzards, coyotes, cougars, grislies, frost,
snow-storms, and all the other unknown possibilities of the mountain
country were only holding off for a season.