University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

“Sneak,” said Joe, as they rode along on the left of the forest,
and in sight of the apparently limitless prairie, “these pine and
cedar bushes, and the green grass between 'em, reminds me of
some rich gentleman's lawn.”

“It does, does it? Well, there's no poor gentlemen here, and
the lawn's our'n. When I was a boy, and my father was a farmer in
Varmount, he got broken up by paying, or not paying, I don't
know which, some nasty notes in bank. He was the unhappiest
man I ever saw, when the little printed notices came in, saying at
what hour tremenduous sums must be paid in bank, whether he
had any money or not. I thought if I ever got to be a man, they
would'nt ketch me in that way—and they can't. I'd like to see
'em send any of their disagreeable notifications out here. Joe,
we are happy men.”

“That's true, Sneak. And I intend to be the happiest man in
the world. I have a mind to tell you my secret—”

“Well, go ahead; I'm listenin'.”

“No—hang me if I do. I did'nt think of one thing”

“What thing?”

“Why, if you knew all about my project, you might get ahead
of me, and be the happiest man yourself, and make me the miserablest.”

“Dod rot it, what do you mean? What's your project?”

“I won't tell you, because I'm afraid you'd be a rival.”

“Rival? What's that? There's no squaw for us to be arter.”

“Squaw! You may have 'em all to yourself. I never saw but
one that was handsome—and I don't believe she's a full blooded
Indian. No—I will not even think of a squaw.”

“Then who is it? The Irish gal?”

“Look there!” cried Joe, who was a little in advance of his
companion, as his horse snorted and stopped suddenly.

In a small plat of ground on the left, where there were not even
any bushes, but a most luxuriant crop of grass, there stood an
enormous buffalo bull.

“Don't shoot, Joe,” cried Sneak, when his companion threw his
musket up to his face.

“Why, Sneak?” asked Joe.

“'Case you might as well spatter your buck-shot agin the face
of the cliff, down at the cave, as to fire in that bull's face. Don't
you see thar's a bushel of clay and dry mud on the long hair between
his eyes?”

“But I can shoot at his breast,” said Joe.

“What good'll that do? The spot where lead can enter between
his ribs from the front, aint bigger than your hand; and if
you could hit it, your shot would'nt go through the hide and gristle.
Nothing but a rifle ball will do.”

“I know better,” said Joe; “you only want to kill him first,”
and he raised his gun again.

“'Pon my honor, I don't,” said Sneak. “Don't fire, I beg of
you, Joe. If you do, we're dead men, and our horses 'll be dead
horses. He'll pitch the critters as high as the trees yonder, and
he'll trample us under the earth. Look at his furious red eyes.”

Joe looked again and quaked. The huge bull, who had been
deliberately chewing his cud, ceased the rumination; and, standing
as motionless as a tower, glared madly at the strangers, while a low
but deep sound of warning came forth from his mouth. The men
were not more than twenty paces distant, Joe still a little in advance.
Their horses trembled, and seemed inclined to fly.

“It's a king bull,” said Sneak, his eyes larger than ever, and his
neck wonderfully elongated.

“Well, if he is, said Joe, striving to evince a proper degree of
courage after his encounter with the grizzly bears, “my horse is
Devil Dick, and knows how to kick and bite, both.”

“I wish he was not so close to us,” said Sneak.

“It is rather close,” said Joe, steadily pulling the reins. But as
Dick backed slightly, the bull made one step in advance, and then
scraped up the earth with his right foot, the sod flying in the air,
and falling all over his back.

“Don't back out, or he'll dash right at us,” cried Sneak. “Jest
look him straight in the eye; that's the only hope, now.”

“I can't, Sneak,” said Joe, “it frightens me.”

“I can,” said Sneak, “and that'll frighten him. Don't you
know a man's eye will frighten a lion sometimes?”

“No, and I don't believe it, either,” said Joe, striving to fix a
steady gaze at the eyes of the monster. “I wish you'd make haste
and frighten him, Sneak, for I'm tired of waiting. Are you sure
he'd run after us if we were to retreat?”

“Sartain; and he'd run over us, and make mince meat of us.
But if we ketch his eye awhile, and then go towards him, he'll turn
tail and run.”

“Then do you come in front of me, for I don't understand how
to manage him.”

