CHAPTER XIII
THE BUFFALO HUNT
I question if Norse heroes of the sea could boast more thrillingadventure than the wild buffalo hunts of American plain-rangers. Acavalcade of six hundred men mounted on mettlesome horses eager for thefurious dash through a forest of tossing buffalo-horns was quite asimposing as any clash between warring Vikings. Squaws, children and ahorde of ragged camp-followers straggled in long lines far to thehunters' rear. Altogether, the host behind the flag numbered not lessthan two thousand souls. Like any martial column, our squad had captain,color-bearer and chaplain. Luckily, all three were known to me, as Idiscovered when I reached Pembina. The truce, patched up betweenHudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers after Governor McDonell's surrender, leftCuthbert Grant free to join the buffalo hunt. Pursuing big game acrossthe prairie was more to his taste than leading the half-breeds duringpeace. The warden of the plains came hot-foot after us, and was promptlyelected captain of the chase. Father Holland was with us too. Our courselay directly on his way to the Missouri and a jolly chaplain he made. InGrant's company came Pierre, the rhymster, bubbling over with jinglingminstrelsy, that was the delight of every half-breed camp on the plains.Bareheaded, with a red handkerchief banding back his lank hair, and cladin fringed buckskin from the bright neck-cloth to the beaded moccasins,he was as wild a figure as any one of the savage rabble. Yet this wasthe poet of the plain-rangers, who caught the song of bird, the burr ofcataract through the rocks, the throb of stampeding buffalo, the moan ofthe wind across the prairie, and tuned his rude minstrelsy to wildnature's fugitive music. Viking heroes, I know, chanted their deeds insongs that have come down to us; but with the exception of the Eskimo,descendants of North American races have never been credited with ataste for harmony. Once I asked Pierre how he acquired his art ofverse-making. With a laugh of scorn, he demanded if the wind and thewaterfalls and the birds learned music from beardless boys anddraggle-coated dominies with armfuls of books. However, it may have beenwith his Pegasus, his mount for the hunt was no laggard. He rode aknob-jointed, muscular brute, that carried him like poetic inspirationwherever it pleased. Though Pierre's right hand was busied upholding thehunters' flag, and he had but one arm to bow-string the broncho'sarching neck, the half-breed poet kept his seat with the easy grace ofthe plainsman born and bred in the saddle.
"Faith, man, 'tis the fate of genius to ride a fractious steed," saidFather Holland, when the bronchos of priest and poet had come intoviolent collision with angry squeals for the third time in ten minutes.
"And what are the capers of this, my beast, compared to the antics offate, Sir Priest?" asked Pierre with grave dignity.
The wind caught his long hair and blew it about his face till he becamean equestrian personification of the frenzied muse. I had becomeacquainted with his trick of setting words to the music of quaintrhymes; but Father Holland was taken aback.
"By the saints," he exclaimed, "I've no mind to run amuck of Pegasus!I'll get out of your way. Faith, 'tis the first time I've seen poetry inbuckskin of this particular binding," and he wheeled his broncho out,leaving me abreast of the rhymster.
Pierre's lips began to frame some answer to the churchman.
"Have a care, Father," I warned. "You've escaped the broncho; but lookout for the poet."
"Save us! What's coming now?" gasped the priest.
"Ha! I have it!" and Pierre turned triumphantly to Father Holland.
"The Lord be praised that poetry's free, Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone, That beauty's beauty for eyes that see Without regard to a priestly gown----"
"Hold on," interrupted Father Holland. "Hold on, Pierre!"
"'Your double-quick Peg Has a limp of one leg!'
"'Bone' and 'gown' don't fit, Mr. Rhymster."
"Upon my honor! You turned poet, too, Father Holland!" said I. "We mightbe on a pilgrimage to Helicon."
"To where?" says Grant, whose knowledge of classics was less than myown, which was precious little indeed.
"Helicon."
At that Father Holland burst in such roars of laughter, the rhymstertook personal offense, dug his moccasins against the horse's sides androde ahead. His fringed leggings were braced straight out in thestirrups as if he anticipated his broncho transforming the concave intothe convex,--known in the vernacular as "bucking."
"Mad as a hatter," said Grant, inferring the joke was on Pierre. "Lethim be! Let him be! He'll get over it! He's working up his rhymes forthe feast after the buffalo hunt."
And we afterwards got the benefit of those rhymes.
