The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest including character, scenery, and rural sports |
 | PICTURES OF BUFFALO HUNTING. |
 | The mysteries of the backwoods, or, Sketches of
the Southwest |  |
PICTURES OF BUFFALO HUNTING.
The buffalo is decidedly one of the noblest victims
that is sacrificed to the ardour of the sportsman. There
is a massiveness about his form, and a magnificence
associated with his home, that give him a peculiar
interest. No part of North America was originally
unoccupied by the buffalo. Where are now cities
and towns, is remembered as their haunts; but they
have kept with melancholy strides before the “march
of civilization,” and now find a home, daily more
exposed and invaded, only on that division of our
continent west of the Mississippi. In the immense
wilds that give birth to the waters of the Missouri,
on the vast prairies that stretch out like inland seas
between the “great lakes” and the Pacific, and extend
towards the tropics until they touch the foot
of the Cordilleras, the buffalo roams still wild and
free. Yet the day of his glory is past. The Anglo-Saxon,
more wanton of place than the savage himself,
possessed of invincible courage and unlimited
resources, and feeling adventure a part of life itself,
has already penetrated the remotest fastnesses, and
wandered over the most extended plains. Where
the live lightning leaps from rock to rock, opening
yawning caverns to the dilating eye, or spends its
fury upon the desert, making it a sheet of fire, there
smarted beneath his prowess, and kissed the earth.
The child of fortune from the “old world,” the
favourite of courts, has abandoned his home and affections,
and sought, among these western wilds, the
enjoyment of nature in her own loveliness. The
American hunter frolics over them as a boy enjoying
his Saturday sport. The Indian, like his fathers,
never idle, scours the mountain and the plain; and
men of whatever condition here meet equal, as
sportsmen, and their great feats of honour and of
arms are at the sacrifice of the buffalo.
In their appearance, the buffalos present a singular
mixture of the ferocious and comical. At a first
glance they excite mirth; they appear to be the
sleek-blooded kine, so familiar to the farm-yard,
muffled about the shoulders in a coarse shawl, and
wearing a mask and beard, as if in some outlandish
disguise. Their motions, too, are novel. They dash
off, tail up, shaking their great woolly heads, and
planting their feet under them, with a swinging gait
and grotesque precision, that suggests the notion,
that they are a jolly set of dare-devils, fond of fun
and extravagances, and disposed to have their jokes
at the expense of all dignity of carriage, and the
good opinion of the grave portion of the world.
Upon nearer examination, you quail before the deep
destructive instinct expressed in the eye; the shaggy
mane distends, and shows the working of muscles
fairly radiant with power; the fore-foot dashes into
the hard turf, and furrows it, as if yielding water;
the tail waves in angry curves; the eyeballs fill
like the thunder, the white foam covers the shaggy
jaws. Then the huge form grows before you into
a mountain, then is animal sublimity before you, a
world of appetite without thought, and force without
reason.
Standing on one of the immense prairies of the
“south-west,” you look out upon what seems to be
the green waving swell of the sea, suddenly congealed,
and it requires but little fancy to imagine,
when the storm-cloud sweeps over it, and the rain
dashes in torrents against it, and the fierce winds
bear down upon it, that the magic that holds it immovable
may be broken, and leave you helpless on
the billowy wave. On such an expanse, sublime
from its immensity, roams the buffalo, in numbers
commensurate with the extent, not unfrequently
covering the landscape, until their diminishing forms
mingle in the opposite horizons, like mocking
spectres. Such is the arena of sport, and such in
quantity is the game.
To the wild Indian the buffalo hunt awakens the
soul as absorbingly as the defying yell on the war-path.
With inflated nostril and distended eye, he
dashes after his victim, revelling in the fruition of
all the best hopes of his existence, and growing in
his conceits of his favour with the “Great Spirit.”
To the rude white hunter, less imaginative than the
savage, the buffalo hunt is the high consummation
of his habit and power to destroy. It gratifies his
ambition, and feasts his appetite; his work is tangible;
he feels, hears, tastes, and sees it; it is the very unloosing
the conscience entirely at rest. To the “sportsman,”
who is matured in the constraint of cities and in the
artificial modes of enlightened society, and who retains
within his bosom the leaven of our coarser nature,
the buffalo hunt stirs up the latent fires repressed by
a whole life; they break out with an ardour, and
he enters into the chase with an abandonment, that,
while it gratifies every animal sense possessed by
the savage and hunter, opens a thousand other
avenues of high enjoyment known only to the cultivated
and refined mind.