“Be steady. Let me pass without moving our eyes,” said Sneak,
and at the same time urging his horse a few paces forward. The
bull lifted his head and looked over his shoulder. “Now,” said
Sneak, “holler like the d—l, and foller me.” Uttering a most unearthly
whoop, he spurred his horse violently towards the animal;
and, as he expected, the bull wheeled round and ran across the
prairie. “Stop,” he cried, when Joe, after a pause, fired off a
volley of discordant whoops, and cantered his horse after the bull,
now several hundred yards in advance; “what're you hollering for
now?”

“I want to frighten him so bad he won't come back again,” said
Joe; “or if he does, he'll know he must run when he hears my
voice; and I'll spatter some shot on him.” He threw up his gun
and fired—and, being unsteady in the saddle, the rebound lifted
him out of it, and the next moment he was standing on his feet
near his horse's tail—Dick having stopped suddenly upon hearing
the report of the gun.

“Are you hurt, Joe?” asked Sneak, who joined him soon
after.

“No, Sneak—it did'nt kick much—but my foot got out of the
stirrup. I think that bull will keep out of my way in future.”

“I think,” said Sneak, “if you aint a fool you'll keep out of
his way in futer. Why did'nt you dash up toward him when I
did?”

“My horse would'nt go—and so it was'nt my fault. But I
whooped louder than you did.”

“Whooped! It was bellering. If it had'nt been for me, he'd've
taken you for another bull, and made fight. You're not up to the
mark yet, Joe.”

“Now, Sneak, don't slur at my bravery. The day's gone by for
that. Did'nt I intend to fire right into his front, when we stood
face to face?”

“You did'nt know any better.”

“And you had'nt the nerve to do it. That was the reason you
would'nt let me shoot. I believe I would've killed him—and we
shall want buffalo robes this winter.”

“Whew! But I'm not sure there's any winter here. The bucks
aint runnin' and scrapin' much yit, and its gitting late in November.
Are you loaded? If so, mount your horse. Yonder's an
elk.”

The elk was at a considerable distance beyond the opening in
which the buffalo had been found, and was grazing very quietly,
with his great horns standing out like young trees.

“You may shoot him, Sneak,” said Joe; “I did'nt hold my
musket tightly against my shoulder, when I shot the buffalo, and it
gave me a smart kick. I did'nt feel it at the time, but it's a little
sore now. Besides, it's your time to shoot, as I'm one ahead.”

Sneak paused, and merely smiled contemptuously. Then spurring
his horse, and making a slight detour, so as to approach the
animal unobserved, still followed closely by Joe, he soon attained
the necessary proximity for execution. Letting the reins fall on
his horse's neck, he took deliberate aim and fired. The elk leaped
up in the air—but did not fall as Sneak anticipated. And instead

of running away, it came directly towards the hunters. With these
animals, as with deer, they never seem to have any idea from what
direction the report of a gun proceeds; and if they do not see or
scent the person firing at them, they are just as likely to run towards
him as away from him. And the rapid approach of a heavily
antlered buck elk is by no means a pleasing spectacle. This was
the opinion of Joe, and so he wheeled his horse and fled out into the
prairie, closely followed by the wounded elk, while Sneak, who was
concealed behind a pine bush, remained an immovable, but not a
silent spectator.

“Shoot, Joe; dod rot it, why don't you shoot? Don't let the
tarnation thing rip open your horse's bowels.”

“Soon both Joe and the elk were out of hearing, and also out of
sight, for a rise in the prairie intervened. But before Sneak had
reloaded his rifle, preparatory to pursuing them, they came in sight
again, having made a short circuit, in another direction. The elk
seemed intent on revenge, and all Joe could do was to endeavor
to keep out of his way.

“Don't shoot, Sneak,” cried Joe, seeing Sneak about to raise his
gun. “Don't shoot,” he repeated, as well as he could, “or you'll
hit me;” and as he uttered these words he turned towards the place
occupied by him when Sneak had fired, and where the latter still
remained. On he came, hotly pursued by the elk, which bled profusely
at every leap—and, finally, the wounded animal fell and expired
within twenty feet of the one who had shot him. Sneak gave
the signal blast for the wagon, and then proceeded to dress the animal
in silence.

“I was'nmt afraid of him, Sneak,” said Joe, after a protracted
silence; “I saw he was killed and knew he would soon fall, and I
did'nt want to waste my ammunition.”

