“Only when they’re about helpless—wounded or old, you know, then they will. What they wolves is waiting for is for the young calves—little, helpless sort of things that are always being left behind as the great drove goes feeding on over the plains; and if you watch a drove, you’ll every now and then find a calf lying down, and its mother trying to coax it to get up and follow the others, while the old cow keeps mooing and making no end of a noise, and cocking up her tail, and making little sets of charges at the wolves to drive them back whenever they get too near. Ah, it’s a rum sight to see the lank, fierce, hungry beasts licking their chops, and thinking every now and then that they’ve got the calf, for the old mother keeps going off a little way to try and make the stupid cow baby get up and follow. Then the wolves make a rush, and so does the buffalo, and away go the hungry beggars, for a wolf is about as cowardly a thing as ever run on four legs, that he is.”
“I should like to see a sight like that, Joses,” said Bart; “how I would shoot at the wolves!”
“What for?” said Joses.
“What for? Why, because they must be such cowardly, cruel beasts, to try and kill the calves.”
“So are we cowardly, cruel beasts, then,” said Joses, philosophically. “Wolves want to live same as humans, and it’s all their nature. If they didn’t kill and keep down the buffler, the country would be all buffler, and there wouldn’t be room for a man to walk. It’s all right, I tell you; wolves kills buffler for food, and so do we. Why, you never thought, praps, how bufflers fill up the country in some parts. I’ve seen droves of ’em miles upon miles long, and if it wasn’t for the wolves and the Injun, as I said afore, there wouldn’t be room for anything else.”
“Are there so many as you say, Joses?” asked Bart.
“Not now, my lad. There used to be, but they’ve been killed down a deal. You see the Injun lives on ’em a’most. He cuts up and dries the beef, and he makes himself buffler robes of the skins, and very nice warm things they are in cold parts up in the mountains. I don’t know what the Injun would do if it wasn’t for the buffler. He’d starve. Not as that would be so very much consequence, as far as some tribes goes—Comanches and Apachés, and them sort as lives by killing and murdering every one they sees. Halloa! what’s that mean?”
He pulled up, and shaded his eyes with his hand, to gaze at where one of the Indians was evidently making some sign with his spear as he sat in a peculiar way, right on their extreme left, upon an eminence in the plain.
Bart looked eagerly on, so as to try and learn what this signal meant.
“Oh, I know,” said Joses directly, as he saw the Beaver make his horse circle round. “He can see a herd far out on the plain, and the Beaver has just signalled him back; so ride on, my lad, and we may perhaps come across a big run of the rough ones before the day is out.”
* * *
Chapter Twenty Five.
Bart’s first Bison.
Joses was wrong, for no sign was seen of buffalo that day, and so the next morning, after a very primitive kind of camp out in the wilderness, the Beaver took them in quite a different direction, parallel to the camp, so as to be within range, for distance had to be remembered in providing meat for so large a company.
It was what Joses called ticklish work.
“You must keep your eyes well skinned, Master Bart,” he said, with a grim smile, as they left the plain for an undulating country, full of depressions, most of which contained water, and whose gentle hills were covered with succulent buffalo-grass. “If you don’t, my lad, you may find yourself dropping down on to a herd of Apachés instead of buffaloes; and I can tell you, young fellow, that a buck Injun’s a deal worse thing to deal with than a bull buffler. You must keep a sharp look-out.”
“I’ll do the best I can, Joses, you may be sure; but suppose I should come upon an Indian party—what am I to do?”
“Do, my lad? Why, make tracks as sharp as ever you can to your friends—that is, if you are alone.”
“But if I can’t get away, and they shoot at me?”
“Well, what do you mean?” said Joses, dryly.
“I mean what am I to do if I am in close quarters, and feel that they will kill me?”
“Oh,” said Joses, grimly, “I should pull up short, and go up to them and give them my hatchet, and rifle, and knife, and say to ’em that you hope they won’t be so wicked as to kill you, for you are very fond of Injun, and think ’em very nice; and then you’ll see they’ll be as pleased as pleased, and they’ll make such a fuss over you.”
