A SET-TO WITH A GRIZZLY.
Buffalo Bill had decided, while awaiting the day of his appointment
with Little Moonbeam, to scout a bit in the mountains to the west
of the fort. He believed there were Indian villages located in the
fastnesses of the Big Horn range, and from these the numerous war
parties sallied forth on their expeditions of plunder and rapine. If
these villages could be discovered, and the Indians punished and driven
back to their reservations, the lives and property of many settlers
might be saved.
The scout was convinced that the raids were mostly to be laid at the
door of a few daring and bloodthirsty chiefs like Rain-in-the-face. If
these leaders could be captured and punished, the cause of peace would
be promoted.
“Waal, ov all ther ringtail-peelin’, sidehill loungers I ever seen,
ther b’ar thet tore round hyar wuz ther plumb biggest. Look et thet paw
mark, Buffler, an’ see what yer think ov et.”
“Yah, yah! dat ain’ nuffin, Nick. Why! down in ole Virginy de possums
make bigger tracks ’n dat dar grizzly done leab. Go way, dar, Nick! yo’
eyes been er magnifigetin’ circumspiciously. H’m! dat lib b’ar git ’is
head kicked off if he come nigh ole Hide-rack.”
“Nomad heap ’fraid; bear all same raccoon,” put in Little Cayuse.
Buffalo Bill and Hickok grinned at the “kidding” of the old trapper,
but offered no comment. They kept their eyes open for the appearance of
the animal that had made the track, for he certainly must be a monster.
The pards were riding in the foothills of the Big Horn range, looking
for signs of an Indian encampment and also a little sport, if it came
their way. They had found no signs of Indians since leaving the plain,
but evidences of bear were plentiful.
The party separated slightly, keeping always within hailing distance,
but beating the bush as their horses picked their way over the uneven
footing.
Presently there was a shot, followed by eight more as fast as old Skibo
could pump his Spencer carbine, and then there was a wild whoop, a
crashing of the underbrush, and Skibo’s horse went plunging down the
bluff, with the darky clinging for dear life and an enormous grizzly in
close pursuit.
The pards saw that it would be serious for the colored member if
he should be swept from his terrified horse, which was making
for the open land with all the speed it could muster with a
two-hundred-and-fifty-pound negro on its back.
“Bear heap plenty bigger caballo,” said Cayuse, as he turned in
pursuit. The other pards dashed down the mountain with as much speed as
was consistent with the rough footing.
As they burst through a thicket of evergreen near the foot of the
mountain they obtained a good view of Skibo clinging with his arms
around the neck of his horse, which was still dashing madly out upon
the plain, and the wounded bear shacking after at his best speed.
Then old Nomad arose to the occasion.
“Hy, thar! Skibo; how ’bout them Virginy possums now? Ef yer likes
possum meat he’p yerself. Et’s free, Skibo; don’t be bashful. Git yer
tarnation jawers onter et an’ chaw ter yer heart’s content. Cyan’t yer
ketch ’im, Skibo? Never mind; yer doin’ well, an’ I opines ye’ll git
’im by an’ by, ef yer hoss hol’s out. Git er goin’, Skibo, an’ don’t
let thet thar possum git erway f’m ye!”
Turning to Cayuse, the trapper continued:
“Why don’t yer git out thar an’ he’p yer brother? Mebbe ’tain’t possum,
arter all; mebbe et’s coon, er a hedgehog. Git yer pied pony er-goin’
an’ ketch ther varmint.”
Skibo heard the shouts and laughter behind him and looked about. He saw
that his horse could now outfoot the bear, so he began a large circle
back toward the point where he had made a somewhat hurried dash upon
the plain.
“Hyar, Skibo, doan’t bring ther varmint back this way till yer tie ’is
feet. Quit it, yer dar-devil!” called Nomad.
“Yah, yah! Nick; take yo’ ole beah; Ah ain’ done los’ no beahs.”
In the laugh that followed Tootsie’s exuberance of spirits got the best
of him, and he suddenly blew a loud and long series of toots on his
bugle.
The bear stopped, looked up at the group, sniffed the air suspiciously,
and started to investigate.
“Hyar comes yer coon, Cayuse! Now’s yer time ter ketch ’im. Recomember,
papoose, no foul holts now, but fair ketch-es-ketch-ken, an’ ef yer
gits ’im yer welcome.”
Nomad gave Hide-rack a slap and dashed out on the plain.
Buffalo Bill and Hickok sat on their horses a little apart from the
others, enjoying the chase. They were ready to take a hand at any time
their services might be needed, but were inclined to wait and see what
the others would do.
Nomad, too, was inclined to take revenge by not raising a rifle against
the enraged grizzly.
Little Cayuse’s pinto would not face the bear for a moment, but dashed
madly away.
Tootsie was the only one left, and the bear made straight for him and
his trembling horse. The boy blew a stiff blast at the advancing beast
and then dashed away, with the bear in pursuit.
As he galloped Tootsie turned in the saddle and blew the “advance” at
the bear, and a moment later the “charge.”
The bear was doing his best at both orders, but the fleet bay mare was
too swift for him, and at last he gave it up and turned to sniff toward
some of the others.
Tootsie was on the alert, and rode back, stopping a few rods from the
bear to serenade him.
The bear looked at the bugler in disgust for a moment, and then started
slowly back toward the mountain. Tootsie galloped alongside, far enough
away for safety, and continued to serenade the monster.
The animal stopped several times, and, sitting on its haunches, looked
quizzically at the boy with the bugle; then he would move on slowly. At
last he sat up and, sticking his nose in air, emitted a mournful howl
that made the pards shout with laughter.
“Why don’t yer shoot ’im, Tootsie?” asked Nomad.
“He ain’t my bear!” yelled Tootsie, who was having fun enough with the
animal as it was.
“Ef yer ever wants ter kill er grizzly now’s yer chanst, boy--take ’im
in ther front when ’e throws ’is head back ter holler.”
“Oh! I’d rather let ’im go. Perhaps he’ll ketch an Injun some day, an’
that’s excuse enough for livin’.”
The bear had started on again, but when Tootsie dashed up beside and
blew a long blast at him the animal again sat up and howled mournfully.
Whenever he stopped Tootsie again blew at him and the bear gave vent to
that mournful sound.
Again and again the laughable performance was repeated, when suddenly
the bear tipped over backward, kicked a few times, and died.
One of Skibo’s bullets had done its work, after all.
While watching the sport the keen eyes of Buffalo Bill had discovered a
side show. His eye had suddenly caught a flash from the top of a bluff
five hundred yards away, and he had kept watch of that point while
apparently giving his whole attention to the fun in hand.
Falling back until he was in the rear of his pards, the scout quietly
pulled his glass and studied the bluff. His suspicions were confirmed.
Peering out from various hiding places were a score or more of Indians,
who had been attracted by the hubbub.
They watched the performance with apparently increasing curiosity and
amazement, even crawling out from their hiding places in order to
acquire a better view.
When the bear sat up and howled so disconsolately they exchanged
excited remarks and gestures, and repeated these every time the act
occurred.
The climax came when the bear fell over dead. The Indians seemed dumb
for a moment and then fled. Five minutes later the scout saw them
darting around a bluff that sat out into the plain, and then disappear
as fast as their ponies could carry them.
The Indians believed the boy had killed the enormous grizzly in some
mysterious manner. They probably linked this with recent incidents in
which the sound of a bugle had invariably spelled disaster for them.