“You be dod rot!” said Sneak. “Dead or livin', if he'd got
one fair job at you, he'd have let day light through both you and
your horse.”

“Then the next time you make such a slovenly shot at an elk,”
said Joe, “I would thank you not to let him run after me again.”

“My gun hung fire that time,” said Sneak, “and I hit him a
little too low. But whose bar was it run arter me? Every body
must take care of themselves in sich hunts as these.”

The operation of preparing the game for the wagon was soon
performed, and then, according to the rule suggested by Glenn, all
other game was to be conveyed on horses to where the largest animal
had fallen. So it was determined to kill enough to fill the
wagon—and Sneak and Joe remounted, and separated temporarily,
in quest of further sport. Sneak's rifle was heard soon after.

“I mus'nt let him get ahead of me,” said Joe, peering in every
direction among the bushes. “I must keep up the good name I've
earned this day,” he continued; “and yonder's something now,”
he added, seeing the gray hair of an animal beyond a patch of rank
grass. “He's lying down, and don't see me,” said he, “and I'll
get down, too, and make sure work of it.” He dismounted noiselessly,
and crept softly towards his fore-doomed victim, with his
gun in readiness to fire if it should run. “It don't see me yet,”
continued he, mentally, “and, as I'm so close he can't escape me,
I'll see how near I can get.” Thus he proceeded, until he was within
a few feet of it, and then taking deliberate aim, he made the
woods roar with the report, for he had put in a large charge after
encountering the buffalo bull. The muzzle flew up, turning a somerset
over his shoulder, and Joe's back struck the earth.

“Confound it!” said he; “but it was my own fault. The bull
made me put too much in; and I'm glad I was'nt on Dick. Besides,
I fell in a soft place, and it did'nt hurt. Now for the deer,”
said he, leaping up.

It lay just where it was when he fired, literally torn to pieces.
It was a mere fawn, lean and diseased, and did not weigh twenty
pounds.

“Plague take it!” said Joe; “the thing's not worth the powder
and lead, let alone the tumble; and the meat and skin are both
spoilt. My goodness! what a powerful shooting gun my old
musket is. I would'nt swap it for two of Sneak's rifles, for it's
a safe gun. It's a buck any how,” he continued, lifting up what
remained of the poor fawn. “But I'm ashamed to take it in

Sneak's sight—and he'll be there at the elk with his big buck, no
doubt. What shall I do? Ha!” he exclaimed, looking behind,
whence a cry not unfamiliar to his ears proceeded. “My gracious!
it's a skunk! and it's coming right at me.” He let the fawn fall
and ran towards his horse—seizing the bridle and looking back, he
beheld the little animal in full pursuit. “And my gun's not loaded.
Oh, Mr. Boone, I forgot your advice! But I must run;” so mounting
Dick he put spurs to him and galloped away towards the dead
elk, where Sneak had arrived a few moments before, with a fat
doe.

“Run, Sneak, run! Run, Sneak, run!” cried Joe, spurring and
whipping through the bushes.

“What is it? Another dod rotted bar?” asked Sneak, as Joe
dashed past him; and all Joe responded was “run, run!” Not
doubting it was a bear, a buffalo, or a panther, Sneak sprang upon
his horse and followed Joe at full speed, and overtook him in the
prairie. Then Joe drew rein, and looked back for the first time
since his exit from the woods.

“Is he coming, Sneak?” he asked, seeing the large eyes of his
companion indicated great trepidation, or some other unusual emotion.

“Now tell me what it was,” said Sneak, seizing the bridle of
Dick.

“Have'nt you seen it yet?” asked Joe.

“No. Did you? Or did you jest think you heard it?”

“I did—I'll swear to it.”

“Don't swear to it, or I'll not b'lieve you. How close did it
come to you?”

“I did'nt let it get nearer than twenty yards; but it was coming
at me before I mounted—”

“Stop! You was on the ground?”

“Where do you think I was? Where were you?”

“Cutting the throat of my fat doe.”

“And I was cutting the throat of my—buck.”

“Let me see your knife.”

“You are very inquisitive,” said Joe, drawing his knife, which
he had stained afresh in anticipation of such a catechism; “but
there's the proof.”