INDIAN BUFFALO HUNTERS.
Among the Indians there are but few ways to
kill the buffalo; yet there are tribes who display
more skill than others, and seem to bring more intellect
to bear in the sport. The Cumanches in the
south, and the Sioux in the north, are, from their
numbers, warlike character, and wealth, among the
aborigines, the buffalo hunters. The Cumanches in
winter inhabit one of the loveliest countries in the
world. While their summer haunts are covered
with snow, and desolated with storm, they are
travelling over the loveliest herbage, variegated with
a thousand perfumed flowers, that yield fragrance
under the crush of the foot. The wide savannas,
that are washed by the Trinity and Brasos rivers,
are everywhere variegated with clumps of live oak
trees, among which you involuntarily look for the
mansion of some feudal lord. Here are realized almost
and here the Cumanches, strong in numbers, and
rich in the spontaneous productions of their native
land, walk proud masters, and exhibit savage
life in some of the illusive charms we throw around
it while bringing a refined imagination to view such
life in the distance. Thousands of this tribe of
Indians will sometimes be engaged at one time in a
buffalo hunt. In their wanderings about the prairies,
they will leave trails, worn like a long-travelled
road. Following the “scouts,” until the vicinity
of the animal is proclaimed, and then selecting a
halting place, favourable for fuel and water, the
ceremonies preparatory to a hunt take place. Then
are commenced, with due solemnity, the prayers of
the priests. The death-defying warrior, who curls
his finger in his scalp-lock in derision before his
enemies, bows in submission to the Invisible presence
that bestows on the red man the great game
he is about to destroy. The fastings, prayers, and
self-sacrifices being finished, the lively excitement
of the chase commences.
The morning sun greets the hunter divested of
all unnecessary clothing, his arrows numbered, his
harness in order; a plume floats from his crown,
his long hair streams down his back, his well-trained
horse, as wild as himself, anticipates the
sport, and paws with impatience the ground. Far,
far in the horizon are moving about, in black masses,
the game; and with an exulting whoop, a party
starts off with the wind, dash across the prairie, and
are soon out of sight.
The buffalo is a wary animal; unwieldy as he
appears, he has a quick motion, and he takes the
alarm, and at the approach of a human being, instinctively
flies. An hour or two may elapse, when
the distant masses of buffalo begin to move. There
is evident alarm spreading through the ranks. Suddenly
they fly! Then it is that thousands of fleet
and impatient horsemen, like messengers of the
wind, dash off and meet the herds. The party first
sent out are pressing them in the rear; confusion
seizes upon the alarmed animals, and they scatter in
every direction over the plain. Now the hunters
select their victims, and the blood is up. On speeds
the Indian and his horse. The long mane mingles
with the light garments of the rider, and both seem
instigated by the same instinct and spirit. On
plunges the unwieldy object of pursuit, shaking his
shaggy head, as if in despair of his safety. The
speed of the horse soon overtakes the buffalo. The
rider, dropping his rein, plucks an arrow from his
quiver, presses his knees to the horse's sides, draws
his bow, and with unerring aim, drives the delicate
shaft into the vitals of the huge animal, who rushes
on a few yards, curls his tail upwards, falters, falls
on his face, and dies. An exulting shout announces
the success, and the warrior starts off after another;
and if he has performed his task well, every bow that
has twanged marks the ownership of a huge carcass
upon the sea of the prairie, as sacredly as the
waiffe of the whaleman his victim on the sea itself.
Thus, when the day's sport is over, every arrow is
returned to its owner. If two have been used to kill
carried away in mere flesh wounds, the want of
skill is upbraided, and the unfortunate hunter shrinks
from the sarcasms and observation of the successful
with shame.
Following the hunter are the women, the labourers
of the tribe. To them is allotted the task of
tearing off the skin, selecting the choice pieces of
flesh, and preserving what is not immediately consumed.
Then follows the great feast. The Indian
gluts himself with marrow and fatness, his eyes
so bright with the fire of sport are glazed with
bestiality, and he spends days and nights in wasteful
extravagance, trusting to the abundance of nature
to take care of the future. Such are the general
characteristics of the buffalo hunt; and the view
applies with equal truth to all the different tribes
who pursue, as a distinct and powerful people, this
noble game.
