A RIDE THROUGH THE SAGE-BRUSH.
The moment the repentant and plunder-laden warrior reaches his
reservation he becomes one of the “good” Indians, and is entitled to all
the privileges the government accords to them.
These privileges consist principally in drawing rations, riding stolen
horses, dressing in stolen clothing, carrying stolen weapons, and
wearing as an ornament on his shield the scalp of the unfortunate
ranchman to whom the aforesaid stolen property once belonged. He does
this too right before the face and eyes of the agent, who will not
arrest him, and the troops dare not.
“It must be a fine thing to be an Indian,” said Oscar to himself as
thoughts something like these passed through his mind—“nothing to do,
and plenty to eat and wear. But, on the whole, I think I’d rather be a
taxidermist. Now, where shall I go? I would explore one of these gullies
if it were not for the associations connected with them. I should expect
a band of hostiles to jump down on me at any moment. But I’ll go,
anyway. A pretty hunter I shall make if I am afraid to ride into a
ravine just because it is dark. It isn’t at all probable that I shall
see a living thing.”
With this reflection to comfort him and keep up his courage Oscar urged
his pony forward, and rode slowly along a well-beaten path that ran
through a thicket of sage-brush and led in the direction he desired to
go.
Then, for the first time since leaving the fort, he wished that he had
brought his double-barrel with him, for he saw “specimens” on every
side. They first appeared in the shape of a flock of sage-hens, which
suddenly arose from the brush close in front of him, and sailed away
toward the foot of the ridge.
They were a little larger than the ruffed grouse Oscar had so often
hunted in the hills about Eaton, and their flight, though strong and
rapid, was so even and regular that he would have had no trouble
whatever in picking out a brace of the best birds in the flock.
True to his hunter’s instinct, Oscar marked them down very carefully,
and while he sat in his saddle, looking first at the fort and then at
the place where he had seen the birds settle to the ground, debating
with himself whether or not it would be a good plan to go back and get
his gun, something that looked like a yellowish-gray streak emerged from
the sage brush, and ran with surprising swiftness down the path, which,
at this point, happened to be perfectly straight. Just before it reached
the first turn it halted suddenly, and gave Oscar a view of the first
mule rabbit he had ever seen.
He did not wonder at the name it bore, nor did he any longer doubt the
truth of the stories he had often read in regard to the attempts made by
old plainsmen to pass the creature off on inexperienced pilgrims as a
genuine mule. Its ears looked altogether too long for so small an
animal, and Oscar wondered if they did not sometimes get in its way.
He studied the rabbit with a great deal of interest, noting particularly
the position of the body and the ears. He knew now how he would set up
the first one he brought to bay.
“It’s a lucky thing for you that I left my gun behind, my fine fellow,”
said Oscar, as he rode slowly toward the rabbit, which gazed at him as
if he were no more to be feared than one of the sage-bushes that lined
the path. “You would be booked for Yarmouth, sure. If I only had you out
on the open prairie, I’d make you show how fast you could run!”
When the rabbit thought Oscar had come near enough, he began moving away
with long, deliberate bounds, and at the same moment the boy gave his
pony the rein and started forward in pursuit.
The animal heard the clatter of hoofs behind him, and letting out two or
three sections in its hind legs,—that is the way old plainsmen express
it, when they want one to understand that a rabbit has made up his mind
to exhibit his best speed,—he shot ahead like an arrow from a bow, and
was out of sight in a twinkling.
He did not turn into the bushes, but kept straight down the path,
completely distancing the pony before the latter had made a dozen jumps.
“Oh, if I only had some dogs like the colonel’s!” said Oscar, after he
had succeeded in making his horse comprehend that he was expected to
settle down into a walk once more. “With a brace of greyhounds to run
antelopes, wolves, and jack rabbits, and a well broken pointer to hunt
sage hens, one could see splendid sport right here in the neighborhood
of the fort. I am sure those birds would lie well to a dog, and I have
not the least doubt——”
The young hunter’s soliloquy was cut short by the sight of an apparition
in blue flannel and buckskin which just then came into view.
It proved, on second look, to be a man dressed in the garb of a hunter;
but such a man and such a garb Oscar had never seen before. No
description could do them justice.
The man belonged on the plains, that was evident. So did Big Thompson,
to whom Oscar had that day been introduced; but the two were as
different in appearance as darkness and daylight.
The one had gained Oscar’s confidence the moment he looked at him; but
the sight of this man aroused a very different feeling in his breast,
and caused him to bless his lucky stars that the meeting had taken place
so near the fort.
He was a person whom the young hunter would not have cared to meet in
any lonely spot.
With a muttered exclamation of anger, the man jerked his horse part way
out of the path, and Oscar made haste to ride on and leave him out of
sight.