“I heard you shoot, Joe,” said Sneak; “but I did'nt think you
could kill a buck by yourself, unless you got him to stand behind
your gun.”

“Sneak, do you mean to insult me?” asked Joe, willing, on reflection,
to evade the subject of the cause of his affright, and meditating
a lie to get out of the difficulty. But it occurred to him, if
he were to say it was a panther, or bear, or buffalo, or Indian,
Sneak would never be satisfied until he had inspected the “sign”
of him, i. e., his tracks.

“No—I don't mean to make you mad, Joe—but I can have my
joke.”

“And can't I have mine?” asked Joe, quickly.

“Sartinly. Now, you've got your breath, tell me what it was
made you run so.”

“Say us, Sneak.”

“Well, us, then—and I b'leive it's the first time I ever did run
without knowing what I was running from—and I don't half
like it.”

“Let us go back a little,” said Joe, turning his horse; “but
keep a good look out.”

“What was it—can't you tell me?” said Sneak, with his great
eyes fixed on the place where they emerged from the bushes, and
his rifle in readiness to fire.

“Wait till I finish loading,” said Joe, ramming down the last
wadding, and priming his gun.

“Why did'nt you load before you cut your buck's throat?” asked
Sneak.

“I forgot it.”

“You got the buck-ager after killing the buck—new hunters are
dead sure to do it. But whar did you hit him?”

“All over,” said Joe; “every shot struck him.”

“No wonder he fell,” said Sneak. “I 'spect you found him
asleep, and put your gun agin him, and spoilt the meat and hide

both. But what did you run from? I don't see anything,” he
continued, as they returned towards the edge of the woods, “'cept
that tarnation little cat.”

“Where?” cried Joe—“yes—there it is—and it's coming right
at us,” said Joe, in new alarm, and turning to fly.

“Dod rot it!” said Sneak, “it's only a pole-cat. Joe, is that the
thing you run from?”

“Say we, Sneak—did'nt you run, too?”

“I did'nt see it.”

“I did. I would scorn to run from anything I did'nt see.”

“Blast your skin!” said Sneak, in a burst of anger.

“It was a good joke, Sneak—but I did'nt intend to make you
mad.”

“I suppose I must swallow it,” said Sneak, half aside, “but it
goes agin the grain. Why did'nt you run arter the pole cat?”

“Because he ran after me.”

“Of course he did, when you retreated—they always do. But
they always retreat when you make a dash at 'em, like the black
snakes. Try it, make a splurge at that feller, and you'll see how
quick he'll turn tail and run.”

“I'd rather not, Sneak. I hav'nt forgot the scrape you once got
me into with one of the same sweet family—and this affair of running
is but a slight retaliation.”

“Re- what? You are always larning big words. Taliation, I
guess, means something about the pole-cat's tail, and I'm not afraid
of it. See,” and he dashed towards the little animal, which was
still advancing; but seeing himself menaced, he turned and fled
for his life. “That's the way, Joe, to get rid of 'em. He won't
come in striking distance of us again.”

They were now before the elk again, and the wagon was approaching.
Cæsar was in advance of it, and Joe whispered something
in his ear.

“Go, and bring your buck,” said Sneak, approaching Joe and
Cæsar.

“No—not yit,” said Joe, “let 'em load these first, and they can
drive to the buck afterwards.”

“Is he a big one?” asked Sneak.

“I have seen as large ones,” said Joe. “The niggers can put
him in the wagon. But we hav'nt got a load yet, and Mr. Roughgrove
said this morning, it would be as well for us to lay in a good
supply of meat. Mr. Glenn has made several barrels of salt, so
nothing will be lost. Come on, let's kill a couple more.”

Joe led the way and Sneak followed. When they had gone a
few hundred paces, they heard a tremendous thumping in the
brambles on the left, among the trees near the edge of the
prairie.

“What's that?” asked Joe, arresting his horse.

“I know the sound,” said Sneak; “it's a doe, chased, I reckon,
by a buck.”

“It is, by jing!” said Joe, as the doe sprang out in a clear place
and leaped on across the little avenue the hunters were traversing.

“Are you going to shoot at it runnin'?” asked Sneak, as he
heard Joe cock his musket. Sneak could sometimes kill a deer
running, with his rifle, but he preferred to have it stand.

