THE CHASE
The country before us was now thronged with buffalo, and a sketch of the
manner of hunting them will not be out of place. There are two methods
commonly practiced, “running” and “approaching.” The chase on horseback,
which goes by the name of “running,” is the more violent and dashing
mode of the two. Indeed, of all American wild sports, this is the
wildest. Once among the buffalo, the hunter, unless long use has made
him familiar with the situation, dashes forward in utter recklessness
and self-abandonment. He thinks of nothing, cares for nothing but
the game; his mind is stimulated to the highest pitch, yet intensely
concentrated on one object. In the midst of the flying herd, where the
uproar and the dust are thickest, it never wavers for a moment; he drops
the rein and abandons his horse to his furious career; he levels his
gun, the report sounds faint amid the thunder of the buffalo; and when
his wounded enemy leaps in vain fury upon him, his heart thrills with
a feeling like the fierce delight of the battlefield. A practiced and
skillful hunter, well mounted, will sometimes kill five or six cows in
a single chase, loading his gun again and again as his horse rushes
through the tumult. An exploit like this is quite beyond the capacities
of a novice. In attacking a small band of buffalo, or in separating a
single animal from the herd and assailing it apart from the rest, there
is less excitement and less danger. With a bold and well trained horse
the hunter may ride so close to the buffalo that as they gallop side by
side he may reach over and touch him with his hand; nor is there much
danger in this as long as the buffalo’s strength and breath continue
unabated; but when he becomes tired and can no longer run at ease, when
his tongue lolls out and foam flies from his jaws, then the hunter had
better keep at a more respectful distance; the distressed brute may turn
upon him at any instant; and especially at the moment when he fires his
gun. The wounded buffalo springs at his enemy; the horse leaps violently
aside; and then the hunter has need of a tenacious seat in the saddle,
for if he is thrown to the ground there is no hope for him. When he sees
his attack defeated the buffalo resumes his flight, but if the shot be
well directed he soon stops; for a few moments he stands still, then
totters and falls heavily upon the prairie.
The chief difficulty in running buffalo, as it seems to me, is that of
loading the gun or pistol at full gallop. Many hunters for convenience’
sake carry three or four bullets in the mouth; the powder is poured
down the muzzle of the piece, the bullet dropped in after it, the stock
struck hard upon the pommel of the saddle, and the work is done. The
danger of this method is obvious. Should the blow on the pommel fail to
send the bullet home, or should the latter, in the act of aiming, start
from its place and roll toward the muzzle, the gun would probably burst
in discharging. Many a shattered hand and worse casualties besides have
been the result of such an accident. To obviate it, some hunters make
use of a ramrod, usually hung by a string from the neck, but this
materially increases the difficulty of loading. The bows and arrows
which the Indians use in running buffalo have many advantages over fire
arms, and even white men occasionally employ them.
The danger of the chase arises not so much from the onset of the wounded
animal as from the nature of the ground which the hunter must ride
over. The prairie does not always present a smooth, level, and uniform
surface; very often it is broken with hills and hollows, intersected by
ravines, and in the remoter parts studded by the stiff wild-sage bushes.
The most formidable obstructions, however, are the burrows of wild
animals, wolves, badgers, and particularly prairie dogs, with whose
holes the ground for a very great extent is frequently honeycombed.
In the blindness of the chase the hunter rushes over it unconscious of
danger; his horse, at full career, thrusts his leg deep into one of the
burrows; the bone snaps, the rider is hurled forward to the ground and
probably killed. Yet accidents in buffalo running happen less frequently
than one would suppose; in the recklessness of the chase, the hunter
enjoys all the impunity of a drunken man, and may ride in safety over
the gullies and declivities where, should he attempt to pass in his
sober senses, he would infallibly break his neck.
