THE BUFFALO
Four days on the Platte, and yet no buffalo! Last year’s signs of them
were provokingly abundant; and wood being extremely scarce, we found an
admirable substitute in bois de vache, which burns exactly like peat,
producing no unpleasant effects. The wagons one morning had left the
camp; Shaw and I were already on horseback, but Henry Chatillon still
sat cross-legged by the dead embers of the fire, playing pensively with
the lock of his rifle, while his sturdy Wyandotte pony stood quietly
behind him, looking over his head. At last he got up, patted the neck of
the pony (whom, from an exaggerated appreciation of his merits, he had
christened “Five Hundred Dollar”), and then mounted with a melancholy
air.
“What is it, Henry?”
“Ah, I feel lonesome; I never been here before; but I see away yonder
over the buttes, and down there on the prairie, black--all black with
buffalo!”
In the afternoon he and I left the party in search of an antelope; until
at the distance of a mile or two on the right, the tall white wagons
and the little black specks of horsemen were just visible, so slowly
advancing that they seemed motionless; and far on the left rose the
broken line of scorched, desolate sand-hills. The vast plain waved with
tall rank grass that swept our horses’ bellies; it swayed to and fro in
billows with the light breeze, and far and near antelope and wolves were
moving through it, the hairy backs of the latter alternately appearing
and disappearing as they bounded awkwardly along; while the antelope,
with the simple curiosity peculiar to them, would often approach as
closely, their little horns and white throats just visible above the
grass tops, as they gazed eagerly at us with their round black eyes.
I dismounted, and amused myself with firing at the wolves. Henry
attentively scrutinized the surrounding landscape; at length he gave a
shout, and called on me to mount again, pointing in the direction of the
sand-hills. A mile and a half from us, two minute black specks
slowly traversed the face of one of the bare glaring declivities, and
disappeared behind the summit. “Let us go!” cried Henry, belaboring the
sides of Five Hundred Dollar; and I following in his wake, we galloped
rapidly through the rank grass toward the base of the hills.
From one of their openings descended a deep ravine, widening as it
issued on the prairie. We entered it, and galloping up, in a moment were
surrounded by the bleak sand-hills. Half of their steep sides were bare;
the rest were scantily clothed with clumps of grass, and various uncouth
plants, conspicuous among which appeared the reptile-like prickly-pear.
They were gashed with numberless ravines; and as the sky had suddenly
darkened, and a cold gusty wind arisen, the strange shrubs and the
dreary hills looked doubly wild and desolate. But Henry’s face was all
eagerness. He tore off a little hair from the piece of buffalo robe
under his saddle, and threw it up, to show the course of the wind. It
blew directly before us. The game were therefore to windward, and it was
necessary to make our best speed to get around them.
We scrambled from this ravine, and galloping away through the hollows,
soon found another, winding like a snake among the hills, and so deep
that it completely concealed us. We rode up the bottom of it, glancing
through the shrubbery at its edge, till Henry abruptly jerked his rein,
and slid out of his saddle. Full a quarter of a mile distant, on the
outline of the farthest hill, a long procession of buffalo were walking,
in Indian file, with the utmost gravity and deliberation; then more
appeared, clambering from a hollow not far off, and ascending, one
behind the other, the grassy slope of another hill; then a shaggy head
and a pair of short broken horns appeared issuing out of a ravine close
at hand, and with a slow, stately step, one by one, the enormous brutes
came into view, taking their way across the valley, wholly unconscious
of an enemy. In a moment Henry was worming his way, lying flat on
the ground, through grass and prickly-pears, toward his unsuspecting
victims. He had with him both my rifle and his own. He was soon out of
sight, and still the buffalo kept issuing into the valley. For a long
time all was silent. I sat holding his horse, and wondering what he was
about, when suddenly, in rapid succession, came the sharp reports of the
two rifles, and the whole line of buffalo, quickening their pace into
a clumsy trot, gradually disappeared over the ridge of the hill. Henry
rose to his feet, and stood looking after them.
“You have missed them,” said I.
“Yes,” said Henry; “let us go.” He descended into the ravine, loaded the
rifles, and mounted his horse.
We rode up the hill after the buffalo. The herd was out of sight when
we reached the top, but lying on the grass not far off, was one quite
lifeless, and another violently struggling in the death agony.
“You see I miss him!” remarked Henry. He had fired from a distance of
more than a hundred and fifty yards, and both balls had passed through
the lungs--the true mark in shooting buffalo.