“Do you mean that, Joses?”
“Mean it, my lad? to be sure I do. A friend of mine did so, just as I’ve told you, for he was afraid to fight.”
“And did the Indians make a fuss over him?” asked Bart.
“To be sure they did, my lad; they took his weppuns, and then they set him on his knees, and pulled all the hair off his head to make an ornament for one of their belts, and then, because he hollered out and didn’t like it, they took their lariats and tethering pegs, and after fixing the pegs in the ground, they put a rope round each of his ankles and his wrists, and spread-eagled him out tight, and then they lit a fire to warm themselves, for it was a very cold day.”
“What!” cried Bart, looking aghast at his companion, who was evidently bantering him.
“Oh no, not to roast him,” said Joses, laughing; “they didn’t mean that. They lit the fire on purpose to warm themselves; and where do you think they lit it?”
“In a hole in the ground,” said Bart.
“No, my boy; they lit it on that poor fellow’s chest, and kept it burning there fiercely, and sat round it and warmed themselves; and the more that poor wretch shrieked for mercy, the more they laughed.”
“Joses, it’s too horrid to believe,” cried Bart.
“Well, it does sound too horrid; don’t it, eh? But it’s the simple, honest truth, my boy, for some of they Injuns is regular demons, and stop at nothing. They do any mortal thing under the sun to a white.”
“Then you would not surrender?” said Bart.
“Surrender? What! to an Indian? Not till I hadn’t got a bit o’ life in my body, my lad. Not before.”
“But would you have me turn upon them and shoot them, Joses?” said the lad, with all a boy’s horror of shedding blood.
“Bart, my lad,” said Joses, holding out his rough hand, which the boy readily grasped, “if you ask me for a bit of advice, as one who knows pretty well what unfriendly Injun is, I’ll give it to you.”
“I do ask it, Joses, for it horrifies me to think of trying to take a man’s life.”
“Of course it does, my lad; so it used to me. But here’s my bit of advice for you:—Whenever you meet Injun, don’t trust ’em till they’re proved to be of the right grit. Don’t hurt a hair of any one of their heads, and always be honest in dealing with them. But if it comes to fighting, and you see they mean your life, fight for it like a man. Show ’em that an English boy has got a man’s heart, only it’s young, and not full growed. Never give up, for recklect that if the Injuns get hold of you it means death—horrible death—while if you fight you may beat ’em, and if you don’t it’s only death all the same.”
“But it seems so dreadful to shoot at a man, knowing that you may kill him.”
“So it does, my lad, but it’s ever so much more dreadful for them to shoot at you. They’ve only got to leave you alone and it’s all right.”
Just then the Beaver came cantering up to them, gently lying right down upon his horse.
“Jump off, Master Bart,” cried Joses; “there’s buffler in sight, and we don’t want to scare ’em.”
Setting the example, he slid from his horse, and stood behind it, Bart imitating his acts, and they waited there till the Beaver came up, and pointed towards an opening in the distance, where, for the moment, Bart could see nothing; but watching attentively, he soon made out what seemed to be a dark patch moving slowly towards them.
“Are tho
se bison?” he whispered to Joses; though the objects at which he gazed were miles away.
“No, they aren’t,” growled Joses; “them’s buffler, and they’re a feeding steadily on in this way, so that we shall be able to get a good few, I hope, and p’r’aps drive two or three a long way on towards the camp, so as to save carrying them there.”
“May we ride up to them now?” cried Bart.
“I ain’t going to have anything to do with the hunt,” cried Joses, grimly. “Let the Beaver do it all; he’s used to it. I haven’t had anything to do with buffler-hunting for a many years.”
“Are the bulls very dangerous?” said Bart then. “I mean may I ride pretty close up to one without getting gored?”
“They ain’t half so dangerous as our own bulls used to be down at the ranche, my lad, and not a quarter so dangerous as them that have taken to a wild life after jumping out of the corral.”
