by Zane Grey
“Aw! I reckon I’m glad,” replied Pilchuck. “Looked to me like he’d gone.”
“Nope. He’ll come round tip-top. . . . I’m a son-of-a-gun if he ain’t come to right now! Hey, Tom!”
“I’m all right, thanks,” said Tom, weakly. “How’d we make out?”
Whereupon Devine began an eloquent account of how they had stood off Nigger Horse and two hundred braves, had whipped them, and finally routed them completely with a considerable loss. But Devine omitted to mention what Pilchuck’s force had suffered.
Though feeling considerable pain and much weakness through loss of blood, Tom was able to eat a little, after which effort he fell asleep.
Daylight brought clear consciousness to him, and one glance round at his lame and bandaged comrades gave an inkling of what the victory over Nigger Horse had cost. Not a man had escaped at least one wound! Burn Hudnall had escaped serious injury. Tom missed familiar faces. But he did not make inquiries then. He submitted to a painful treatment of his wounds. Then he was glad enough to lie quietly with closed eyes.
Later that morning he had strength enough to mount his horse and ride with the slow procession back to the permanent camp. He made it, but prayed he would have no more such ordeals. The shady, cool camp with its running water was a most soothing relief. One by one the injured were made comfortable. It was then Tom learned that seven of Pilchuck’s force had been killed in the fight. Ory Tacks had been the first to succumb. Thus Tom had verification of his fears. Poor, brave, cheerful Ory! These heroic men would find graves on the spot where they had helped to break forever the backbone of the Comanches’ hostility.
Pilchuck visited with the injured men that day. His sternness had vanished.
“Boys,” he said, “I never expected any of us to get out of that fight alive. When those yellin’ devils charged us I thought the game was up. We did well, but we were mighty lucky. It’s sad about our comrades. But some of us had to go an’ we were all ready. Now the great good truth is that this victory will rouse the buffalo-hunters. I’ll go after more men. We’ll shore chase the Comanches an’ Kiowas off the Staked Plain, an’ that will leave us free to hunt buffalo. What’s more important, it will make Texas safe for settlers. So you can all feel proud, as I do. The buffalo-hunters will go down in history as havin’ made Texas habitable.”
CHAPTER XVII
IN 1876 MORE than two hundred thousand buffalo hides were shipped east over the Santa Fe Railroad, and hundreds of thousands in addition went north from Fort Worth, Texas.
For this great number of hides that reached eastern and foreign markets there were at least twice the number of hides sacrificed on the range. Old buffalo-hunters generally agreed on the causes for this lamentable fact. Inexperienced hunters did not learn to poison the hides, which were soon destroyed by hide bugs. Then as many buffalo were crippled as killed outright and skinned, and these wounded ones stole away to die in coulees or the brakes of the rivers. Lastly, a large percentage of buffalo were chased by hunters into the quagmires and quicksands along the numerous streams, there to perish.
1877 saw the last of the raids by Comanches and Kiowas, a condition brought round solely by the long campaign of united bands of buffalo-hunters, who chased and fought these Indians all over the Staked Plain. But this campaign was really a part of the destruction of the buffalo, and that destruction broke forever the strength of these hard-riding Indians.
In the winter and spring of that year the number of hide-hunting outfits doubled and trebled and quadrupled; and from the Red River to the Brazos, over that immense tract of Texas prairie, every river, stream, pond, water-hole and spring, everywhere buffalo could drink, was ambushed by hunters with heavy guns. The poor animals that were not shot down had to keep on traveling until the time came when a terrible parching thirst made them mad. Then, when in their wanderings to find some place to drink, they scented water, they would stampede, and in their madness to assuage an insupportable thirst, would plunge over one another in great waves, crushing to death those underneath.
Tom Doan, during the year and a half of the Indian raids, fought through three campaigns against Comanches, Kiowas, and Llano Estacado Apaches.
Pilchuck’s first organizing of buffalo-hunters into a unit to fight Comanches drove the wedge that split the Indians; and likewise it inspired and roused the hide-hunters from the Territory line to the Rio Grande. Thus there was a war on the several tribes, as well as continued slaughter of the buffalo.