The tenth day west from Pembina our scouts found some herd's footprintson soggy ground. At once word was sent back to pitch camp on rollingland. A cordon of carts with shafts turned outward encircled the campingground. At one end the animals were tethered, at the other the hunter'stents were huddled together. All night mongrel curs, tearing about theenclosure in packs, kept noisy watch. Twice Grant and I went out toreconnoitre. We saw only a whitish wolf scurrying through the longgrass. Grant thought this had disturbed the dogs; but I was not so sure.Indeed, I felt prepared to trace features of Le Grand Diable under everyelk-hide, or wolf-skin in which a cunning Indian could be disguised. Ideemed it wise to have a stronger guard and engaged two runners, RingingThunder and Burnt Earth, giving them horses and ordering them to keepwithin call during the thick of the hunt.
At daybreak all tents were a beehive of activity. The horses, withalmost human intelligence, were wild to be off. Riders could scarcelygain saddles, and before feet were well in the stirrups, the bronchoshad reared and bolted away, only to be reined sharply in and broughtback to the ranks. The dogs, too, were mad, tearing after make-believeenemies and worrying one another till there were several curs less forthe hunt. Inside the cart circle, men were shouting last orders towomen, squaws scolding half-naked urchins, that scampered in the way,and the whole encampment setting up a din that might have scared anybuffalo herd into endless flight. Grant gave the word. Pierre hoistedthe flag, and the camp turmoil was left behind. The _Bois-Brules_ keptwell within the lines and observed good order; but the Indian rabblelashed their half-broken horses into a fury of excitement, thatthreatened confusion to all discipline. The camp was strongly guarded.Father Holland remained with the campers, but in spite of his holycalling, I am sure he longed to be among the hunters.
Scouts ahead, we followed the course of a half-dried slough wherebuffalo tracks were visible. Some two miles from camp, the out-runnersreturned with word that the herds were browsing a short distance ahead,and that the marsh-bed widened to a banked ravine. The buffalo could nothave been found in a better place; for there was a fine slope from theupper land to our game. We at once ascended the embankment and coursedcautiously along the cliff's summit. Suddenly we rounded an abruptheadland and gained full view of the buffalo. The flag was lowered,stopping the march, and up rose our captain in his stirrups to surveythe herd. A light mist screened us and a deep growth of the leatherygrass, common to marsh lands, half hid a multitude of broad, humped,furry backs, moving aimlessly in the valley. Coal-black noses pokedthrough the green stalks sniffing the air suspiciously and the curvedhorns tossed broken stems off in savage contempt.
From the headland beneath us to the rolling prairie at the mouth of thevalley, the earth swayed with giant forms. The great creatures wererestless as caged tigers and already on the rove for the day's march. Isuppose the vast flocks of wild geese, that used to darken the sky andfill the air with their shrill "hunk, hunk," when I first went to thenorth, numbered as many living beings in one mass as that herd; but menno more attempted to count the creatures in flock or herd, than toestimate the pebbles of a shore.
Protruding eyes glared savagely sideways. Great, thick necks hulkedforward in impatient jerks; and those dagger-pointed horns, sharper thana pruning hook, promised no boy's sport for our company. The buffalosees best laterally on the level, and as long as we were quiet weremained undiscovered. At the prospect, some of the hunters grewexc
itedly profane. Others were timorous, fearing a stampede in ourdirection. Being above, we could come down on the rear of the buffaloesand they would be driven to the open.
Grant scouted the counseled caution. The hunters loaded guns, filledtheir mouths with balls to reload on the gallop and awaited thecaptain's order. Wheeling his horse to the fore, the warden gave onequick signal. With a storm-burst of galloping hoofs, we charged down theslope. At sound of our whirlwind advance, the bulls tossed up theirheads and began pawing the ground angrily. From the hunters there was noshouting till close on the herd, then a wild halloo with unearthlyscreams from the Indians broke from our company. The buffaloes startedup, turned panic-stricken, and with bellowings, that roared down thevalley, tore for the open prairie. The ravine rocked with the plungingmonsters, and reechoed to the crash of six-hundred guns and athunderous tread. Firing was at close range. In a moment there was abattle royal between dexterous savages, swift as tigers, and theseleviathans of the prairie with their brute strength.
A quick fearless horse was now invaluable; for the swiftest ridersdarted towards the large buffaloes and rode within a few yards beforetaking aim. Instantly, the ravine was ablaze with shots. Showers ofarrows from the Indian hunters sung through the air overhead. Menunhorsed, ponies thrown from their feet, buffaloes wounded--ordead--were scattered everywhere. One angry bull gored furiously at hisassailant, ripping his horse from shoulder to flank, then, maddened bythe creature's blood, and before a shot from a second hunter brought himdown, caught the rider on its upturned horns and tossed him high. Bykeeping deftly to the fore, where the buffalo could not see, andswerving alternately from side to side as the enraged animals struckforward, trained horses avoided side thrusts. The saddle-girths of onehunter, heading a buffalo from the herd, gave way as he was leaning overto send a final ball into the brute's head. Down he went, shouldersforemost under its nose, while the horse, with a deft leap cleared thevicious drive of horns. Strange to say, the buffalo did not see where hefell and galloped onward. Carcasses were mowed down like felled trees;but still we plunged on and on, pursuing the racing herd; while theground shook in an earthquake under stampeding hoofs.
