his movements, the seasons, and the abundance or scarcity of pasturage.
The migrations of the herds appear to be simultaneous. I have seen herd
after herd stretching over a distance of eighty miles, all tending in
the same direction. During the early spring months they are generally
to be found in the regions south of the Canadian, as far as the Red.
Here the winters are short and the grass shoots early. As the pasturage
makes its appearance towards the north, the herds follow, moving across
the Cimmaron, the Arkansas, the Smoky Hill, the Republican, and beyond
the Platte. Cases frequently occur where small herds becoming detached
from the main bodies, and particularly the old bulls and cows unable to
travel, remain north of the Platte, and manage to eke out an existence
through the coldest winters. Other small herds are found in different
localities far south during the summer. These exceptions, to the
general rule of their habits, are always the result of causes, such as
inability to follow the main herd, or being detached and driven back.
In all his habits the buffalo displays an instinctive sense of
organization and discipline which alone could accomplish the wise
provisions of nature in subsisting such enormous masses of animal life.
Not only does the great herd, as a mass, preserve a remarkable concert
of action “on the move,” but it is subdivided into smaller herds, which
seem to be composed of animals having peculiar affinities. These small
herds have each their leader, always a fine young or middle-aged bull,
whose fighting qualities had won for him the ascendency over all other
male competitors. In the black mass presented by the great herd a
space, sometimes as limited as a hundred yards, can always be detected
between the sub-divisions. Each herd always preserves its relative
position to the others, and, in case of alarm, takes flight in a single
mass. It also preserves the same relation in galloping to water.
As a precaution against surprise, each herd has its videttes, through
which the alarm is given upon the appearance of danger. Approaching a
herd, groups of buffaloes in fours and fives are first seen. These,
taking the alarm, gallop towards the common centre. The ever-watchful
and suspicious young males immediately on the outer edge of the herd
receive the movements of the videttes as warnings. They sniff the
air, and with piercing vision scan the plain. If the cause of alarm
be discovered, the herd-leader, heading the way, sets out, followed
by the cows and calves, while the males form a sort of rear guard and
flankers. For the sake of protection, the females and the young occupy
the centre of the herd. By a wise instinct, the young are thus secured
from the ravenous wolf, and the natural timidity of the cow is guarded
against sudden or unnecessary alarm.
The evening is the usual time for the herds to set out for water. When
moving for this purpose, they may be seen in single file, following
their leaders, traveling at an ambling gait. Frequently they travel
eight or ten miles to the nearest stream or pond. The passage of large
numbers of buffalo in this way over the same ground soon marks out
a well-beaten track, resembling a foot-path, and known to hunters
as the “buffalo trail.” On the banks of the streams running through
the buffalo country these trails may be seen converging from all
directions, some faintly marked, while some are worn eight and ten
inches in depth. These trails not only follow the most direct course to
a given point, but always lead to water or a water-course. The traveler
on the plains is frequently obliged to take to the trail of the buffalo
in order to reach water. In many places the “buffalo wallow” furnishes
a supply of stagnant water which, though extremely unpalatable, has
often saved life. The buffalo wallow is a circular, dish-shaped, hole
in the earth, about twelve feet in diameter and a foot deep at its
greatest concavity. During the warm season, immense clouds of dust
are to be seen rising over a herd quietly grazing. Like other animals
of his species, the buffalo frequently amuses himself by wallowing in
the fine sand or plowing up the earth with his horns. The surface once
broken, the place becomes a common resort, until the wallow assumes the
shape above described. In the wet season, the rain fills up the wallow,
and, unless consumed, standing water is to be found there far into
summer.
Among the young buffalo bulls there seems to be a remarkable aspiration
to secure the leadership of the herd. This question of rank is annually
settled by a test of strength. Certain ambitious males set themselves
up as competitors. The first opportunity that offers is accepted.
The contests are stubborn and severe--frequently fatal. If the old
leader gets the upper hand, he is doubly a hero, and his claims to
pre-eminence are greater than ever. Next in rank to the herd-leader
are a number of young buffalo, courtiers and gallants, who have free
range of the herd so long as they do not come in contact with the
leader, or trespass upon his privileges. Between the young and the
old males there is an inveterate hostility. As the young grow in
ability to cope with the fathers of the herd, a regular conflict takes
place. If it terminates in favor of the former, the old buffaloes are
unceremoniously driven out. Thus banished from their associations when
strong and active, the old animals form a sort of hermit order on the
outskirts of the herds, where they constitute the outer guard. These
competitive encounters are constantly taking place. As one generation
of males succeeds another, those driven out can never return, but live
an exiled existence until age, the hunter’s bullet, disease, or the
ravenous wolf, finishes their days.