In the spring of 1877, when, according to the scouts, the backbone of the Southwest raiding tribes had been broken, Tom Doan bade good-by to Burn Hudnall, his friend and comrade for so long. Dave Stronghurl had months before gone back to Sprague’s Post to join his wife, and Burn, now that the campaign had ended, wanted to see his wife and people.
“I reckon I’m even with the Comanches,” he said, grimly. That was his only reference to his father’s murder.
“Well, Burn, we’ve seen wild life,” mused Tom, sadly. “I’m glad I helped rout the Comanches. They’ve been robbed, I suppose, and I can’t blame them. But they sure made a man’s blood boil for a fight.”
“What’ll you do, Tom?” queried Burn.
Doan dropped his head. “It’d hurt too much to go back to Sprague’s Post — just yet. You see, Burn, I can’t forget Milly. Of course she’s dead long ago. But then, sometimes I see her in dreams, and she seems alive. I’d like to learn the truth of her fate. Some day I might. Pilchuck and I are going south to the Brazos. The last great hunt is on there.”
“I’m goin’ to settle on a ranch at Sprague’s,” said Burn. “Father always said that would be center of a fine cattle an’ farmin’ district some day.”
“Yes, I remember. It used to be my dream, too. But I’m changed. This roving life, I guess. The open range for me yet a while! Some day I’ll come back.”
“Tom, you’ve money saved,” returned Burn, thoughtfully. “You could buy an’ stock a ranch. Isn’t it risky carryin’ round all your money? There’s worse than bad Comanches now in the huntin’ field.”
“I’ve thought of that,” said Tom. “It does seem risky. So I’ll ask you to take most of my money and bank it for me.”
“It’s a good idea. But see here, old man, suppose you don’t come back? You know, we’ve seen things happen to strong an’ capable men down here. Think how lucky we’ve been!”
“I’ve thought of that, too,” said Tom, with gravity. “If I don’t show up inside of five years invest the money for your children. Money’s not much to me any more. . . . But I’m likely to come back.”
This conversation took place at Wheaton’s camp, on the headwaters of the Red River, in April. A great exodus of freighters was taking place that day. It was interesting for Tom to note the development of the hide hauling. The wagons were large and had racks and booms, so that when loaded they resembled hay wagons, except in color. Two hundred buffalo hides to a wagon, and six yokes of oxen to a team and twenty-five teams to a train! Swiftly indeed were the buffalo disappearing from the plains. Burn Hudnall rode north with one of these immense freighting outfits.
Tom and Pilchuck made preparations for an extended hunt in the Brazos River country, whence emanated rumors somewhat similar to the gold rumors of ‘49.
While choosing and arranging an outfit they were visited by a brawny little man with a most remarkable visage. It was scarred with records of both the sublime and the ridiculous.
“I’m after wantin’ to throw in with you,” he announced to Pilchuck.
The scout, used to judging men in a glance, evidently saw service and character in this fellow.
“Wal, we need a man, that’s shore. But he must be experienced,” returned the scout.
“Nary tenderfoot, scout, not no more,” he grinned. “I’ve killed an’ skinned over four thousands buffs. An’ I’m a blacksmith an’ a cook.”
“Wal, I reckon you’re a whole outfit in yourself,” rejoined Pilchuck, with his rare broad smile. “
How do you want to throw in?”
“Share expense of outfit, work, an’ profit.”
“Nothin’ could be no more fair. I reckon we’ll be right glad to have you. What’s your handle?”
“Wrong-Wheel Jones,” replied the applicant, as if he expected that cognomen to be recognized.
“What the hell! I’ve met Buffalo Jones, an’ Dirty-Face Jones an’ Spike Jones, but I never heard of you. . . . Wrong-Wheel Jones! Where’d you ever get that?”
“It was stuck on me my first hunt when I was sorta tenderfooty.”
“Wal, tell me an’ my pard here, Tom Doan,” continued the scout, good-humoredly. “Tom, shake with Wrong-Wheel Jones.”