An Indian armed for the buffalo hunt, and his
horse, form two of the most romantic and picturesque
of beings. The little dress he wears is beautifully
arranged about his person, disclosing the muscles
of the shoulder and chest. Across his back is slung
his quiver of arrows, made from the skin of some
wild animal; his long bow, slightly arched by the
sinewy string, is used gracefully as a rest to his extended
arm. The horse, with a fiery eye, a mane
that waves over his front like drapery and falls in
rakish masses across his wide forehead, a sweeping
tail ornamented with the brilliant plumage of tropical
birds, champs on his rude bit, and arches his
reaches his senses. Frequently will the two pass
along, the rider's body thrown back, and the horse
bounding gracefully along, as if in emulation of the
equestrians portrayed upon the Elgin marbles. Then
they may be seen dashing off with incredible swiftness,
a living representation of the centaur; and as
one of these wild horses and wilder men, viewed
from below, stand in broad relief against the clear
sky, you see a living statue that art has not accomplished.
The exultation of such a warrior, in the
excitement of a buffalo hunt, rings in silvery tones
across the plain, as if in his lungs was the music
of a “well-chosen pack;” the huge victims of pursuit,
as they hear it, impel on their bodies with redoubled
speed, as if they knew there was a hurricane
of death in the cry.
A HUNTING-PARTY.
Take a hunting-party of fifty “warriors,” starting
on a buffalo hunt. Imagine a splendid fall morning
in the southern part of the buffalo “grounds.” The
sun rises over the prairie, like a huge illuminated
ball; it struggles on through the mists, growing
gradually brighter in its ascent, breaking its way
into the clear atmosphere in long reaching rays, dispelling
the mists in wreathing columns, and starting
up currents of air to move them sportively about;
slowly they ascend and are lost in the ether above.
You discover before you, and under you, a rich and
beautifully variegated carpet, crowded with and
pearly drops of dew, as the horizontal rays of the
sun reach them. Here and there are plants of higher
growth, as if some choice garden had been stripped
of its enclosures: shrubbery waves the pendant blossom,
and wastes a world of sweetness on the desert
air. Among these flowery coverts will be seen browsing
the graceful deer and antelope. Far before you
are the long dark lines of the buffalo. In the centre
of the group feed the cows and calves. Upon the
outside are the sturdy bulls: some, with their mouths
to the ground, are making it shake with their rough
roar; others sportively tear up the turf with their
horns; others, not less playful, are rushing upon each
other's horns with a force that sends them reeling to
the ground. Animal enjoyment seems rife, as they
turn their nostrils upwards and snuff in the balmy
air and greet the warm sun, little dreaming that
around them are circling the sleek Indian, wilder,
more savage, and more wary than themselves.
Fancy these Indians, prompted by all the habits
and feelings of the hunter and warrior, mingling in
the sport the desire to distinguish themselves, as on
a field of honour, little less only in importance than
the war-path. With characters of high repute to
sustain, or injured reputations to build up, of victory
for the ear of love, of jealousy, of base passions, and
a thirst of blood, and you will have some idea of the
promptings of the hearts of those about to engage in
the chase.
The time arrives. The parties already out are driving
the herd towards the starting-place of the warriors.
whoop, that has startled the feeding monsters, as if
the lightning had fallen among them. With a fearful
response, they shake their heads, and simultaneously
start off. The fearful whoop meets them at
every point. Confusion seizes upon the herd. The
sport has begun. In every direction you see the unequal
chase; the Indians seem multiplied into hundreds;
the plain becomes dotted over with the dying
animals, and the whoop rings in continuous shouts
upon the air, as if the fiends themselves were loose.
Now you see a single warrior: before him is rushing
a buffalo which shows, from his immense size, that
he was one of the masters of the herd: his pursuer
is a veteran hunter, known far and near for his prowess.
Yonder go some twenty buffalos of every size,
pursued by three or four tyros, yet who know not
the art of separating their victim from the herd.
Yonder goes a bull, twice shot at, yet only wounded
in the flesh: some one will have to gather wood
with the women for his want of skill. There goes
an old chief: his leggins are trimmed with the hair
of twenty scalps, taken from the heads of the very
Indians on whose grounds he was hunting buffalo:
he is a great warrior; he sings that his bow unbent
is a great tree that he alone can bend. See the
naked arm, and the ridgid muscles, as he draws the
arrow to the very head: the bull vomits blood, and
falls: beyond him, on the grass, is the arrow; it
passed through where a rifle ball would have stopped
and flattened, ere it had made half the journey.