The darkness increased, and a driving storm came on. Tying our horses
to the horns of the victims, Henry began the bloody work of dissection,
slashing away with the science of a connoisseur, while I vainly
endeavored to imitate him. Old Hendrick recoiled with horror and
indignation when I endeavored to tie the meat to the strings of raw
hide, always carried for this purpose, dangling at the back of the
saddle. After some difficulty we overcame his scruples; and heavily
burdened with the more eligible portions of the buffalo, we set out on
our return. Scarcely had we emerged from the labyrinth of gorges and
ravines, and issued upon the open prairie, when the pricking sleet came
driving, gust upon gust, directly in our faces. It was strangely
dark, though wanting still an hour of sunset. The freezing storm soon
penetrated to the skin, but the uneasy trot of our heavy-gaited horses
kept us warm enough, as we forced them unwillingly in the teeth of the
sleet and rain, by the powerful suasion of our Indian whips. The prairie
in this place was hard and level. A flourishing colony of prairie dogs
had burrowed into it in every direction, and the little mounds of
fresh earth around their holes were about as numerous as the hills in
a cornfield; but not a yelp was to be heard; not the nose of a single
citizen was visible; all had retired to the depths of their burrows,
and we envied them their dry and comfortable habitations. An hour’s
hard riding showed us our tent dimly looming through the storm, one
side puffed out by the force of the wind, and the other collapsed in
proportion, while the disconsolate horses stood shivering close around,
and the wind kept up a dismal whistling in the boughs of three old
half-dead trees above. Shaw, like a patriarch, sat on his saddle in the
entrance, with a pipe in his mouth, and his arms folded, contemplating,
with cool satisfaction, the piles of meat that we flung on the ground
before him. A dark and dreary night succeeded; but the sun rose with
heat so sultry and languid that the captain excused himself on that
account from waylaying an old buffalo bull, who with stupid gravity was
walking over the prairie to drink at the river. So much for the climate
of the Platte!
But it was not the weather alone that had produced this sudden abatement
of the sportsmanlike zeal which the captain had always professed. He had
been out on the afternoon before, together with several members of his
party; but their hunting was attended with no other result than the
loss of one of their best horses, severely injured by Sorel, in vainly
chasing a wounded bull. The captain, whose ideas of hard riding were all
derived from transatlantic sources, expressed the utmost amazement at
the feats of Sorel, who went leaping ravines, and dashing at full speed
up and down the sides of precipitous hills, lashing his horse with
the recklessness of a Rocky Mountain rider. Unfortunately for the poor
animal he was the property of R., against whom Sorel entertained an
unbounded aversion. The captain himself, it seemed, had also attempted
to “run” a buffalo, but though a good and practiced horseman, he had
soon given over the attempt, being astonished and utterly disgusted at
the nature of the ground he was required to ride over.
Nothing unusual occurred on that day; but on the following morning Henry
Chatillon, looking over the oceanlike expanse, saw near the foot of the
distant hills something that looked like a band of buffalo. He was not
sure, he said, but at all events, if they were buffalo, there was a fine
chance for a race. Shaw and I at once determined to try the speed of our
horses.
“Come, captain; we’ll see which can ride hardest, a Yankee or an
Irishman.”
But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance. He mounted
his led horse, however, though very slowly; and we set out at a trot.
The game appeared about three miles distant. As we proceeded the captain
made various remarks of doubt and indecision; and at length declared he
would have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that
he had ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew
what riding was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo day
before yesterday. “I am convinced,” said the captain, “that, ‘running’
is out of the question.* Take my advice now and don’t attempt it. It’s
dangerous, and of no use at all.”
*The method of hunting called “running” consists in
attacking the buffalo on horseback and shooting him with
bullets or arrows when at full-speed. In “approaching,” the
hunter conceals himself and crawls on the ground toward the
game, or lies in wait to kill them.
“Then why did you come out with us? What do you mean to do?”
“I shall ‘approach,’” replied the captain.
“You don’t mean to ‘approach’ with your pistols, do you? We have all of
us left our rifles in the wagons.”
The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion. In his characteristic
indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, “running” and “approaching”
were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain. He trotted on in
silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind and
slowly walked his horse back to rejoin the party. Shaw and I kept on;
when lo! as we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into
certain clumps of tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable
distance. At this ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed the
example of our late ally, and turned back toward the party. We
were skirting the brink of a deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the
broad-chested pony coming toward us at a gallop.