The females display, most remarkably, the attachments of maternity.
In one instance, I remember, our party shot and badly wounded a fine
calf about six months old. As the calf fell, the mother turned and
looked upon it with an expression of absolute grief. Her offspring made
repeated efforts to rise, but without avail. The mother, in perfect
despair, ran around her young, uttering low moans. As we approached,
the mother’s nature was entirely changed. She stamped upon the ground
as if to warn us to “keep off.” Although she made no direct attack, she
manifested a disposition to defend her young, which was only exceeded
by the shouts and firing, which seemed to terrify her. To put the calf
out of its suffering and relieve the distress of the mother, and insure
our own safety, both animals were dispatched.
Always in the vicinity of the buffalo herd the hunter encounters that
beautiful little animal, the antelope. Shy and timid, with an acute
scent and far-reaching vision, it is difficult of approach. An old
animal is killed now and then by a long-range rifle. Like other timid
animals, the antelope has a remarkable development of that too-often
fatal instinct, curiosity. By taking advantage of this failing, the
experienced hunter succeeds in taking the game. The usual means
resorted to is “still hunting.” A red flannel flag, fastened to a short
stick, is posted in a conspicuous place. The hunter then secretes
himself and waits for an opportunity. This is always a slow process;
but, with a proper degree of patience, if anywhere in the vicinity of
antelopes so that the flag can be seen, he is sure “to bring a haul.”
The wolves and the coyotes are the inveterate enemies of the antelope,
and continually waylay its path. The fleetness of the animal, however,
is its complete protection until weakened by age, or probably, it has
been crippled. In times of danger, if possible, the antelope takes
refuge within the lines of the nearest herd of buffaloes. Its excessive
fright at these times often causes whole herds of the mighty beasts to
take to their heels as if a battalion of hunters were on their tracks.
Probably one of the most perfect pictures of desertion and despair
is the aged and enfeebled buffalo. Driven first from the herd as if
it were a mortal offence to live beyond a certain period of summers,
or his inability to follow its movements, he is left alone to wander
feebly about, without companions, and an object of patient, sometimes
decidedly impatient, watchfulness on the part of the wolf. When the
buffalo has arrived at such an advanced age, he will be found near a
constant stream where grass grows in abundance. Isolated, shy in his
movements, and alarmed at the slightest indications of danger, he seems
to lose his customary boldness, and becomes an easily terrified and
suspicious animal. He loses his vigorous appearance, and literally
becomes worn down and decrepit. The timidity of age grows upon him, and
the solemn stillness and solitude which surrounds him is calculated
to increase rather than diminish this instinctive terror. Few of
these superannuated specimens come to a natural end. The starving
wolf and his diminutive companion the coyote, are ever ready to take
advantage of the first favorable opportunity of hastening the demise
of the object of their solicitude and observation. Under the goading
impulse of hunger, the wolf does not hesitate to attack any buffalo
who may have strayed from the herd. As if tired of waiting for the
natural course of the expiring fires of nature, his wolfship, with a
few comrades, begins a regular series of battles until his victim is
overpowered.
On one occasion while present with a small detachment of scouts, we
suddenly drew to the summit of a “divide.” In the valley below an old
buffalo, and a pack of seven large gray wolves, were evidently in the
act of engaging in a mortal fray. The old buffalo, as if realizing his
situation, stood with his head down and confronting the wolves. At
times he threw his head up and down, dropped out his blackened tongue,
and constantly uttered a low hoarse roar. We determined to witness
the conflict, which was evidently at hand. We halted and lariated our
animals. The buffalo, so much engrossed in his own safety, failed to
discover our presence, though not more than several hundred yards off.
The wolves saw us. This only sharpened their appetite, and seemed to
hasten their desire to secure the feast which they had before them. The
wolves were seated upon their haunches and formed a sort of semicircle
in front of the buffalo. They resembled so many wise men in council.