Here are two buffalo bulls side by side; they make
are reeking with sweat. Already have they been
singled out. Approaching them are two horsemen;
upon the head of one glistens the silvery hair of age;
the small leggins also betray the old man: the other
is just entering the prime of life; every thing about
him is sound, full, and sleek. The eyes of one
dance with excitement, the blood flows quickly
through the dark skin, and gives a feverish look to
the lip and cheek. The other, the old man, has
his mouth compressed into a mere line; the eye is
open and steady as a basilisk, the skin inanimate.
What a tale is told in these differences of look! how
one seems reaching into the future, and the other
going back to the past! He of the flushed cheek
touches his quiver, the bow is bent, the arrow speeds
its way and penetrates its victim. The old man, he
too takes an arrow, slowly he places it across his
bow, then bending it as if to make its ends meet, he
leans forward—sends the arrow home—the bull falls,
while the first wounded one pursues his way. The
old man gives a taunting shout, as the token of his
success. The young warrior, confused by his want
of skill, and alarmed lest his aged rival should complete
the work he so bunglingly began, unguardedly
presses too near the bull, who, smarting with his
wound, turns upon his heels, and, with one mad
plunge, tears out the bowels of the steed, and rolls
him and rider on the ground. He next rushes at the
rider. The Indian, as wary as the panther, springs
aside, and the bull falls headlong on the ground.
Ere he recovers himself the bow is again bent, the
and enters the heart. The old warrior has
looked on with glazed eye and expressionless face.
The young man feels that he has added no laurels to
his brow, for an arrow has been spent in vain, and
his steed killed under him.
There goes a “brave” with a bow by his side,
and his right hand unoccupied. He presses his horse
against the very sides of the animal which he is pursuing.
Now he leans forward until he seems hidden
between the buffalo and his horse. He rises; a gory
arrow is in his hand; he has plucked it from a “flesh
wound” at full speed, and while in luck has, with
better aim, brought his victim to the earth. The
sun is now fairly in its zenith: the buffalos that have
escaped are hurrying away, with a speed that will
carry them miles beyond the hunter's pursuit. The
Indians are coming in from the field. The horses
breathe hard, and are covered with foam. The faces
of the Indians are still lit up with excitement, that
soon will pass away, and leave them cold and expressionless.
The successful hunters spare not the gibe
and joke at the expense of the unfortunate. Slowly
they wend their way back to “the encampment;”
their work is done.
The squaws, who, like vultures, have been following
in the rear, have already commenced their disgusting
work. The maiden is not among them;
slavery commences only with married life; but the
old, the wrinkled, the viragoes and vixens, are tearing
off the skins, jerking the meat, gathering together
the marrow-bones, and the humps, the tongues, and
in the camp with the rewards of the day's hunt.
The plain, so beautiful in the morning, is scattered
over with bodies already offensive with decay; the
grass is torn up, the flowers destroyed, and the wolf
and buzzard and the carrion-crow are disputing for
the loathsome meal, while their already gorged appetites
seem bursting with repletion.
OUR FIRST BUFFALO STEAK.
On the confines of the buffalo hunting-grounds,
migrated a family, consisting of a strange mixture
of enterprise and idleness, of ragged-looking men
and homely women. They seemed to have all the
bad habits of the Indians, with none of their redeeming
qualities. They were willing to live without
labour, and subsist upon the bounties of nature. Located
in the fine climate of Northern Texas, the
whole year was to them little else than a continued
spring, and the abundance of game with which they
were surrounded afforded what seemed to them all
the comforts of life. The men never exerted themselves
except when hunger prompted, or a spent
magazine made the acquisition of “peltries” necessary
to barter for powder and ball. A more lazy,
contemptible set of creatures never existed, and we
would long since have forgotten them, had not our
introduction to them associated itself with our first
buffalo steak.
It was a matter of gratulation to my companions
as well as myself, that, after sleeping on the open
days, we discovered ahead of us what evinced the
location of a “squatter.” A thousand recollections
of the comforts of civilized life pressed upon us before
we reached the abode. We speculated upon the
rich treat of delicacies which we should enjoy. A
near inspection at once dispelled our illusions.
A large rudely-constructed shed, boarded up on the
northern side, was all we found. Upon nearer examination,
it appeared that this “shed” was the
common dwelling-place of the people described
above, with the addition of two cows, several goats,
poultry, and, as we soon after discovered, three
horses. Immediately around the caravansera the
prairie grass struggled for a sickly growth. As you
entered it, you found yourself growing deeper and
deeper in a fine dust, that had been in the course of
time worked out of the soil. Some coarse blankets
were suspended through the enclosure, as retiring
rooms for the women. On the ground were strewn
buffalo skins, from which the animal inhabitants kept
aloof. We entered without seeing a human being.