“Here’s old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!” shouted Henry,
long before he came up. We had for some days expected this encounter.
Papin was the bourgeois of Fort Laramie. He had come down the river
with the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter’s
trading. I had among our baggage a letter which I wished to commit to
their hands; so requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until
my return, I set out after the wagons. They were about four miles in
advance. In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back
upon the trail, and looking carefully, as I rode, saw a patch of broken,
storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like
men and horses. Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly. The
boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to
the shore, to escape being borne down by the swift current. The rowers,
swarthy ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look, as
I reached the bank. Papin sat in the middle of one of the boats upon the
canvas covering that protected the robes. He was a stout, robust fellow,
with a little gray eye, that had a peculiarly sly twinkle. “Frederic”
also stretched his tall rawboned proportions close by the bourgeois,
and “mountain-men” completed the group; some lounging in the boats, some
strolling on shore; some attired in gayly painted buffalo robes, like
Indian dandies; some with hair saturated with red paint, and beplastered
with glue to their temples; and one bedaubed with vermilion upon his
forehead and each cheek. They were a mongrel race; yet the French blood
seemed to predominate; in a few, indeed, might be seen the black snaky
eye of the Indian half-breed, and one and all, they seemed to aim at
assimilating themselves to their savage associates.
I shook hands with the bourgeois, and delivered the letter; then the
boats swung round into the stream and floated away. They had reason
for haste, for already the voyage from Fort Laramie had occupied a full
month, and the river was growing daily more shallow. Fifty times a
day the boats had been aground, indeed; those who navigate the Platte
invariably spend half their time upon sand-bars. Two of these boats,
the property of private traders, afterward separating from the rest,
got hopelessly involved in the shallows, not very far from the Pawnee
villages, and were soon surrounded by a swarm of the inhabitants. They
carried off everything that they considered valuable, including most of
the robes; and amused themselves by tying up the men left on guard and
soundly whipping them with sticks.
We encamped that night upon the bank of the river. Among the emigrants
there was an overgrown boy, some eighteen years old, with a head as
round and about as large as a pumpkin, and fever-and-ague fits had dyed
his face of a corresponding color. He wore an old white hat, tied under
his chin with a handkerchief; his body was short and stout, but his
legs of disproportioned and appalling length. I observed him at sunset,
breasting the hill with gigantic strides, and standing against the sky
on the summit, like a colossal pair of tongs. In a moment after we heard
him screaming frantically behind the ridge, and nothing doubting that
he was in the clutches of Indians or grizzly bears, some of the party
caught up their rifles and ran to the rescue. His outcries, however,
proved but an ebullition of joyous excitement; he had chased two little
wolf pups to their burrow, and he was on his knees, grubbing away like a
dog at the mouth of the hole, to get at them.
Before morning he caused more serious disquiet in the camp. It was his
turn to hold the middle guard; but no sooner was he called up, than he
coolly arranged a pair of saddle-bags under a wagon, laid his head upon
them, closed his eyes, opened his mouth and fell asleep. The guard on
our side of the camp, thinking it no part of his duty to look after the
cattle of the emigrants, contented himself with watching our own horses
and mules; the wolves, he said, were unusually noisy; but still no
mischief was anticipated until the sun rose, and not a hoof or horn was
in sight! The cattle were gone! While Tom was quietly slumbering, the
wolves had driven them away.
Then we reaped the fruits of R.’s precious plan of traveling in company
with emigrants. To leave them in their distress was not to be thought
of, and we felt bound to wait until the cattle could be searched for,
and, if possible, recovered. But the reader may be curious to know
what punishment awaited the faithless Tom. By the wholesome law of
the prairie, he who falls asleep on guard is condemned to walk all
day leading his horse by the bridle, and we found much fault with
our companions for not enforcing such a sentence on the offender.
Nevertheless had he been of our party, I have no doubt he would in like
manner have escaped scot-free. But the emigrants went farther than mere
forebearance; they decreed that since Tom couldn’t stand guard without
falling asleep, he shouldn’t stand guard at all, and henceforward his
slumbers were unbroken. Establishing such a premium on drowsiness could
have no very beneficial effect upon the vigilance of our sentinels; for
it is far from agreeable, after riding from sunrise to sunset, to feel
your slumbers interrupted by the butt of a rifle nudging your side, and
a sleepy voice growling in your ear that you must get up, to shiver and
freeze for three weary hours at midnight.