The method of “approaching,” being practiced on foot, has many
advantages over that of “running”; in the former, one neither breaks
down his horse nor endangers his own life; instead of yielding to
excitement he must be cool, collected, and watchful; he must understand
the buffalo, observe the features of the country and the course of the
wind, and be well skilled, moreover, in using the rifle. The buffalo are
strange animals; sometimes they are so stupid and infatuated that a man
may walk up to them in full sight on the open prairie, and even shoot
several of their number before the rest will think it necessary to
retreat. Again at another moment they will be so shy and wary, that in
order to approach them the utmost skill, experience, and judgment are
necessary. Kit Carson, I believe, stands pre-eminent in running
buffalo; in approaching, no man living can bear away the palm from Henry
Chatillon.
To resume the story: After Tete Rouge had alarmed the camp, no further
disturbance occurred during the night. The Arapahoes did not attempt
mischief, or if they did the wakefulness of the party deterred them
from effecting their purpose. The next day was one of activity and
excitement, for about ten o’clock the men in advance shouted the
gladdening cry of “Buffalo, buffalo!” and in the hollow of the prairie
just below us, a band of bulls were grazing. The temptation was
irresistible, and Shaw and I rode down upon them. We were badly mounted
on our traveling horses, but by hard lashing we overtook them, and
Shaw, running alongside of a bull, shot into him both balls of his
double-barreled gun. Looking round as I galloped past, I saw the bull in
his mortal fury rushing again and again upon his antagonist, whose
horse constantly leaped aside, and avoided the onset. My chase was more
protracted, but at length I ran close to the bull and killed him with
my pistols. Cutting off the tails of our victims by way of trophy, we
rejoined the party in about a quarter of an hour after we left it.
Again and again that morning rang out the same welcome cry of “Buffalo,
buffalo!” Every few moments in the broad meadows along the river, we
would see bands of bulls, who, raising their shaggy heads, would gaze in
stupid amazement at the approaching horsemen, and then breaking into a
clumsy gallop, would file off in a long line across the trail in front,
toward the rising prairie on the left. At noon, the whole plain before
us was alive with thousands of buffalo--bulls, cows, and calves--all
moving rapidly as we drew near; and far-off beyond the river the
swelling prairie was darkened with them to the very horizon. The party
was in gayer spirits than ever. We stopped for a nooning near a grove of
trees by the river side.
“Tongues and hump ribs to-morrow,” said Shaw, looking with contempt at
the venison steaks which Delorier placed before us. Our meal finished,
we lay down under a temporary awning to sleep. A shout from Henry
Chatillon aroused us, and we saw him standing on the cartwheel
stretching his tall figure to its full height while he looked toward the
prairie beyond the river. Following the direction of his eyes we could
clearly distinguish a large dark object, like the black shadow of a
cloud, passing rapidly over swell after swell of the distant plain;
behind it followed another of similar appearance though smaller. Its
motion was more rapid, and it drew closer and closer to the first. It
was the hunters of the Arapahoe camp pursuing a band of buffalo. Shaw
and I hastily sought and saddled our best horses, and went plunging
through sand and water to the farther bank. We were too late. The
hunters had already mingled with the herd, and the work of slaughter was
nearly over. When we reached the ground we found it strewn far and
near with numberless black carcasses, while the remnants of the herd,
scattered in all directions, were flying away in terror, and the Indians
still rushing in pursuit. Many of the hunters, however, remained upon
the spot, and among the rest was our yesterday’s acquaintance, the chief
of the village. He had alighted by the side of a cow, into which he
had shot five or six arrows, and his squaw, who had followed him on
horseback to the hunt, was giving him a draught of water out of a
canteen, purchased or plundered from some volunteer soldier. Recrossing
the river we overtook the party, who were already on their way.
We had scarcely gone a mile when an imposing spectacle presented itself.
From the river bank on the right, away over the swelling prairie on the
left, and in front as far as we could see, extended one vast host of
buffalo. The outskirts of the herd were within a quarter of a mile. In
many parts they were crowded so densely together that in the distance
their rounded backs presented a surface of uniform blackness; but
elsewhere they were more scattered, and from amid the multitude rose
little columns of dust where the buffalo were rolling on the ground.