After some delay, however, a little nondescript, with
a white sunburnt head, thrust aside the blankets,
and hallooed out, “They ain't injuns.” The mother
then showed herself. She was as far removed from
feminine as possible, and appeared as unmoved at
our presence as the post that sustained the roof of
her house. We asked for lodging and food; she
nodded a cold assent and disappeared. Not disposed
to be fastidious, we endeavoured to make ourselves
as comfortable as possible, and wait for the developement
woman younger than the first made her appearance,
somewhat attractive because younger. On hearing
the detail of our wants, she wrinkled her soiled
visage into a distorted smile, and told us that the
“men” would soon be home with “buffalo meat,”
and then our wants should be attended to.
Whatever might have been our disappointment
at what we saw around us, the name of buffalo meat
dispelled it all. The great era in our frontier wanderings
was about to commence, and with smiles
from our party that for expression would have done
credit to rival belles, we lounged upon the skins
upon the ground. It is needless for us to say what
were our ideas of the “men,” soon to make their
appearance. Buffalo hunters of course, tall, fine-looking
fellows, active as cats, mounted upon wild
steeds, armed with terrible rifles, and all the paraphernalia
of the hunter's art. The Dutch angels, that
figure so conspicuously on many a gem of art in the
“Lowlands,” are certainly not farther removed
from the beautiful creations of Milton, than were
the buffalo hunters that we saw from the standard
our imagination and reading had conjured up.
Two short, ill-formed men, with bow-legs, long
bodies, and formidable shocks of red hair, destitute
of intelligence, clothed in skins, and moving with
shuffling gaits, were the realities of our conceptions.
Whatever might have been the charms of their faces,
our admiration was absorbed in viewing their nether
garments. They were made of undressed deer-skin,
the hair worn outside. When first made, they were
of the sun had, in course of time, no doubt imperceptibly
to the wearers, shortened them into the
dignity of breeches. To see these worthies standing
up was beyond comparison ridiculous. They seemed
to have had immense pummels fastened to their
knees and seats. Under other circumstances, the
tailor craft of the frontier would have elicited great
merriment; but a starving stomach destroys jokes.
Courtesies suitable were exchanged, and the preliminaries
for a hearty meal agreed upon, the basis of
which was to be buffalo steaks.
A real buffalo steak! eaten in the very grounds
which the animal inhabits! What romance! what a
diploma of a sportsman's enterprise! Whatever
might have been my disappointment in the hunters,
I knew that meat was meat, and that the immutable
laws of nature would not fail, though my notions
of the romantic in men were entirely disappointed.
A promise that our wants should soon be supplied
brought us to that unpleasant time, in every-day life,
that prefaces an expected and wished-for meal.
Seated, like barbarians, upon the floor, myself and
companions had the pleasing mental operation of
calculating how little the frontier family we were
visiting were worth for any moral quality, and the
physical exercise of keeping off, as much as possible,
thousands of fleas and other noxious insects that composed
part of the dust in which we sat. While thus
disposed of, the “hunters” were busy in various ways
about the premises, and received from us the elegant
names of “Bags” and “Breeches,” from some
“Breeches,” who was evidently the business man,
came near where we were sitting, and threw down
upon the ground, what appeared, at a superficial
glance, to be an enormous pair of saddle-bags. He
then asked his companion in arms for a knife, to
cut off the strangers some buffalo steaks. Now if
the nondescript before me had as coolly proposed to
cut steaks off an ill-natured cur that was wistfully
eyeing the saddle-bags, no more surprise could have
been exhibited by my companions than was, when
they heard the suggestion.
The knife was brought, and “Breeches” made an
essay at cutting up the saddle-bags, which gave him,
dressed as he was in skins, the appearance of a wild
robber just about to search the effects of some
murdered traveller. The work progressed bravely,
and, to our surprise, soon were exhibited crude
slices of meat. What we saw was the fleshy parts
of a buffalo's hams, ingeniously connected together
by the skin that passed over the back of the animal,
and so dissected from the huge frame as to enable
it easily to be brought “into camp.” As the
sounds that accompany the frying of meat saluted
our ears, we moved into the open air, to avoid
the certain knowledge that we were about to complete
the eating of the peck of dirt, said to be necessary
before we die. Before the door were the
two horses belonging to our hosts, just as they returned
from the hunt, and upon one still reposed the
huge pieces of meat, thus simply, and frontier-like,
held together for transportation.