“Buffalo! buffalo!” It was but a grim old bull, roaming the prairie by
himself in misanthropic seclusion; but there might be more behind the
hills. Dreading the monotony and languor of the camp, Shaw and I saddled
our horses, buckled our holsters in their places, and set out with Henry
Chatillon in search of the game. Henry, not intending to take part in
the chase, but merely conducting us, carried his rifle with him, while
we left ours behind as incumbrances. We rode for some five or six miles,
and saw no living thing but wolves, snakes, and prairie dogs.
“This won’t do at all,” said Shaw.
“What won’t do?”
“There’s no wood about here to make a litter for the wounded man; I have
an idea that one of us will need something of the sort before the day is
over.”
There was some foundation for such an apprehension, for the ground was
none of the best for a race, and grew worse continually as we proceeded;
indeed it soon became desperately bad, consisting of abrupt hills and
deep hollows, cut by frequent ravines not easy to pass. At length, a
mile in advance, we saw a band of bulls. Some were scattered grazing
over a green declivity, while the rest were crowded more densely
together in the wide hollow below. Making a circuit to keep out of
sight, we rode toward them until we ascended a hill within a furlong of
them, beyond which nothing intervened that could possibly screen us from
their view. We dismounted behind the ridge just out of sight, drew our
saddle-girths, examined our pistols, and mounting again rode over
the hill, and descended at a canter toward them, bending close to
our horses’ necks. Instantly they took the alarm; those on the hill
descended; those below gathered into a mass, and the whole got in
motion, shouldering each other along at a clumsy gallop. We followed,
spurring our horses to full speed; and as the herd rushed, crowding and
trampling in terror through an opening in the hills, we were close at
their heels, half suffocated by the clouds of dust. But as we drew near,
their alarm and speed increased; our horses showed signs of the utmost
fear, bounding violently aside as we approached, and refusing to
enter among the herd. The buffalo now broke into several small bodies,
scampering over the hills in different directions, and I lost sight of
Shaw; neither of us knew where the other had gone. Old Pontiac ran like
a frantic elephant up hill and down hill, his ponderous hoofs striking
the prairie like sledge-hammers. He showed a curious mixture of
eagerness and terror, straining to overtake the panic-stricken herd, but
constantly recoiling in dismay as we drew near. The fugitives, indeed,
offered no very attractive spectacle, with their enormous size and
weight, their shaggy manes and the tattered remnants of their last
winter’s hair covering their backs in irregular shreds and patches, and
flying off in the wind as they ran. At length I urged my horse close
behind a bull, and after trying in vain, by blows and spurring, to
bring him alongside, I shot a bullet into the buffalo from this
disadvantageous position. At the report, Pontiac swerved so much that I
was again thrown a little behind the game. The bullet, entering too much
in the rear, failed to disable the bull, for a buffalo requires to be
shot at particular points, or he will certainly escape. The herd ran up
a hill, and I followed in pursuit. As Pontiac rushed headlong down on
the other side, I saw Shaw and Henry descending the hollow on the right,
at a leisurely gallop; and in front, the buffalo were just disappearing
behind the crest of the next hill, their short tails erect, and their
hoofs twinkling through a cloud of dust.
At that moment, I heard Shaw and Henry shouting to me; but the muscles
of a stronger arm than mine could not have checked at once the furious
course of Pontiac, whose mouth was as insensible as leather. Added to
this, I rode him that morning with a common snaffle, having the day
before, for the benefit of my other horse, unbuckled from my bridle the
curb which I ordinarily used. A stronger and hardier brute never trod
the prairie; but the novel sight of the buffalo filled him with terror,
and when at full speed he was almost incontrollable. Gaining the top of
the ridge, I saw nothing of the buffalo; they had all vanished amid the
intricacies of the hills and hollows. Reloading my pistols, in the best
way I could, I galloped on until I saw them again scuttling along at
the base of the hill, their panic somewhat abated. Down went old Pontiac
among them, scattering them to the right and left, and then we had
another long chase. About a dozen bulls were before us, scouring over
the hills, rushing down the declivities with tremendous weight and
impetuosity, and then laboring with a weary gallop upward. Still
Pontiac, in spite of spurring and beating, would not close with them.