Here and there a great confusion was perceptible, where a battle was
going forward among the bulls. We could distinctly see them rushing
against each other, and hear the clattering of their horns and their
hoarse bellowing. Shaw was riding at some distance in advance, with
Henry Chatillon; I saw him stop and draw the leather covering from his
gun. Indeed, with such a sight before us, but one thing could be thought
of. That morning I had used pistols in the chase. I had now a mind to
try the virtue of a gun. Delorier had one, and I rode up to the side of
the cart; there he sat under the white covering, biting his pipe between
his teeth and grinning with excitement.
“Lend me your gun, Delorier,” said I.
“Oui, monsieur, oui,” said Delorier, tugging with might and main to
stop the mule, which seemed obstinately bent on going forward. Then
everything but his moccasins disappeared as he crawled into the cart and
pulled at the gun to extricate it.
“Is it loaded?” I asked.
“Oui, bien charge; you’ll kill, mon bourgeois; yes, you’ll kill--c’est
un bon fusil.”
I handed him my rifle and rode forward to Shaw.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“Come on,” said I.
“Keep down that hollow,” said Henry, “and then they won’t see you till
you get close to them.”
The hollow was a kind of ravine very wide and shallow; it ran obliquely
toward the buffalo, and we rode at a canter along the bottom until it
became too shallow, when we bent close to our horses’ necks, and then
finding that it could no longer conceal us, came out of it and rode
directly toward the herd. It was within gunshot; before its outskirts,
numerous grizzly old bulls were scattered, holding guard over their
females. They glared at us in anger and astonishment, walked toward us
a few yards, and then turning slowly round retreated at a trot which
afterward broke into a clumsy gallop. In an instant the main body caught
the alarm. The buffalo began to crowd away from the point toward which
we were approaching, and a gap was opened in the side of the herd. We
entered it, still restraining our excited horses. Every instant the
tumult was thickening. The buffalo, pressing together in large bodies,
crowded away from us on every hand. In front and on either side we could
see dark columns and masses, half hidden by clouds of dust, rushing
along in terror and confusion, and hear the tramp and clattering of ten
thousand hoofs. That countless multitude of powerful brutes, ignorant
of their own strength, were flying in a panic from the approach of two
feeble horsemen. To remain quiet longer was impossible.
“Take that band on the left,” said Shaw; “I’ll take these in front.”
He sprang off, and I saw no more of him. A heavy Indian whip was
fastened by a band to my wrist; I swung it into the air and lashed
my horse’s flank with all the strength of my arm. Away she darted,
stretching close to the ground. I could see nothing but a cloud of
dust before me, but I knew that it concealed a band of many hundreds of
buffalo. In a moment I was in the midst of the cloud, half suffocated
by the dust and stunned by the trampling of the flying herd; but I was
drunk with the chase and cared for nothing but the buffalo. Very soon
a long dark mass became visible, looming through the dust; then I could
distinguish each bulky carcass, the hoofs flying out beneath, the short
tails held rigidly erect. In a moment I was so close that I could have
touched them with my gun. Suddenly, to my utter amazement, the hoofs
were jerked upward, the tails flourished in the air, and amid a cloud
of dust the buffalo seemed to sink into the earth before me. One vivid
impression of that instant remains upon my mind. I remember looking down
upon the backs of several buffalo dimly visible through the dust. We had
run unawares upon a ravine. At that moment I was not the most accurate
judge of depth and width, but when I passed it on my return, I found it
about twelve feet deep and not quite twice as wide at the bottom. It
was impossible to stop; I would have done so gladly if I could; so, half
sliding, half plunging, down went the little mare. I believe she came
down on her knees in the loose sand at the bottom; I was pitched forward
violently against her neck and nearly thrown over her head among the
buffalo, who amid dust and confusion came tumbling in all around. The
mare was on her feet in an instant and scrambling like a cat up the
opposite side. I thought for a moment that she would have fallen back
and crushed me, but with a violent effort she clambered out and gained
the hard prairie above. Glancing back I saw the huge head of a bull
clinging as it were by the forefeet at the edge of the dusty gulf. At
length I was fairly among the buffalo. They were less densely crowded
than before, and I could see nothing but bulls, who always run at the
rear of the herd. As I passed amid them they would lower their heads,
and turning as they ran, attempt to gore my horse; but as they were
already at full speed there was no force in their onset, and as Pauline
ran faster than they, they were always thrown behind her in the effort.
