A Hunters' bivouac under the shadows of a Mississippian forest, in a
spot where the trees stand unthinned by the axe of the woodman.
It is upon the Arkansas side of the great river, not far from the town
of Helena, and in the direction of Little Rock, the capital of that
State.
The scene is a small glade, surrounded by tall cottonwood trees, one of
which on each side, conspicuously "blazed," indicates a "trace" of
travel. It is that leading from Helena to a settlement on the forks of
the White River and Cache.
The time is a quarter of a century ago, when this district of country
contained a heterogeneous population, comprising some of the wildest and
wickedest spirits to be found in all the length and breadth of the
backwoods border. It was then the chosen home for men of fallen
fortunes, lawyers and land speculators, slave-traders and swindlers,
hunters, who lived by the pursuit of game, and sportsmen, whose game was
cards, and whose quarry consisted of such dissolute cotton planters as,
forsaking their homes in Mississippi and Tennessee, had re-established
themselves on the fertile bottoms of the Saint Francis, the White and
the Arkansas.
A glance at the individuals comprising the bivouac in question forbids
the supposition that they belong to any of the above. There are six of
them; all are boys, the oldest not over twenty, while the youngest may
be under sixteen. And though at the same glance you are satisfied that
they are but amateur hunters, the game they have succeeded in bringing
down shows them gifted not only with skill but courage in the chase.
The carcase of a large bear lies beside them on the sward, his skin
hanging from a tree, while several steaks cut from his fat rump, and
impaled upon sapling spits, sing pleasantly over the camp fire, sending
a savoury odour far into the forest around.
About a dozen huge bear-hounds, several showing scars of recent
conflict, lie panting upon the grass, while just half this number of
saddled horses stand "hitched" to the trees.
The young hunters are in high glee. They have made a creditable day's
work of it, and as most of them have to go a good way before reaching
home, they have halted in the glade to refresh themselves, their hounds,
and their horses.
The chase has provided them with meat of which all are fond; most of
them carry a "pine" of corn bread in their saddle-bags, and not a few a
flask of corn-whiskey. They would not be the youth of Arkansas if found
unprovided with tobacco. Thus furnished with all the requisites of a
backwoods bivouac they are sucking it in gleesome style.
Scanning these young fellows from a social point of view you can see
they are not all of equal rank. A difference in dress and equipments
bespeaks a distinct standing, even in backwoods society, and this
inequality is evident among the six individuals seated around the camp
fire. He whom we have taken for the oldest, and whose name is Brandon,
is the son of a cotton planter of some position in the neighbourhood.
And there is wealth too, as indicated by the coat of fine white linen,
the white Panama hat, and the diamond pin sparkling among the ruffles in
his shirt-bosom.
It is not this, however, that gives him a tone of authority among his
hunting companions, but rather an assumption of superior age, combined
with perhaps superior strength, and certainly a dash of _bullyism_ that
exhibits itself, and somewhat offensively, in both word and action.
Most of the dogs are his, as also the fine sorrel horse that stands
proudly pawing the ground not far from the fire.
Next to Master Brandon in degree of social standing is a youth, who is
also two years his junior, by name Randall. He is the son of a certain
lawyer, lately promoted to be judge of the district--an office that
cannot be called a sinecure, supposing its duties to be faithfully
performed.
After Randall may be ranked young Spence, the hopeful scion of an
Episcopal clergyman, whose cure lies in one of the river-side towns,
several miles from the scene of the bivouac.
Of lower grade is Ned Slaughter, son of the Helena hotel-keeper, and
Jeff Grubbs, the heir apparent to Jeff Grubbs, senior, the principal dry
goods merchant of the same respectable city.
At the bottom of the scale may be placed Bill Buck, whose father, half
horse trader, half corn planter, squats on a tract of poor land near the
Cache, of which no one cares to dispute his proprietorship.
Notwithstanding these social distinctions, there is none apparent around
the camp fire. In a hunter's bivouac--especially in the South-Western
States, still more notably within the limits of Arkansas--superiority
does not belong either to fine clothes or far stretching lineage. The
scion of the "poor white hack" is as proud of his position as the
descendant of the aristocratic cotton planter; and over the camp fire in
question Bill Buck talked as loudly, ate as choice steaks, and drank as
much corn whisky as Alf Brandon, the owner of the hounds and the
splendid sorrel horse.
In their smoking there might be noted a difference, Bill indulging in a
council pipe, while the son of the planter puffs his principe that has
come through the custom-house from Havanna. Luncheon over, it still
seems too early to separate for return home, and too late to set the
dogs on a fresh bear trail. The corn juice inspires to rouse a kind of
diversion, suggesting trials of death or skill. Among these sons of
Arkansas cards would have come in; but to their chagrin no one is
provided with a pack. Bill Buck regrets this, and also Alf Brandon, and
so, too, the son of the Episcopal preacher. They are too far from any
settlement to send for such things. Pitch and toss is not sufficiently
scientific; "hokey in the hole" is too childish, and it ends in a trial
of strength and activity. There is wrestling, jumping over a string,
and the leap horizontal. In all of these Alf Brandon proves superior,
though closely tackled by the son of the squatter. Their superiority is
actually owing to age, for these two are the oldest of the party.
The ordinary sports exhausted, something else is sought for. A new kind
of gymnastics suggest itself or is suggested, by the stout branch of a
cottonwood, stretching horizontally into the glade. It is nearly nine
feet from the ground. Who can spring up, seize hold of it, and hang on
longest?
Alf Brandon pulls out his gold repeater, formed with a moment hand, and
the trial is attempted.
All six succeeded in reaching the limb, and clutching it. All can hang
for a time; but in this Bill Buck beats his companions, Brandon showing
chagrin. Who can hang longest with one hand? The trial is made, and
the planter's son is triumphant.
"Bah!" cries the defeated Buck. "Who can hang longest by the neck?
Dare any of you try that?"
A yell of laughter responds to this _jeu d'esprit_ of the young
jean-clad squatter.