By this time the Beaver had signalled his followers to approach, and after giving them some instructions, they all rode off together into a bit of a valley, the Beaver and his English companions following them, so that in a few minutes they were out of sight of the approaching herd of buffalo, which came steadily on in profound ignorance of there being enemies in their neighbourhood.
The country was admirably adapted for a hunt, the ground being unencumbered by anything larger than a scrubby kind of brush, while its many shallow valleys gave the hunters ample opportunity for riding unseen until they had reached a favourable situation for their onslaught.
The Beaver was evidently a thorough expert in such a hunt as this, for he kept on dismounting and making observations, directing his followers here and there, and often approaching pretty near, making retrograde movements, so as to bring them forward again in a more satisfactory position.
His last arrangement was to place his following in couples about a hundred yards apart, parallel with the line of march of the herd, which was still invisible to Bart, though on the other side of the ridge in whose valley he sheltered he could hear a strange snorting noise every now and then, and a low angry bellow.
“We’re to wait his signal, Master Bart, and then ride up the slope here, and go right at the buffler. Don’t be afraid, my lad, but pick out the one you mean to have, and then stick to him till you’ve brought him down with a bullet right through his shoulder.”
“I’ll try not to be afraid, Joses,” said Bart; “but I can’t help feeling a bit excited.”
“You wouldn’t be good for much if you didn’t, my boy,” said the frontiersman. “Now then, be ready. Is your rifle all right?”
“Yes.”
“Mind then: ride close up to your bull, and as he gallops off you gallop too, till you reach out with your rifle in one hand and fire.”
“But am I to ride right up to the herd, Joses?”
“To be sure you are, my boy. Don’t you be afraid, I tell you. It’s only getting over it the first time. Just you touch Black Boy with your heels, and he’ll take you right in between a couple of the bulls, so that you can almost reach them on each side. Then you’ll find they’ll begin to edge off on both sides, and get farther and farther away, when, as I told you before, you must stick to one till you’ve got him down.”
“Poor brute!” said Bart, gently.
“Poor stuff!” cried Joses. “We must have meat, mustn’t we? You wouldn’t say poor salmon or poor sheep because it had to be killed. Look out. Here we go.”
For the Beaver had made a quick signal, and in a moment the hunting party began to ascend the slope leading to the ridge, beyond which Bart knew that the bison were feeding, and most probably in a similar depression to the one in which the horsemen had been hidden.
“Look out for yourself,” said Joses, raising his rifle; and nerving himself for the encounter, and wondering whether he really was afraid or no, Bart pressed his little cob’s sides with his heels, making it increase its pace, while he, the rider, determined to dash boldly into the herd just as he had been told.
At that moment Bart’s courage had a severe trial, for it seemed as if by magic that a huge bull suddenly appeared before him, the monster having trotted heavily to the top of the ridge, exactly opposite to Bart, and, not ten yards apart, the latter and the bull stopped short to gaze at each other.
“What a monster!” thought Bart, bringing his rifle to bear upon the massive head, with the tremendous shoulders covered with long coarse shaggy hair, while the short curved horns and great glowing eyes gave the bull so ferocious an aspect that upon first acquaintance it was quite excusable that Bart’s heart should quail and his hands tremble as he took aim, for the animal did not move.
Just then Bart remembered that Joses had warned him not to fire at the front of a bison.
“He’d carry away half-a-dozen balls, my lad, and only die miserably afterwards in the plain. What you’ve got to do is to put a bullet in a good place and bring him down at once. That’s good hunting. It saves powder and lead, makes sure of the meat, and don’t hurt the buffler half so much.”
So Bart did not fire, but sat there staring up at the bull, and the bull stood above him pawing the ground, snorting furiously, and preparing himself for a charge.