I soon began to distinguish cows amid the throng. One just in front of
me seemed to my liking, and I pushed close to her side. Dropping the
reins I fired, holding the muzzle of the gun within a foot of her
shoulder. Quick as lightning she sprang at Pauline; the little mare
dodged the attack, and I lost sight of the wounded animal amid the
tumultuous crowd. Immediately after I selected another, and urging
forward Pauline, shot into her both pistols in succession. For a while
I kept her in view, but in attempting to load my gun, lost sight of her
also in the confusion. Believing her to be mortally wounded and unable
to keep up with the herd, I checked my horse. The crowd rushed onward.
The dust and tumult passed away, and on the prairie, far behind the
rest, I saw a solitary buffalo galloping heavily. In a moment I and my
victim were running side by side. My firearms were all empty, and I had
in my pouch nothing but rifle bullets, too large for the pistols and
too small for the gun. I loaded the latter, however, but as often as I
leveled it to fire, the little bullets would roll out of the muzzle
and the gun returned only a faint report like a squib, as the powder
harmlessly exploded. I galloped in front of the buffalo and attempted to
turn her back; but her eyes glared, her mane bristled, and lowering her
head, she rushed at me with astonishing fierceness and activity. Again
and again I rode before her, and again and again she repeated her
furious charge. But little Pauline was in her element. She dodged her
enemy at every rush, until at length the buffalo stood still, exhausted
with her own efforts; she panted, and her tongue hung lolling from her
jaws.
Riding to a little distance I alighted, thinking to gather a handful
of dry grass to serve the purpose of wadding, and load the gun at my
leisure. No sooner were my feet on the ground than the buffalo came
bounding in such a rage toward me that I jumped back again into the
saddle with all possible dispatch. After waiting a few minutes more,
I made an attempt to ride up and stab her with my knife; but the
experiment proved such as no wise man would repeat. At length,
bethinking me of the fringes at the seams of my buckskin pantaloons,
I jerked off a few of them, and reloading my gun, forced them down the
barrel to keep the bullet in its place; then approaching, I shot the
wounded buffalo through the heart. Sinking to her knees, she rolled over
lifeless on the prairie. To my astonishment, I found that instead of
a fat cow I had been slaughtering a stout yearling bull. No longer
wondering at the fierceness he had shown, I opened his throat and
cutting out his tongue, tied it at the back of my saddle. My mistake was
one which a more experienced eye than mine might easily make in the dust
and confusion of such a chase.
Then for the first time I had leisure to look at the scene around me.
The prairie in front was darkened with the retreating multitude, and on
the other hand the buffalo came filing up in endless unbroken columns
from the low plains upon the river. The Arkansas was three or four miles
distant. I turned and moved slowly toward it. A long time passed before,
far down in the distance, I distinguished the white covering of the cart
and the little black specks of horsemen before and behind it. Drawing
near, I recognized Shaw’s elegant tunic, the red flannel shirt,
conspicuous far off. I overtook the party, and asked him what success he
had met with. He had assailed a fat cow, shot her with two bullets, and
mortally wounded her. But neither of us were prepared for the chase that
afternoon, and Shaw, like myself, had no spare bullets in his pouch;
so he abandoned the disabled animal to Henry Chatillon, who followed,
dispatched her with his rifle, and loaded his horse with her meat.
We encamped close to the river. The night was dark, and as we lay down
we could hear mingled with the howling of wolves the hoarse bellowing of
the buffalo, like the ocean beating upon a distant coast.