One bull at length fell a little behind the rest, and by dint of much
effort I urged my horse within six or eight yards of his side. His back
was darkened with sweat; he was panting heavily, while his tongue lolled
out a foot from his jaws. Gradually I came up abreast of him, urging
Pontiac with leg and rein nearer to his side, then suddenly he did what
buffalo in such circumstances will always do; he slackened his gallop,
and turning toward us, with an aspect of mingled rage and distress,
lowered his huge shaggy head for a charge. Pontiac with a snort, leaped
aside in terror, nearly throwing me to the ground, as I was wholly
unprepared for such an evolution. I raised my pistol in a passion to
strike him on the head, but thinking better of it fired the bullet after
the bull, who had resumed his flight, then drew rein and determined
to rejoin my companions. It was high time. The breath blew hard from
Pontiac’s nostrils, and the sweat rolled in big drops down his sides;
I myself felt as if drenched in warm water. Pledging myself (and I
redeemed the pledge) to take my revenge at a future opportunity, I
looked round for some indications to show me where I was, and what
course I ought to pursue; I might as well have looked for landmarks in
the midst of the ocean. How many miles I had run or in what direction,
I had no idea; and around me the prairie was rolling in steep swells
and pitches, without a single distinctive feature to guide me. I had
a little compass hung at my neck; and ignorant that the Platte at this
point diverged considerably from its easterly course, I thought that by
keeping to the northward I should certainly reach it. So I turned
and rode about two hours in that direction. The prairie changed as I
advanced, softening away into easier undulations, but nothing like the
Platte appeared, nor any sign of a human being; the same wild endless
expanse lay around me still; and to all appearance I was as far from my
object as ever. I began now to consider myself in danger of being
lost; and therefore, reining in my horse, summoned the scanty share of
woodcraft that I possessed (if that term he applicable upon the prairie)
to extricate me. Looking round, it occurred to me that the buffalo might
prove my best guides. I soon found one of the paths made by them in
their passage to the river; it ran nearly at right angles to my course;
but turning my horse’s head in the direction it indicated, his freer
gait and erected ears assured me that I was right.
But in the meantime my ride had been by no means a solitary one.
The whole face of the country was dotted far and wide with countless
hundreds of buffalo. They trooped along in files and columns, bulls
cows, and calves, on the green faces of the declivities in front. They
scrambled away over the hills to the right and left; and far off, the
pale blue swells in the extreme distance were dotted with innumerable
specks. Sometimes I surprised shaggy old bulls grazing alone, or
sleeping behind the ridges I ascended. They would leap up at my
approach, stare stupidly at me through their tangled manes, and then
gallop heavily away. The antelope were very numerous; and as they are
always bold when in the neighborhood of buffalo, they would approach
quite near to look at me, gazing intently with their great round eyes,
then suddenly leap aside, and stretch lightly away over the prairie, as
swiftly as a racehorse. Squalid, ruffianlike wolves sneaked through the
hollows and sandy ravines. Several times I passed through villages of
prairie dogs, who sat, each at the mouth of his burrow, holding his paws
before him in a supplicating attitude, and yelping away most vehemently,
energetically whisking his little tail with every squeaking cry he
uttered. Prairie dogs are not fastidious in their choice of companions;
various long, checkered snakes were sunning themselves in the midst of
the village, and demure little gray owls, with a large white ring around
each eye, were perched side by side with the rightful inhabitants. The
prairie teemed with life. Again and again I looked toward the crowded
hillsides, and was sure I saw horsemen; and riding near, with a mixture
of hope and dread, for Indians were abroad, I found them transformed
into a group of buffalo. There was nothing in human shape amid all this
vast congregation of brute forms.
When I turned down the buffalo path, the prairie seemed changed; only
a wolf or two glided past at intervals, like conscious felons, never
looking to the right or left. Being now free from anxiety, I was at
leisure to observe minutely the objects around me; and here, for the
first time, I noticed insects wholly different from any of the varieties
found farther to the eastward. Gaudy butterflies fluttered about my
horse’s head; strangely formed beetles, glittering with metallic luster,
were crawling upon plants that I had never seen before; multitudes of
lizards, too, were darting like lightning over the sand.
