University of Virginia Library

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

enamelled by a thousand flowers, glistening with the
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.

They have sent up their war-cry in one united
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

the earth tremble by their measured tread; their sides
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
flint-headed arrow strikes the hard rib, splits it asunder,
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

the pouch; and before the sun has fairly set, they are
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.