The buffalo stood a few paces off, very careful to keep his moppy head
towards his starving tormentors, and his hind-quarters in an opposite
direction, free from any demonstration in the rear. By way of response
to the fierce guttural effusions of the buffalo, the wolves at times
set up a mournful chorus. No sooner did the wolves see us than they
slyly deployed for action. Finding his rear thus in danger, the buffalo
made a dive at the nearest wolf, tumbling him over and over. During
this movement, however, the rest of the pack pounced upon the hind legs
of the buffalo, snarling and snapping, and tearing at his hams. Their
object, evidently, was to hamstring their antagonist. These attacks
in the rear diverted the attention of the buffalo from the hapless
victim of his first charge. The animal turned to attack in the opposite
direction, but his tormentors were once more at his vulnerable point.
The contest after these opening performances grew lively and exciting.
The buffalo evidently fully appreciated the situation, and the wolves
were not to be robbed of their meal. The hind-quarters of the buffalo
streamed with blood, and the animal showed signs of exhaustion. He did
not dare to lie down for that would be fatal. The wolves had three of
their number _hors du combat_. The noise of the contest had attracted
quite an audience of coyotes, and a few interloper wolves, sitting at
a distance, licking their chops, and impatiently awaiting the issue,
evidently expecting an invitation to participate in the feast. The
buffalo made several efforts at flight, but soon found that that was a
useless manœuvre. The battle test had been going on more than an hour,
and having no more time to devote to that sort of recreation, a well
directed volley laid out several of their wolfish excellencies. The
buffalo did not stop to thank us for our timely assistance, but took
the first moment of relief to hobble off. The animal was evidently
badly injured, and doubtless our interference was merely prolonging the
burden of life, now doubly an encumbrance.
A wolf feast over the carcass of a buffalo is one of those sharp-toned
entertainments, which could only be compared to an old-fashioned
tea-party, composed of snappish octogenarian, paralytic, and generally
debilitated characters of both sexes, with a fair sprinkle of shriveled
virginity, and a few used up celibates of the masculine gender. Each
one guzzling to his heart’s content, and growling, and finding fault
with his neighbor.
The construction of railroads has developed a new and extensive field
for pleasure seekers. The facilities of communication now opened with
that strange and remote section, the plains, and, at the same time,
the opportunity afforded of seeing the buffalo, that animal above all
others associated from our earliest years with everything wild and
daring, now invites visitors from all parts of the country. From the
cities of Chicago, Cincinnati, St. Louis, and other less important
points during the autumn of 1868, excursions were made up at low rates
of fare.
The following announcement of an excursion I found at one of the
railroad stations. I give a copy of it as one of the peculiar and
progressive innovations made by the railways.
RAILWAY EXCURSION
AND
BUFFALO HUNT.
An excursion train will leave Leavenworth, at 8 a. m.
and Lawrence, at 10 a. m. for
SHERIDAN,
On Tuesday, October 27, 1868, and return on Friday.
This train will stop at the principal stations both going
and returning.
Ample time will be had for a grand Buffalo
HUNT ON THE PLAINS.
Buffaloes are so numerous along the road that they are shot from the
cars nearly every day. On our last excursion our party killed twenty
buffaloes in a hunt of six hours.
All passengers can have refreshments on the cars at reasonable prices.
Tickets of round trip from Leavenworth, $10.00.
The inducements, at these rates, to any one anxious to visit the
plains, and see a live buffalo, and perhaps a “live injun,” not so
acceptable at that time, were certainly very tempting, as the full
expense of the above trip, at the regular rate of fare, would not
have been short of seventy dollars. A quarter of a century hence, the
buffalo and the Indian will have entirely disappeared from the line of
the railways. The few that still survive will have then been driven
to the most remote, inaccessible, and uninhabitable sections, if not
entirely exterminated.
AT TUCSON
CAPT. JOHN G. BOURKE
1870
From “On the Border with Cook.” Reprinted by permission of the
publishers, Charles Scribner’s Sons, New York.[26]
It has been shown that Tucson had no hotels. She did not need any at
the time of which I am writing, as her floating population found all
the ease and comfort it desired in the flare and glare of the gambling
hells, which were bright with the lustre of smoking oil lamps and gay
with the varicolored raiment of moving crowds, and the music of harp
and Pan’s pipes. In them could be found nearly every man in the town
at some hour of the day or night, and many used them as the Romans did
their “Thermæ”--as a place of residence.