I had forgotten time, place, danger--everything in the mad chase and washard after a savage old warrior that outraced my horse. Gradually Irounded him closer to the embankment. My broncho was blowing, almostwind-spent, but still I dug the spurs into him, and was only a fewlengths behind the buffalo, when the wily beast turned. With head down,eyes on fire and nostrils blood-red, he bore straight upon me. Mybroncho reared, then sprang aside. Leaning over to take sure aim, Ifired, but a side jerk unbalanced me. I lost my stirrup and sprawled inthe dust. When I got to my feet, the buffalo lay dead and my broncho wastrotting back. Hunters were still tearing after the disappearing herd.Riderless horses, mad with the smell of blood and snorting at everyflash of powder, kept up with the wild race. Little Fellow, La RobeNoire, Burnt Earth, and Ringing Thunder, had evidently been left in therear; for look where I might I could not see one of my four Indians.Near me two half-breeds were righting their saddles. I also wastightening the girths, which was not an easy matter with my excitedbroncho prancing round in a circle. Suddenly there was the whistle ofsomething through the air overhead, like a catapult stone, or recoilingwhip-lash. The same instant one of the half-breeds gave an upward tossof both arms and, with a piercing shriek, fell to the ground. The fellowcaught at his throat and from his bared chest protruded an arrow shaft.
I heard his terrified comrade shout, "The Sioux! the Sioux!" Then hefled in a panic of fear, not knowing where he was going and staggeringas he ran; and I saw him pitch forward face downwards. I had barelyrealized what had happened and what it all meant, before an exultantshout broke from the high grass above the embankment. At that my horsegave a plunge and, wrenching the rein from my grasp, galloped offleaving me to face the hostiles. Half a score of Indians scrambled downthe cliff and ran to secure the scalps of the dead. Evidently I had notbeen seen; but if I ran I should certainly be discovered and a Sioux'sarrow can overtake the swiftest runner. I was looking hopelessly aboutfor some place of concealment, when like a demon from the earth ahorseman, scarlet in war-paint appeared not a hundred yards away.Brandishing his battle-axe, he came towards me at furious speed. Withweapons in hand I crouched as his horse approached; and the fool mistookmy action for fear. White teeth glistened and he shrieked with derisivelaughter. I knew that sound. Back came memory of Le Grand Diablestanding among the shadows of a forest camp-fire, laughing as I struckhim.
The Indian swung his club aloft. I dodged abreast of his horse to avoidthe blow. With a jerk he pulled the animal back on its haunches. Quick,when it rose, I sent a bullet to its heart. It lurched sideways, rearedstraight up and fell backwards with Le Grand Diable under. The fallknocked battle-axe and club from his grasp; and when his horse rolledover in a final spasm, two men were instantly locked in a death clutch.The evil eyes of the Indian glared with a fixed look of uncowed hatredand the hands of the other tightened on the redman's throat. Diable wassnatching at a knife in his belt, when the cries of my Indians rang outclose at hand. Their coming seemed to renew his strength; for with thefull weight of an antagonist hanging from his neck, the willowy formsquirmed first on his knees, then to his feet. But my men dashed up,knocked his feet from under him and pinioned him to the ground. La RobeNoire, with the blood-lust of his race, had a knife unsheathed and wouldhave finished Diable's career for good and all; but Little Fellow struckthe blade from his hand. That murderous attempt cost poor La Robe Noiredearly enough in the end.
Hare-skin thongs of triple ply were wound about Diable's crossed armsfrom wrists to elbows. Burnt Earth gagged the knave with his ownmoccasin, while Ringing Thunder and Little Fellow quickly roped him neckand ankles to the fore and hind shanks of the dead buffalo. This time mywily foe should remain in my power till I had rescued Miriam.
"_Monsieur! Monsieur!_" gasped Little Fellow as he rose from putting alast knot to our prisoner's cords. "The Sioux!" and he pointed in alarmto the cliff.
