Next day after Bushy had been bitten by the snake, Mr. Sukolt had to
go with a load of ore to the nearest smelting works, which were miles
away, quite at the foot of the mountains, and as he was anxious about
Bushy he thought he would feel easier if he took her along.
“You don’t think I will turn all black and blue, do you, Padre?” she
asked as she jumped on Ned and rode on ahead of the load of ore.
“There is no telling; but I think cutting off your finger end as you
did, saved not only your hand but your life. How did you come to think
of doing that?”
“Why, Tom told me one day that I must, because if the poison got into
my blood I would swell up as the mare did when she got her foot bitten.”
“Tom was right, but still I doubt that I would have done it myself,”
answered her father, as he gazed lovingly at his wild little girl.
“What are you up to now?” he asked, as she rose in her saddle and took
aim at something in the air.
“Do you think I can kill that bird at long range?”
“I don’t think I would try,” replied the father, “unless there is a
greater reason for killing it. It is a cruel sport to take the life of
anything unless you see a need of it.”
“But I like to hunt, Padre,” murmured Bushy thoughtfully; “is it wrong
to hunt?”
“Not if you want food; I don’t believe in hunting for sport alone.
I enjoy hunting, too, and we will leave the wagon with Tom and
try to kill a buffalo to-day if we see any sign of a herd in this
neighborhood. A few old fellows, they say, have been driven up the
valley. We will ride out ten miles and see what we can do. It would be
a great thing for us to take home a wagonful of buffalo.”
They travelled all one day and part of the next, but saw no signs
of securing buffalo meat. But when they reached the mills where the
ore was to be crushed they were told that the mail-boy, who had just
arrived in his buckboard, had said that a big herd was not more than
five miles to the east.
“Ah, there they are,” exclaimed Mr. Sukolt an hour later, when the two
horseback riders came in sight of a large herd of bison. The animals
were grazing quietly by a stream, where they had gone to drink.
“There must be five hundred,” said Mr. Sukolt. “It would be a serious
thing if they should stampede.
“Why, what can be the matter!” he cried, catching hold of Ned’s
bridle and guiding him close to his own horse. “What has got into the
animals, they are all coming this way? We are penned in by the hills!
Look, Bushy, your eyes are sharper than mine; can you tell what has
frightened them?”
Bushy peered for a second into the distance beyond, then cried
excitedly: “There are four men driving them. Ah, there’s a shot; they
must be hunters after meat. What shall we do, Padre? Can’t we get to
one side?”
“They have stampeded, sure as we sit here!” said Mr. Sukolt half to
himself. “We must try for the hills on the left. Keep close to me; now
for the race! If you are cut off shoot, of course, but don’t stop for
anything if there is hope of your getting out of their way.”
They had been on the keen jump meanwhile and had made some headway, but
finally the buffalo came pell-mell, dashing down almost upon them. Mr.
Sukolt raised his rifle and tried to kill the leader at long range, but
he missed him. “We can’t get out of their way unless we kill one for
the rest to stumble over,” said Mr. Sukolt catching up with Bushy.
Without saying a word Bushy raised her rifle and when the leader came
in range fired. She wounded him, for he fell, and immediately there
was a temporary halt, caused by the followers tumbling over him. The
excitement was something terrible. One big buffalo bull rolled over and
over, and one or two rolled over him, until there was quite a pile of
enraged animals bellowing in the centre of the stampede. Bushy and her
father took this opportunity to circle about and join the hunters who
had unwittingly almost caused their death.
“Had no idea a living soul but ourselves was in the vicinity,” said
one old trapper as he rode up to Mr. Sukolt. “It’s a magnificent hunt;
we’ve killed three, that’s all we can pack away. Do you want to kill a
buffalo, little girl?” he called to Bushy who was following the herd.
“Yes, sir!” she screamed back. “I never killed one in my life.”
“Then get on my pony; he is a regular buffalo pony. Can you ride?”
“Oh, yes, sir. I am not afraid.”
“All right. Shall I let her try?” asked the man of Mr. Sukolt.
“Yes, I’d like to have her try,” was the reply; so Bushy was lifted
quickly from Ned and seated on the back of the buffalo pony; then the
hunter jumped on Ned without as much as touching a foot to the ground,
and left Bushy alone on the trained pony.
“Just let him go his own way. Don’t fire until you ride directly upon
the flank of the buffalo!” called out the hunter, and Bushy was soon on
the keen jump after the herd.
Mr. Sukolt kept as close as he could, but the trained pony knew just
what to do. He managed to get a few buffalo circling round and round,
one after the other. Every animal had his nose down close to the
ground, and did not know that he was going round and round. Buffalo are
very short-sighted.
“Now shoot,” the pony seemed to say, because he sidled up to one of the
buffalo and half halted. Bushy took the hint and fired. The buffalo
ran as if nothing had happened. You can shoot all day at a buffalo and
unless you hit him in the right spot he doesn’t mind it; his hide is so
tough it even protects him from bullets. Without any warning the pony
dashed ahead, and when he got up directly on the flank of the great
buffalo calf, Bushy fired again, and this time down he came.[1]
[1] This buffalo was, in 1876, displayed with other animals in the
Maxwell collection, in the Colorado building, at the time of the
Centennial Exposition held at Philadelphia.
The other animals then broke ring and followed the main herd, but Bushy
was the proudest hunter in camp that night over the fact that she had
killed one of the finest specimens of buffalo that had been secured for
many a day. The head was so beautiful that Mr. Sukolt would not consent
to its being thrown away, but had the skin as well as the head saved
and sent to Denver, where a taxidermist fixed it up as if it were alive
again.
[Illustration: BUSHY FIRED AGAIN, AND THIS TIME DOWN HE CAME.]