All nationalities, all races were represented, and nearly all
conditions of life. There were cadaverous-faced Americans, and
Americans whose faces were plump; men in shirt sleeves, and men who
wore their coats as they would have done in other places; there were
Mexicans wrapped in the red, yellow, and black striped cheap “serapes,”
smoking the inevitable cigarrito, made on the spot by rolling a pinch
of tobacco in a piece of corn shuck; and there were other Mexicans more
thoroughly Americanized, who were clad in the garb of the people of the
North. Of Chinese and negroes there were only a few--but their place
was occupied by civilized Indians, Opatas, Yaquis, and others, who had
come up with “bull” teams and pack trains from Sonora. The best of
order prevailed, there being no noise save the hum of conversation or
the click of the chips on the different tables. Tobacco-smoke ascended
from cigarritos, pipes, and the vilest of cigars, filling all the rooms
with the foulest of odors. The bright light from the lamps did not
equal the steely glint in the eyes of the “bankers,” who ceaselessly
and imperturbably dealt out the cards from faro boxes, or set in motion
the balls in roulette.
There used to be in great favor among the Mexicans, and the Americans,
too, for that matter, a modification of roulette called “chusas,” which
never failed to draw a cluster of earnest players, who would remain
by the tables until the first suggestion of daylight. High above the
squeak of Pan’s pipes or the plinkety-plink-plunk of the harps sounded
the voice of the “banker”: “Make yer little bets, gents; make yer
little bets; all’s set, the game’s made, ’n th’ ball’s a-rollin’.”
When, for any reason, the “game” flagged in energy, there would be
a tap upon the bell by the dealer’s side, and “drinks all round” be
ordered at the expense of the house.
It was a curious exhibit of one of the saddest passions of human
nature, and a curious jumble of types which would never press against
each other elsewhere. Over by the faro bank, in the corner, stood Bob
Crandall, a faithful wooer of the fickle goddess Chance. He was one
of the handsomest men in the Southwest, and really endowed with many
fine qualities; he had drifted away from the restraints of home life
years ago, and was then in Tucson making such a livelihood as he could
pick up as a gambler, wasting brain and attainments which, if better
applied, would have been a credit to himself and his country.
There was one poor wretch who could always be seen about the tables;
he never played, never talked to any one, and seemed to take no
particular interest in anything or anybody. What his name was no one
knew or cared; all treated him kindly, and anything he wished for was
supplied by the charity or the generosity of the frequenters of the
gaming-tables. He was a trifle “off,” but perfectly harmless; he had
lost all the brain he ever had through fright in an Apache ambuscade,
and had never recovered his right mind.
Then one was always sure to meet men like old Jack Dunn, who had
wandered about in all parts of the world, and has since done such
excellent work as a scout against the Chiricahua Apaches. I think that
Jack is living yet, but am not certain. If he is, it will pay some
enterprising journalist to hunt him up and get a few of his stories
out of him; they’ll make the best kind of reading for people who care
to hear of the wildest days on the wildest of frontiers. And there
were others--men who have passed away, men like James Toole, one of
the first mayors of Tucson, who dropped in, much as I myself did, to
see what was to be seen. Opposed as I am to gambling, no matter what
protean guise it may assume, I should do the gamblers of Tucson the
justice to say that they were as progressive an element as the town
had. They always had plank floors, where every other place was content
with the bare earth rammed hard, or with the curious mixture of river
sand, bullock’s blood, and cactus juice which hardened like cement and
was used by some of the more opulent. But with the exception of the
large wholesale firms, and there were not over half a dozen of them
all told, the house of the governor, and a few--a very few--private
residences of people like the Carillos, Sam Hughes, Hiram Stevens, and
Aldrich, who desired comfort, there were no wooden floors to be seen in
that country.
The gaming establishments were also well supplied with the latest
newspapers from San Francisco, Sacramento, and New York, and to these
all who entered, whether they played or not, were heartily welcome.