After quaintly acknowledging the introduction Jones said: “Fust trip I busted a right hind wheel of my wagon. Along comes half a dozen outfits, but none had an extra wheel. Blake, the leader, told me he’d passed a wagon like mine, broke down on the Cimarron. ‘Peared it had some good wheels. So I harnessed my hosses, rode one an’ led t’other. I found the wagon, but the left hind wheel was the only one not busted. So I rode back to camp. Blake asked me why I didn’t fetch a wheel back, an’ I says: ‘What’d I want with two left hind wheels? I got one. It’s the right one thet’s busted. Thet left hind wheel back thar on thet wagon would do fust rate, but it’s on the wrong side.’ An’ Blake an’ his outfit roared till they near died. When he could talk ag’in he says: ‘You darned fool. Thet left hind wheel turned round would make your right hind wheel.’ An’ after a while I seen he was right. They called me Wrong-Wheel Jones an’ the name’s stuck.”
“By gosh! it ought to!” laughed Pilchuck.
In company with another outfit belonging to a newcomer named Hazelton, with a son of fifteen and two other boys not much older, Pilchuck headed for the Brazos River.
After an uneventful journey, somewhat off the beaten track, they reached one of the many tributaries of the Brazos, where they ran into some straggling small herds.
“We’ll make two-day stops till we reach the main herd,” said Pilchuck. “I’ve a hankerin’ for my huntin’ alone. Reckon hide-hunters are thick as bees down on the Brazos. Let’s keep out of the stink an’ musketeers as long as we can.”
They went into camp, the two outfits not far apart, within hailing distance.
It was perhaps the most beautiful location for a camp Tom had seen in all his traveling over western Texas. Pilchuck said the main herd, with its horde of hide-hunters, had passed miles east of this point. As a consequence the air was sweet, the water unpolluted, and grass and wood abundant.
Brakes of the tributary consisted of groves of pecan trees and cottonwoods, where cold springs abounded, and the deep pools contained fish. As spring had just come in that latitude, there were color of flowers, and fragrance in the air, and a myriad of birds lingering on their way north. Like the wooded sections of the Red River and the Pease River Divide had been, so was this, Brazos district. Deer, antelope, turkey, with their carnivorous attendants, panthers, wildcats, and wolves, had not yet been molested by white hunters.
Perhaps the Indian campaigns had hardened Tom Doan, for he returned to the slaughter of buffalo. He had been so long out of the hunting game that he had forgotten many of the details, and especially the sentiment that had once moved him. Then this wild life in the open had become a habit; it clung to a man. Moreover, Tom had an aching and ever-present discontent which only action could subdue.
He took a liking to Cherry Hazleton. The boy was a strapping youngster, freckle faced and red headed, and like all healthy youths of the Middle West during the ‘seventies he was a worshiper of the frontiersman and Indian fighter. He and his young comrades, brothers named Dan and Joe Newman, spent what little leisure time they had hanging round Pilchuck and Tom, hungry for stories as dogs for bones.
Two days at this camp did not suffice Pilchuck. Buffalo were not excessively numerous, but they were scattered into small bands under leadership of old bulls; and for these reasons offered the conditions best suited to experienced hunters.
The third day Tom took Cherry Hazleton hunting with him, allowing him to carry canteen and extra cartridges while getting valuable experience.
Buffalo in small numbers were in sight everywhere, but as this country was rolling and cut up, unlike the Pease prairie, it was not possible to locate all the herds that might be within reaching distance.
In several hours of riding and stalking Tom had not found a position favorable to any extended success, though he had downed some buffalo, and young Hazleton, after missing a number, had finally killed his first, a fine bull. The boy was wild with excitement, and this brought back to Tom his early experience, now seemingly so long in the past.
They were now on a creek that ran through a wide stretch of plain, down to the tributary, and no more than two miles from camp. A large herd of buffalo trooped out of the west, coming fast under a cloud of dust. They poured down into the creek and literally blocked it, crazy to drink. Tom had here a marked instance of the thirst-driven madness now common to the buffalo. This herd, numbering many hundreds, slaked their thirst, and then trooped into a wide flat in the creek bottom, where trees stood here and there. Manifestly they had drunk too deeply, if they had not foundered, for most of them lay down.
“We’ll cross the creek and sneak close on them,” said Tom. “Bring all the cartridges. We might get a stand.”
“What’s that?” whispered Cherry, excitedly.
“It’s what a buffalo-hunter calls a place and time where a big number bunches and can be kept from running off. I never had a stand myself. But I’ve an idea what one’s like.”