“Yes,” cried Joe, blazing away, without lifting the gun to his
shoulder or taking any aim. In truth, it went off before he was
ready—for Sneak had so filed the lock that the merest touch of
the trigger sufficed. Thus Joe escaped a kicking this time—and,
by the merest accident in the world, the charge took effect. The
doe, in full career, was stricken through the heart—and whirling
over, it made a complete revolution like a wheel, and lay extended
on the grass.

Sneak spurred up to Joe, and looked him steadily in the face.

“What are you staring at?” demanded Joe.

“Was that luck, or are you larnin' to shoot? That's what I want
to know,” said Sneak.

“Call it just what you like, Sneak,” said Joe, dismounting and
deliberately re-charging his gun. “As for learning to shoot, and to
hunt,” said he, ramming down a wad, “it's a silly question to ask
me, after knowing what you know, that I took lessons from Daniel
Boone. Cut the deer's throat for me, Sneak.”

“Wait a minute, till the buck comes,” said Sneak, “and I make
him stop and stand till I shoot him, and then we'll go together.”

But no buck came. The doe had been started by Glenn and
William Roughgrove, who were coming across the forest towards
the wagon, each bearing a fine buck before him on his horse. The
sound of hoofs attracting the ears of Sneak, he ceased to wait for
his buck, and accompanied Joe to the prostrate doe, and aided in
preparing the animal for transportation.

Meantime, Glenn and William, seeing the wagon at the scene of
Joe's recent encounter with the skunk, rode thither and disencumbered
their horses of their burdens.

“Who killed that, Pompey?” asked William, gazing at the
mangled and mutilated fawn.

“Can't tell you, massa William,” said Pompey, showing his array
of ivory; “but dis nigger, when he goes hunting in the arternoon,
'll shoot bigger game den dat.”

“If you don't, Pompey,” said Glenn, “you'll have slim dinners
afterwards. If you look at the thing, William,” he continued,
“you need not ask what gun destroyed it.”

“True,” said William; “Joe's mark is upon it, and a most barbarous
spectacle it is. But here come Joe and Sneak themselves,
and the former is bearing the fat doe we saw.”

“Yes, and Joe killed it running,” said Joe, “and it was fifty
yards off.”

“It's true,” said Sneak, marking the incredulity of Glenn
“Joe's in luck to-day. He's had more shots than any of us, and
has missed but once.”

“Missed but once!” cried Joe, after depositing his doe in the
wagon in such manner, with Cæsar's assistance, as to conceal the
little buck. “I deny it, and I challenge the proof. Mr. Glenn,
we met a tremendous big buffalo bull, and Sneak was afraid to
shoot it, when it was within twenty yards of us, and standing
still.”

“He did right,” said William.

“May be so,” continued Joe; “but when the bull ran away, I
put spurs after him, and gave him a blizzard he'll not forget soon.

I'll swear I hit him. I saw a cloud of dust rise from his long hair
when I fired.”

“I won't dispute that some of your shot dusted his coat,” said
Sneak, “for he was two hundred yards off, and at that distance the
old musket will scatter over a half acre in breadth—but the shot
did'nt even tickle him.”

“That's not my fault, if it's true,” said Joe, “and you can't
prove it.”

“But I see you have been down on your back again, Joe,” said
Glenn, observing the dirt on his hunting shirt.

“Yes—it was shooting the buck; I thought it was a soft
fall.”

“And it was the buffalo that made the bed for you,” said Sneak,
laughing.

“Coufound him!” said Joe, looking over his shoulder and perceiving
what they alluded to. “The next time I find him I will
run him down, and have his robe to sleep under this winter.”

“But whar's the buck?” asked Sneak, riding up to the wagon
and counting the animals.

“There,” said William, leaning over and rolling the doe aside.

“That!” cried Sneak; “that's a piece of a rabbit. Do you call
that a buck, Joe?” he continued, lifting up the remains of the
fawn.

“I do—what do you call it? Is it a doe?”

“Dod rot your skin!” said Sneak; “that was the reason you
would'nt bring it. I wish you had been kicked down face foremost,
for shooting sich a thing as this.”

“I did'nt see it plain, Sneak,” said Joe. “I thought it was laying
down, when it was standing up. And when I found out the
mistake, I supposed you'd be for joking me, so I got ahead of you
with the skunk.” The party then returned to the valley.