University of Virginia Library

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

the wildest dreams of the future to the red man;
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

the same animal, or any are wanting, having been
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

neck with impatience, as the scent of the game
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.