Sometimes, but not very often, there would be served up about midnight
a very acceptable lunch of “frijoles,” coffee, or chocolate, “chile
con carne,” “enchiladas,” and other dishes, all hot and savory, and
all thoroughly Mexican. The flare of the lamps was undimmed, the
plinkety-plunk of the harps was unchecked, and the voice of the dealer
was abroad in the land from the setting of the sun until the rising of
the same. Sunday or Monday, night or day, it made no difference--the
game went on; one dealer taking the place of another with the
regularity, the precision, and the stolidity of a sentinel.
“Isn’t it ra-a-a-ther late for you to be open?” asked the tenderfoot
arrival from the East, as he descended from the El Paso stage about
four o’clock one morning, and dragged himself to the bar to get
something to wash the dust out of his throat.
“Wa-a-al, it is kinder late fur th’ night afore last,” genially replied
the bartender; “but’s jest ’n th’ shank o’ th’ evenin’ fur t’-night.”
It was often a matter of astonishment to me that there were so few
troubles and rows in the gambling establishments of Tucson. They did
occur from time to time, just as they might happen anywhere else, but
not with sufficient frequency to make a feature of the life of the
place.
Once what threatened to open up as a most serious affair had a very
ridiculous termination. A wild-eyed youth, thoroughly saturated with
“sheep-herder’s delight” and other choice vintages of the country, made
his appearance in the bar of “Congress Hall,” and announcing himself
as “Slap-Jack Billy, the Pride of the Pan-handle,” went on to inform a
doubting world that he could whip his weight in “b’ar-meat”--
“Fur ber-lud’s mee color,
I kerries mee corfin on mee back,
’N’ th’ hummin’ o’ pistol-balls, bee jingo,
Is me-e-e-u-u-sic in mee ears.” (Blank, blank, blank.)
Thump! sounded the brawny fist of “Shorty” Henderson, and down went
Ajax struck by the offended lightning. When he came to, the “Pride of
the Pan-handle” had something of a job in rubbing down the lump about
as big as a goose-egg which had suddenly and spontaneously grown under
his left jaw; but he bore no malice and so expressed himself.
“Podners (blank, blank, blank), this ’ere’s the most sociablest crowd I
ever struck; let’s all hev a drink.”
If the reader do not care for such scenes, he can find others perhaps
more to his liking in the various amusements which, under one pretext
or another, extracted all the loose change of the town. The first,
in popular estimation, were the “maromas,” or tight-rope walkers and
general acrobats, who performed many feats well deserving of the praise
lavished upon them by the audience. Ever since the days of Cortés the
Mexicans have been noted for gymnastic dexterity; it is a matter of
history that Cortés, upon returning to Europe, took with him several of
the artists in this line, whose agility and cunning surprised those who
saw them perform in Spain and Italy.
There were trained dogs and men who knew how to make a barrel roll up
or down an inclined plane. All these received a due share of the homage
of their fellow-citizens, but nothing to compare to the enthusiasm
which greeted the advent of the genuine “teatro.” That was the time
when all Tucson turned out to do honor to the wearers of the buskin. If
there was a man, woman, or child in the old pueblo who wasn’t seated on
one of the cottonwood saplings which, braced upon other saplings, did
duty as benches in the corral near the quartermaster’s, it was because
that man, woman, or child was sick, or in jail. It is astonishing how
much enjoyment can be gotten out of life when people set about the task
in dead earnest.
There were gross violations of all the possibilities, of all the
congruities, of all the unities, in the play, “Elena y Jorge,”
presented to an appreciative public the first evening I saw the Mexican
strolling heavy-tragedy company in its glory. But what cared we? The
scene was lighted by bon-fires, by great torches of wood, and by the
row of smoking foot-lights running along the front of the little stage.
The admission was regulated according to a peculiar plan: for Mexicans
it was fifty cents, but for Americans, one dollar, because the
Americans had more money. Another unique feature was the concentration
of all the small boys in the first row, closest to the actors, and the
clowns who were constantly running about, falling head over heels over
the youngsters, and in other ways managing to keep the audience in the
best of humor during the rather long intervals between the acts.
The old ladies who sat bunched up on the seats a little farther in rear
seemed to be more deeply moved by the trials of the heroine than the
men or boys, who continued placidly to puff cigarettes or munch sweet
quinces, as their ages and tastes dictated. It was a most harrowing,
sanguinary play, but it is all over at last.