Our first buffalo steak disappointed us. The romance
of months and of years was sadly broken in
upon. The squalid wretchedness of those who administered
to our wants made rebellious even our
hungry stomachs, and we spent our first night
of real disappointment on the great prairies, under
circumstances which we thought, before our sad
experience, would have afforded us all the substantial
food for body and mind that we could have
desired.
OUR FIRST BUFFALO HUNT.
The morning following the adventure with the
steak found our little party, rifles in hand, and bent
upon a buffalo hunt. The animals, it would seem,
for the especial benefit of “Breeches” and “Bags,”
had come “lower down” than usual, and we were
among the animals much sooner than we expected
to be. So far fortune favoured us; and a gayer
party never set out on a frolic than followed the
deer-skin inexpressibles on the fine December
morning to which we allude. As we jaunted along,
crushing a thousand wild flowers under our horses'
feet, the deer would bound like visions of grace and
beauty from our presence; but we essayed not such
small game. Our ideas and nostrils expanded, and
we laughed so loud at the merry conceit of a man
drawing a deadly weapon on a helpless thing as
small as a woodcock, that the wild half devil and
half Indian horses on which we were mounted
pricked up their ears and tails, as if they expected
Ahead of us we beheld the buzzard circling in
groups, whirling down in aerial flights to the earth,
as if busy with their prey. We passed them at their
gross repast over a mountain of meat that had, the
day before, been full of life and fire, but had fallen
under the visitation of our guides and scarecrows, and
provided the very steaks that had met with so little
affection from our appetites. Soon we discovered
signs of immediate vicinity of the buffalo, and on a
little examination from the top of a “swell of land,”
we saw them feeding off towards the horizon, like
vast herds of cattle, quietly grazing within the enclosure
of the farm-yard. As far off as they were,
our hearts throbbed violently as we contemplated
the sanguinary warfare we were about to engage
in, and the waste of life that would ensue. Still we
were impelled on by an irresistible and overpowering
instinct to begin the hunt.
Breeches and Bags carried, over their shoulders,
poles about six feet long; but as they were destitute
of any spear, we looked upon them as inoffensive
weapons, and concluded they had come out just to
act as guides. In fact we could not imagine that such
beastly-looking fellows, so badly mounted, could
hunt any thing. For ourselves, we were armed with
the terrible rifle, and so satisfied were we of its
prowess, that we thought the very appearance of its
muzzle more deadly than the rude implement of
warfare used by the Indians.
Keeping to the windward of the buffalo, we skirted
round until we got them between us and the shed
given, and in a pellmell manner we charged on,
every man for himself. We approached within a
quarter of a mile before the herd took the alarm.
Then, smelling us on the air, they turned their noses
towards the zenith, gave a sort of rough snort, and
broke simultaneously off at a full gallop. As soon
as this noise was heard by our horses, they increased
their speed, and entered into the sport as ardently
as their riders. The rough beasts rode by Bags
and Breeches did wonders, and seemed really to fly,
while their riders poised themselves gallantly, carrying
their long poles in front of them with a grace
that would have done honour to a Cossack bearing
his spear.
The buffalo, with their tails high in the air, ran
close together, rattling their horns singularly loud;
while the horses, used to the chase, endeavoured to
separate a single object for pursuit. This once accomplished,
it was easy to range alongside, and in
this situation the members of our party severally
found themselves, and drawing deadly aim, as they
supposed, the crack of the sharp rifle was heard
over the prairies, and yet nothing was brought to the
ground. Contrary to all this, a noble bull lay helpless
in the very track I took, the fruit of Breeches'
skill, and from the energetic manner he pressed on,
we became satisfied that there was a magic in those
sticks we had not dreamed of. Our curiosity excited,
we ran across the diameter of a circle he was
forming and came by his side. Soon he overtook
his object of pursuit, and thrusting forward his pole,
blade; a successful thrust severed the hamstring, and
a mountain of flesh and life fell helpless on the
prairie. The thing was done so suddenly, that some
moments elapsed before we could overcome our
astonishment. My horse approached the animal
and thrusting forward his head and ears muted in
his face, and then commenced quietly cropping the
grass. It would be impossible for me to describe
my emotions as I, dismounting, examined the gigantic
and wounded bull before me. There he lay, an
animal, that from his singular expression of face
and general appearance, joined with his immense
size, looked like some animated specimen of the
monsters of the antediluvian world. Rising on his
fore legs, with his hind ones under him, he shook
his mane and beard in defiance, and flashed from
his eyes an unconquerable determination that was
terrible to behold. His small delicate hoofs were
associated in our minds with the farm-yard and the
innocent pleasures of rural life. Gazing upwards, we
beheld, fearfully caricatured, the shaggy trappings of
the lion, and the wild fierceness of a perfect savage,
the whole rising above us in huge unwieldly proportions.