True, in my sudden conflict, I had forgotten about the marauding Sioux;but the fellows had disappeared from the field of the buffalo hunt andit was to the embankment that my Indians were anxiously looking. Threethin smoke lines were rising from the prairie. I knew enough of Indianlore to recognize this tribal signal as a warning to the Sioux band ofsome misfortune. Was Miriam within range of those smoke signals? Now wasmy opportunity. I could offer Diable in exchange for the Sioux captives.Meanwhile, we had him secure. He would not be found till the hunt wasover and the carts came for the skins.
Mounting the broncho, which Little Fellow had caught and brought back, Iordered the Indians to get their horses and follow; and I rode up to thelevel prairie. Against the southern horizon shone the yellow birch of awigwam. Vague movements were apparent through the long grass, from whichwe conjectured the raiders were hastening back with news of Diable'scapture. We must reach the Sioux camp before these messengers causedanother mysterious disappearing of this fugitive tribe.
We whipped our horses to a gallop. Again thin smoke lines arose from theprairie and simultaneously the wigwam began to vanish. I had almostconcluded the tepee was one of those delusive mirages which lead prairieriders on fools' errands, when I descried figures mounting ponies wherethe peaked camp had stood. At this we lashed our horses to faster pace.The Sioux galloped off and more smoke lines were rising.
"What do those mean, Little Fellow?" I asked; for there was smoke in adozen places ahead.
"The prairie's on fire, _Monsieur_! The Sioux have put burnt stick indry grass! The wind--it blow--it come hard--fast--fast this way!" andall four Indians reined up their horses as if they would turn.
"Coward Indians," I cried. "Go on! Who's put off the trail by the fireof a fool Sioux? Get through the fire before it grows big, or it willcatch you all and burn you to a crisp."
The gathering smoke was obscuring the fugitives and my Indians stillhung back. Where the Indian refuses to be coerced, he ma
y be won byreward, or spurred by praise of bravery.
"Ten horses to the brave who catches a Sioux!" I shouted. "Come on,Indians! Who follows? Is the Indian less brave than the pale face?" andwe all dashed forward, spurring our hard-ridden horses without mercy.Each Indian gave his horse the bit. Beating them over the head, theycraned flat over the horses' necks to lessen resistance to the air. Aboisterous wind was fanning the burning grass to a great tide of firethat rolled forward in forked tongues; but beyond the flames werefigures of receding riders; and we pressed on. Cinders rained on us likeliquid fire, scorching and maddening our horses; but we never paused.The billowy clouds of smoke that rolled to meet us were blinding, andthe very atmosphere, livid and quivering with heat, seemed to become afiery fluid that enveloped and tortured us. Involuntarily, as we drewnearer and nearer the angry fire-tide, my hand was across my mouth toshut out the hot burning air; but a man must breathe, and the nextintake of breath blistered one's chest like live coals on raw flesh.Little wonder our poor beasts uttered that pitiful scream against pain,which is the horse's one protest of suffering. Presently, they becamewildly unmanageable; and when we dismounted to blindfold them and muffletheir heads in our jackets, they crowded and trembled against us in afrenzy of terror. Then we tied strips torn from our clothing across ourown mouths and, remounting, beat the frantic creatures forward. I haveoften marveled at the courage of those four Indians. For me, there wasincentive enough to dare everything to the death. For them, what motivebut to vindicate their bravery? But even bravery in its perfection hasthe limitation of physical endurance; and we had now reached the limitof what we could endure and live. The fire wave was crackling andlicking up everything within a few paces of us. Live brands fell thickas a rain of fire. The flames were not crawling in the insidious line ofthe prairie fire when there is no wind, but the very heat of the airseemed to generate a hurricane and the red wave came forward in leapsand bounds, reaching out cloven fangs that hissed at us like an army ofserpents. I remember wondering in a half delirium whether parts ofDante's hell could be worse. With the instinctive cry to heaven forhelp, of human-kind world over, I looked above; but there was only agreat pitchy dome with glowing clouds rolling and heaving and tossingand blackening the firmament. Then I knew we must choose one of threethings, a long detour round the fire-wave, one dash through theflames--or death. I shouted to the men to save themselves; but BurntEarth and Ringing Thunder had already gone off to skirt the near end ofthe fire-line. Little Fellow and La Robe Noire stuck staunchly by me. Weall three paused, facing death; and the Indians' horses trembled closeto my broncho till I felt the burn of hot stirrups against both ankles.Our buckskin was smoking in a dozen places. There was a lull of thewind, and I said to myself, "The calm before the end; the next hurricaneburst and those red demon claws will have us." But in the momentarylull, a place appeared through the trough of smoke billows, where thegrass was green and the fire-barrier breached. With a shout and headsdown, we dashed towards this and vaulted across the flaming wall, ourhorses snorting and screaming with pain as we landed on the smoking turfof the other side. I gulped a great breath of the fresh air into mysuffocating lungs, tore the buckskin covering from my broncho's head andwe raced on in a swirl of smoke, always following the dust whichrevealed the tracks of the retreating Sioux. There was a whiff of singedhair, as if one of the horses had been burnt, and Little Fellow gave ashout. Looking back I saw his horse sinking on the blackened patch; butLa Robe Noire and I rode on. The fugitives were ascending rising groundto the south. They were beating their horses in a rage of cruelty; butwe gained at every pace. I counted twenty riders. A woman seemed to bestrapped to one horse. Was this Miriam? We were on moist grass and Iurged La Robe Noire to ride faster and drove spurs in my own beast,though I felt him weakening under me. The Sioux had now reached thecrest of the hill. Our horses were nigh done, and to jade the faggedcreatures up rising ground was useless.