They crept on behind trees and brush, down into the wide shallow flat, until they were no farther than a hundred yards from the resting herd. From the way Cherry panted Tom knew he was frightened.
“It is sort of skittish,” whispered Tom, “but if they run our way we can climb a tree.”
“I’m not — scared. It’s — just — great,” rejoined the lad, in a tone that hardly verified his words.
“Crawl slow now, and easy,” said Tom. “A little farther — then we’ll bombard them.”
At last Tom led the youngster yards closer, to a wonderful position behind an uprooted cottonwood, from which they could not be seen. Thrilling indeed was it even for Tom, who had stalked Comanches in this way. Most of the buffalo were down, and those standing were stupid with drowsiness. The heat, and a long parching thirst, then an overcharged stomach, had rendered them loggy.
Tom turned his head to whisper instruction to the lad. Cherry’s face was pale and the freckles stood out prominently. He was trembling with wild eagerness, fear and delight combined. Tom thought it no wonder. Again he smelled the raw scent of buffalo. They made a magnificent sight, an assorted herd of all kinds and ages, from the clean, glossy, newly shedded old bulls down to the red calves.
“Take the bull on your right — farthest out,” whispered Tom. “And I’ll tend to this old stager on my left.”
The big guns boomed. Tom’s bull went to his knees and, grunting loud, fell over; Cherry’s bull wagged his head as if a bee had stung him. Part of the buffalo lying down got up. The old bull, evidently a leader, started off.
“Knock him,” whispered Tom, quickly. “They’ll follow him.” Tom fired almost simultaneously with Cherry, and one or both of them scored a dead shot. The buffalo that had started to follow the bull turned back into the herd, and this seemed to dominate all of them. Most of those standing pressed closer in. Others began to walk stolidly off.
“Shoot the outsiders,” said Tom, quickly. And in three seconds he had stopped as many buffalo. Cherry’s gun boomed, but apparently without execution.
At this juncture Pilchuck rushed up behind them.
“By golly! you’ve got a stand!” he ejaculated, in excited tones for him. “Never seen a better in my life. Now, here, you boys let me do the shootin’. It’s tough on you, but if this stand is handled right we’ll make a killin’.”
“Case like this a fellow wants to shoot straight,” said the scout. “A crippled buff means a bolt.”
Choosing the bull the farthest outside of the herd, Pilchuck aimed with deliberation, and fired. The animal fell. Then he treated the next in the same manner. He was far from hurried, and that explained his deadly precision.
“You mustn’t let your gun get too hot,” he said. “Over-expansion from heat makes a bullet go crooked.”
Pilchuck picked out buffalo slowly walking away and downed them. The herd kept massed, uneasy in some quarters, but for the most part not disturbed by the shooting. Few of those lying down rose to their feet. When the scout had accounted for at least two dozen buffalo he handed his gun to Tom.
“Cool it off an’ wipe it out,” he directed, and taking Tom’s gun returned to his deliberate work.
Tom threw down the breech-block and poured water through the barrel, once, and then presently again. Taking up Pilchuck’s ramrod Tom ran a greasy patch of cloth through the barrel. It was cooling rapidly and would soon be safe to use.
Meanwhile the imperturbable scout was knocking buffalo down as if they had been tenpins. On the side toward him there was soon a corral of dead buffalo. He never missed; only seldom was it necessary to take two shots to an animal. After shooting ten or twelve he returned Tom’s gun and took up his own.
“Best stand I ever saw,” he said. “Queer how buffalo act sometimes. They’re not stupid. They know somethin’ is wrong. But you see I keep knockin’ down the one that leads off.”
Buffalo walked over to dead ones, and sniffed at them, and hooked them with such violence that the contact could be heard. An old bull put something apparently like anger into his actions. Why did not his comrade, or perhaps his mate, get up and come? Some of them looked anxiously round, waiting. Now and then another would walk out of the crowd, and that was fatal for him. Boom! And the heavy bullet would thud solidly; the buffalo would sag or jerk, and then sink down, shot through the heart. Pilchuck was a machine for the collecting of buffalo hides. There were hundreds of hunters like him on the range. Boom! Boom! Boom! boomed out the big fifty.