Making no demonstration of attack, the expression
of defiance altered into that of seeming
regret and heartsick pain; his small bright eye
appeared to roam over the beautiful prairie, and to
watch the retreating herds of his fellows, as would
an old patriarch when about to bid adieu to the
world; and as he looked on, the tear struggled in
his eye, rolled over the rough sunburnt hair of his
beard, and fell to the ground. This exhibition of
suffering nature cooled the warm blood of the hunt
within me; the instinct of destruction was for the time
overpowered by that of better feelings, and could
we have restored to health the wounded animal, it
would have given us a thrill of real pleasure to have
seen him bounding over the plain, again free. Instead
of this, we took from our belt a pistol, called
upon mercy to sanction our deed, and sent the cold
lead through the thoughtful eye into the brain: the
body sank upon its knees, in ready acknowledgment
of the power of man; the heavy head plunged
awkwardly to the ground; a tremulous motion passed
through the frame—and it was dead.
The momentary seriousness of my own feelings, occasioned
by the incidents above related, was broken
in upon by a loud exulting whoop, prolonged into a
quavering sound, such as will sometimes follow a loud
blast of a trumpet at the mouth of an expert player.
It was a joyous whoop, and vibrated through our
hearts; we looked up, and saw just before us a young
Indian warrior, mounted upon a splendid charger,
rushing across the plain, evidently in pursuit of the
retreating buffalo. As he swept by, he threw himself
forward in his saddle, placed his right hand over his
eyes, as if to shade them from the sun, making a
picture of the most graceful and eager interest. His
horse's head was low down, running like a rabbit,
while the long flowing mane waved in the wind like
silk. Horse and rider were almost equally undressed;
both wiry; and every muscle, as it came into action,
head, and inwrought in the hair of the tail, streamed
plumes plucked from the flamingo. Every thing was
life—moving, dashing life—gay as the sunshine that
glistens on the rippling wave where the falcon wets
his wing. This soul-stirring exhibition warmed us
into action, and, mounting our horses, we dashed
after the red man. Our direction soon brought us
in sight of the retreating buffalo; and, with the Indian
and myself, dashed on a third person, the valiant
“Breeches.” I followed as a spectator, and, keeping
close to both, was enabled to watch two beings
so widely different in form, looks, and action, while
bent on the same exciting pursuit.
Fortunately, two buffaloes, of large size, cut off from
the main body, were being driven towards us by
some one of our party; a distant report of a rifle, and
the sudden stopping of one of the animals told its
own tale. The remaining bull, alarmed by the report
of the rifle, rushed madly on with enemies in
front and rear. Discovering its new danger, it
wheeled almost on its heels, and ran for life. Whatever
might have been our most vivid imaginings of
the excitement of a buffalo chase, we now felt the
fruition beyond our sanguine hopes. Before us ran
the buffalo, then followed the Indian, and beside
him “Breeches,” so closely that you would have
thought a dark Apollo on a mettled charger, by
some necromancy casting the shadow of a cornfield
scarecrow. We soon gained on the buffalo,
rapidly as he moved his feet under him. “Breeches”
poised his rude instrument to make the fearful cut
arrow from his quiver, bent his bow, and pointing it
at “Breeches's” side, as we thought, let it fly. The
stick held by “Breeches” leaped from his grasp as
if it had been struck by a club; another instant, and
again the bow was bent; guiding his horse with his
feet, he came alongside of the buffalo, and drove the
arrow to the feather into his side. A chuckling guttural
laugh followed this brilliant exploit, and as the
animal after a few desperate leaps fell forward and
vomited blood, again was repeated the same joyous
whoop that roused our stagnant blood at the begining
of the chase.
The instant that “Breeches” dropped his stick,
his horse, probably from habit, stopped, and the one
I rode followed the example. The Indian dismounted
and stood beside the buffalo the instant he fell. There
was a simplicity and beautiful wildness about the
group that would have struck the eye of the most
insensible. The shaggy and rough appearance of
the dead animal, the healthy-looking and ungroomed
horse with his roving eye and long mane, and the
Indian himself, contemplating his work like some
bronze statue of antique art. “Breeches,” alike
insensible to the charms of the tailor's art, and the
picturesque, handed the Indian his first fired arrow,
and then stooping down, with a gentle pressure,
thrust the head of the one in the buffalo's body
through the opposite side, from which it entered, and
handed it to its owner, with disgust marked upon his
face, that displayed no great pleasure at his appearance
and company.