When we finally reached the height, the Sioux were far down in thevalley. It was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. Ah! It is easyto face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! But thehardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable,to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity!
I still had Diable in my power. We headed about and crawled slowly backby unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters.
Little Fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. Burnt Earth andRinging Thunder awaited us near the ravine. The carts were already outgathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. We made what poor speed wecould among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left Le GrandDiable. It was Little Fellow, who was hobbling ahead, and the Indiansuddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, I knew it bodedmisfortune. Running forward, I could hardly believe my eyes. Fools thatwe were to leave the captive unguarded! The great buffalo layunmolested; but there was no Le Grand Diable. A third time had hevanished as if in league with the powers of the air. Closer examinationexplained his disappearance. A wet, tattered moccasin, with theappearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. He had evidentlybitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away thehare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed hishands, untied himself and escaped.
Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counselwith Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on theMissouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory.The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year.Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep trackof the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.
Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could notclose my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I hadno heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their greatsuccess. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and Iheard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast.With hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, thelast cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat andskins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one wasbusily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animalgreed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well mightthey gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would followa winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the campwas laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for theywere either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled fromgluttony at their masters' tents.
Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans andplastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voicesof the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chantingthe song of the buffalo hunt:
Now list to the song of the buffalo hunt, Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave! We are _Bois-Brules_, Freemen of the plains, We choose our chief! We are no man's slave!
Up, riders, up, ere the early mist Ascends to salute the rising sun! Up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds Sniff morning air for the hunter's gun!
They lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass, Down in the gorge, where the prairie dips. We've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze, Where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips.
We've followed their tracks from the rolling plain Through slime-green sloughs to a sedgy ravine, Where the cat-tail spikes of the marsh-grown flags Stand half as high as the billowy green.
The spear-grass touched our saddle-bows, The blade-points pricked to the broncho's neck; But we followed the tracks like hounds on scent Till our horses reared with a sudden check.
The scouts dart back with a shout, "They are found!" Great fur-maned heads are thrust through reeds, A forest of horns, a crunching of stems, Reined sheer on their haunches are terrified steeds!
Get you gone to the squaws at the tents, old men, The cart-lines sa
fely encircle the camp! Now, braves of the plain, brace your saddle-girths! Quick! Load guns, for our horses champ!
A tossing of horns, a pawing of hoofs, But the hunters utter never a word, As the stealthy panther creeps on his prey, So move we in silence against the herd.
With arrows ready and triggers cocked, We round them nearer the valley bank; They pause in defiance, then start with alarm At the ominous sound of a gun-barrel's clank.
A wave from our captain, out bursts a wild shout, A crash of shots from our breaking ranks, And the herd stampedes with a thunderous boom While we drive our spurs into quivering flanks.
The arrows hiss like a shower of snakes, The bullets puff in a smoky gust, Out fly loose reins from the bronchos' bits And hunters ride on in a whirl of dust.
The bellowing bulls rush blind with fear Through river and marsh, while the trampled dead Soon bridge safe ford for the plunging herd; Earth rocks like a sea 'neath the mighty tread.
A rip of the sharp-curved sickle-horns, A hunter falls to the blood-soaked ground! He is gored and tossed and trampled down, On dashes the furious beast with a bound,
When over sky-line hulks the last great form And the rumbling thunder of their hoofs' beat, beat, Dies like an echo in distant hills, Back ride the hunters chanting their feat.
Now, old men and squaws, come you out with the carts! There's meat against hunger and fur against cold! Gather full store for the pemmican bags, Garner the booty of warriors bold.
So list ye the song of the _Bois-Brules_, Of their glorious deeds in the days of old, And this is the tale of the buffalo hunt Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, have proudly told.