I had run to a great distance from the river. It cost me a long ride
on the buffalo path before I saw from the ridge of a sand-hill the pale
surface of the Platte glistening in the midst of its desert valleys, and
the faint outline of the hills beyond waving along the sky. From where
I stood, not a tree nor a bush nor a living thing was visible throughout
the whole extent of the sun-scorched landscape. In half an hour I came
upon the trail, not far from the river; and seeing that the party had
not yet passed, I turned eastward to meet them, old Pontiac’s long
swinging trot again assuring me that I was right in doing so. Having
been slightly ill on leaving camp in the morning six or seven hours of
rough riding had fatigued me extremely. I soon stopped, therefore; flung
my saddle on the ground, and with my head resting on it, and my horse’s
trail-rope tied loosely to my arm, lay waiting the arrival of the
party, speculating meanwhile on the extent of the injuries Pontiac had
received. At length the white wagon coverings rose from the verge of the
plain. By a singular coincidence, almost at the same moment two horsemen
appeared coming down from the hills. They were Shaw and Henry, who had
searched for me a while in the morning, but well knowing the futility of
the attempt in such a broken country, had placed themselves on the top
of the highest hill they could find, and picketing their horses near
them, as a signal to me, had laid down and fallen asleep. The stray
cattle had been recovered, as the emigrants told us, about noon. Before
sunset, we pushed forward eight miles farther.
JUNE 7, 1846.--Four men are missing; R., Sorel and two emigrants.
They set out this morning after buffalo, and have not yet made their
appearance; whether killed or lost, we cannot tell.
I find the above in my notebook, and well remember the council held on
the occasion. Our fire was the scene of it; or the palpable superiority
of Henry Chatillon’s experience and skill made him the resort of the
whole camp upon every question of difficulty. He was molding bullets
at the fire, when the captain drew near, with a perturbed and care-worn
expression of countenance, faithfully reflected on the heavy features
of Jack, who followed close behind. Then emigrants came straggling from
their wagons toward the common center; various suggestions were made to
account for the absence of the four men, and one or two of the emigrants
declared that when out after the cattle they had seen Indians dogging
them, and crawling like wolves along the ridges of the hills. At this
time the captain slowly shook his head with double gravity, and solemnly
remarked:
“It’s a serious thing to be traveling through this cursed wilderness”;
an opinion in which Jack immediately expressed a thorough coincidence.
Henry would not commit himself by declaring any positive opinion.
“Maybe he only follow the buffalo too far; maybe Indian kill him; maybe
he got lost; I cannot tell!”
With this the auditors were obliged to rest content; the emigrants, not
in the least alarmed, though curious to know what had become of their
comrades, walked back to their wagons and the captain betook himself
pensively to his tent. Shaw and I followed his example.
“It will be a bad thing for our plans,” said he as we entered, “if these
fellows don’t get back safe. The captain is as helpless on the prairie
as a child. We shall have to take him and his brother in tow; they will
hang on us like lead.”
“The prairie is a strange place,” said I. “A month ago I should have
thought it rather a startling affair to have an acquaintance ride out in
the morning and lose his scalp before night, but here it seems the most
natural thing in the world; not that I believe that R. has lost his
yet.”
If a man is constitutionally liable to nervous apprehensions, a tour on
the distant prairies would prove the best prescription; for though when
in the neighborhood of the Rocky Mountains he may at times find himself
placed in circumstances of some danger, I believe that few ever breathe
that reckless atmosphere without becoming almost indifferent to any evil
chance that may befall themselves or their friends.
Shaw had a propensity for luxurious indulgence. He spread his blanket
with the utmost accuracy on the ground, picked up the sticks and stones
that he thought might interfere with his comfort, adjusted his saddle to
serve as a pillow, and composed himself for his night’s rest. I had the
first guard that evening; so, taking my rifle, I went out of the tent.
It was perfectly dark. A brisk wind blew down from the hills, and
the sparks from the fire were streaming over the prairie. One of the
emigrants, named Morton, was my companion; and laying our rifles on the
grass, we sat down together by the fire. Morton was a Kentuckian, an
athletic fellow, with a fine intelligent face, and in his manners and
conversation he showed the essential characteristics of a gentleman.
Our conversation turned on the pioneers of his gallant native State. The
three hours of our watch dragged away at last, and we went to call up
the relief.
R.’s guard succeeded mine. He was absent; but the captain, anxious lest
the camp should be left defenseless, had volunteered to stand in his
place; so I went to wake him up. There was no occasion for it, for the
captain had been awake since nightfall. A fire was blazing outside of
the tent, and by the light which struck through the canvas, I saw him
and Jack lying on their backs, with their eyes wide open. The captain
responded instantly to my call; he jumped up, seized the double-barreled
rifle, and came out of the tent with an air of solemn determination, as
if about to devote himself to the safety of the party. I went and lay
down, not doubting that for the next three hours our slumbers would be
guarded with sufficient vigilance.