Truth must be told. If Bart had been left to himself on this his first meeting with a bison, especially as the beast looked so threatening, he would have turned and fled. But as it happened, he was not left to himself, for Black Boy did not share his rider’s tremor. He stood gazing warily up at the bull for a few moments, and then, having apparently made up his mind that there was not much cause for alarm, and that the bison was a good deal of a big bully without a great deal of bravery under his shaggy hide, he began to move slowly up the slope, taking his master with him, to Bart’s horror and consternation.
“He’ll charge at and roll us over and over down the slope,” thought Bart, as he freed his feet from the stirrups, ready to leap off and avoid being crushed beneath his nag.
Nine yards—eight yards—six yards—closer and closer, and the bison did not charge. Then so near that the monster’s eyes seemed to flame, and still nearer and nearer, with the great animal tossing its head, and making believe to lower it and tear up the earth with one horn.
“If he don’t run we must,” thought Bart, at last, as Black Boy slowly and cautiously took him up to within a yard of the shaggy beast, whose bovine breath Bart could smell now as he tossed his head.
Then, all at once, the great fellow wheeled round and thundered down the slope, while, as if enjoying the discomfiture, Black Boy made a bound, cleared the ridge, and descended the other slope at full gallop close to the bison’s heels.
All Bart’s fear went in the breeze that swept by him. He felt ready to shout with excitement, for the valley before him seemed to be alive with bison, all going along at a heavy lumbering gallop, with Joses and the Indians in full pursuit, and all as much excited as he.
His instructions were to ride right in between two of the bison, single out one of them, and to keep to him till he dropped; and Bart saw nothing but the huge drove on ahead, with the monstrous bull whose acquaintance he had made thundering on between him and the main body.
“I must keep to him,” thought Bart; “and I will, till I have shot him down.”
“If I can,” he added a few minutes later, as he kept on in the exciting chase.
How long it lasted he could not tell, nor how far they went. All he knew was that after a long ride the bull nearly reached the main body; and once mingled with them, Bart felt that he must lose him.
But this did not prove to be the case, for Black Boy had had too good a training with cattle-driving. He had been a bit astonished at the shaggy hair about the bison’s front, but it did not trouble him much; and without being called upon by spur or blow, no sooner did the bison plunge into the ranks of his fellows as they thundered on, than the gallant little horse made three or four bounds, and rushed close up to his haunch, touching him and the bison on his left, with the result that
both of the shaggy monsters edged off a little, giving way so that Bart was carried right in between them, and, as Joses had suggested, there was one moment when he could literally have kicked the animals on either side of his little horse.
That only lasted for a moment, though; for both of the bison began to edge away, with the result that the opening grew wider and wider, while, remembering enough of his lesson, Bart kept close to the bull’s flank, Black Boy never flinching for a moment; and at last the drove had scattered, so that the young hunter found himself almost all alone on the plain, going at full speed beside his shaggy quarry, the rest of the herd having left him to his fate.
And now the bull began to grow daring, making short rushes at horse and rider, but they were of so clumsy a nature that Black Boy easily avoided them, closing in again in the most pertinacious manner upon the bull’s flanks as soon as the charge was ended.
All at once Bart remembered that there was something else to be done, and that he was not to go on riding beside the bison, but to try and shoot it.
Easier said than done, going at full gallop, but he brought his rifle to bear, and tried to get a good aim, but could not; for it seemed as if the muzzle were either jerked up towards the sky or depressed towards the ground.
He tried again and again, but could not make sure of a shot, so, checking his steed a little, he allowed the bison to get a few yards ahead, and then galloped forward till he was well on the right side, where he could rest the rifle upon his horse’s withers, and, waiting his time, get a good shot.
It might have been fired into the earth for all the effect it had, save to produce an angry charge, and it was the same with a couple more shots. Then, all at once, as Bart was re-loading, the poor brute suddenly stood still, panting heavily, made an effort to charge the little horse, stopped, ploughed up the ground with its right horn, and then shivered and fell over upon its flank—dead.
Bart leaped from his horse in his excitement, and, running to the bison, jumped upon its shaggy shoulder, took off his cap, waved it above his head, and uttered a loud cheer.
The Silver Canyon Page 16