Among the Indian tribes, there are certain styles
of doing things which are as essential to command
the attention and win the favour of a real hunter as
there are peculiar manners and modes commended,
and only acknowledged by sportsmen. A poor despicable
tribe, bearing the name of Ta-wa-ki-na, inhabiting
the plains of Texas, kill the buffalo by hamstringing
them, and are, therefore, despised and
driven out from among “Indian men.” A young
Cumanche chief, fond of adventure, and friendly
with “Breeches,” had gone out of his way to join
in our sport; and having shown to the white man his
skill, and for Breeches his contempt for his imitations
of a despised tribe, he passed on in pursuit of
his own business, either of war or of pleasure.
HAMSTRINGING THE BUFFALO.
The experience of our first buffalo-hunt satisfied
us that the rifle was not the most effective instrument
in destroying the animal. The time consumed
in loading the rifle is sufficient for an Indian to shoot
several arrows, while the arrow more quickly kills
than the bullet. As the little party to which I was
attached had more notions of fun than any particular
method of hunting, a day was set apart for a buffalo
hunt, “Ta-wa-ki-na fashion,” and for this purpose
rifles were laid aside, and poles about seven feet
long, with razor blades fastened on them a few
inches from the end, so as to form a fork, were taken
in their place. Arriving in the vicinity of the buffalo,
those who were disposed entered into the sport
heels of “Breeches,” who soon brought a fine young
heifer bellowing to the ground. As the animal uttered
sounds of pain, one or two fierce-looking bulls that
gallantly followed in the rear, exposing themselves to
attack to preserve the weaker members of the herd,
stopped short for an instant, and eyed us with most
unpleasant curiosity. This roused the knight of the
deer skin, Breeches, and brandishing his stick over
his head with a remarkable degree of dexterity, he
dashed off as if determined to slay both at once.
My two companions who started out, Ta-wa-ki-nas,
had done but little execution, not understanding
their work, or alarmed at so near an approach of the
animals they wounded, without bringing them to the
earth. As “Breeches” dashed on after the bulls,
he severally crossed the route of all who were on
the chase; and as he was unquestionably the hero of
the day, all followed in his train, determined to see
hamstringing done scientifically.
It is a singular fact in the formation of the buffalo,
and the familiar cattle of the farm-yard, that, although
so much alike in general appearance, the
domesticated animals will, after being hamstrung,
run long distances. The buffalo, on the contrary,
the moment the tendon is severed, falls to the ground
entirely helpless, and perfectly harmless beyond the
reach of its horns. A very short chase in company
with “Breeches” brought us up to one of the bulls;
he poised his stick, thrust it forward, and the tendo
Achillis, full of life and full of action, was touched
by the sharp blade; its tension, as it sustained the
severed, spring back as will the breaking string of
the harp; and the helpless beast, writhing in pain,
came to the ground. One of our party witnessing
this exhibition, gave an exulting shout, and declared
he would bring a buffalo down, or break his neck;
he soon came beside a venerable bull, and as he
made repeated thrusts, a thousand directions were
given as to the manner of proceeding. The race
was a well-contested one, the heels of the pursued
animal were strangely accelerated by the thrusts
made at him in his rear. A lunge was finally accomplished
by the “Ta-wa-ki-na,” that almost threw
him from his horse; the fearful cut brought the huge
bull directly under the rider's feet; the next instant
the noble steed was impaled upon the buffalo's horns,
and the unfortunate rider lay insensible on the
ground. The wrong hamstring, in the excitement,
had been cut, the animal always falling on the
wounded side. We hastened to our unfortunate companion,
chafed his temples, and brought him to his
senses. The first question he asked was, “whereabouts
the buffalo struck him.” Happily, save the
loss of a generous steed, no great damage was done.
The “Ta-wa-ki-na” acknowledged hamstringing
buffalo was as contemptible as it was thought to be
by the Cumanche chief. Thus ended this novel and
barbarian hunt, that afforded incidents for many
rough jokes, and amusing reflections on hamstringing
buffaloes.
As a reward for these frontier sports, it is but just
to say that we feasted plentifully upon buffalo steaks,
satisfied. There was a waste of life and of food accompanying
the hunting of the animal, that, like an
ever-present spirit of evil, took away from our enjoyment
that zest which is necessary to make it a
favourite sport.
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