Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Two.The Lone Mound.Their route led them through one of those lovely landscapes which are met with only in this southern region—a flower-prairie. They travelled in the midst of flowers. Flowers were before them, behind, and on every side. Their shining corollas covered the prairie as far as the eye could see. There were golden sunflowers (helianthi), and red malvas, euphorbias, and purple lupins. There were the rose-coloured blossoms of the wild althea, and the brilliant orange of Californian poppies—glancing among the green leaves like so many balls of fire—while lower upon the surface grew the humble violas, sparkling like azure gems.The glorious sun was shining over all; and the late rain that had washed them seemed to have added to the fragrance and brilliancy. Millions of butterflies flew over them, or rested in their soft cups, not less brilliant than the flowers themselves. Some of these were of vast dimensions, their downy wings speckled and striped with varied and gorgeous tints. There were other insects of gay colours and glancing wings. The giant spider-fly flew around, now poised on whirring wing, and now darting off like a thread of lightning to some other part of the boundless garden. There were bees, too; and bee-birds humming from flower to flower, and robbing their rich nectaries. Now and then partridges and ruffed grouse whirred up before the horses; and François succeeded in shooting a brace of the latter, and hanging them behind his saddle.Through these great flower-beds our travellers rode on, crushing many a beautiful corolla under their horses’ hoofs. Sometimes the flowers grew upon tall stalks that stood thickly together, and reached up to the shoulders of the horses, completely hiding them from the view of one at a distance. Sometimes the travellers passed through beds of helianthi alone—whose large heads, brushing against their thighs, covered them with yellow pollen-dust.It was, altogether, a rare and beautiful landscape; and the young hunters would have enjoyed it much, had they not been suffering from weariness and want of sleep. The fragrance of the flowers seemed at first to refresh them; but after a while they became sensible of a narcotic influence which it exercised over them, as they felt more sleepy than ever. They would have encamped among them, but there was no water; and without water they could not remain. There was no grass, either, for their animals; as, strange to say, upon these flower-prairies grass is seldom met with. The flower-stalks usurp the soil, and no turf is ever found about their roots. The travellers, therefore, were compelled to ride on, until they should reach some spot having grass and water—two of the necessary requisites of a “night-camp.”After proceeding about ten miles the flowers began to appear more thinly scattered over the surface, and at length declined into thegrassprairie. Two or three miles farther brought our adventurers to a small “spring branch” that ran through the open plain, with no timber upon its banks, except a few willows. Here they were glad to halt for the night, and they dismounted, and staked their animals upon the tempting sward.All three were weary, and could have slept; but they were hungry as well, and must first eat—so they set about preparing supper. The willows were green, and would not burn very well; but by dint of perseverance they managed to make a fire. François’ grouse were plunged into the kettle. These, seasoned with wild onions, nasturtium, and prairie-turnips—which Lucien had gathered along the route,—made a dish that was far from unpalatable. The stock of bear-meat was not touched—with the exception of a small piece, which, with the heads and other refuse parts of the grouse, formed the supper of Marengo. As soon as they had finished eating, the hunters spread their buffalo-robes upon the grass; and, drawing their blankets over them, went off into a sound sleep.This night they were not disturbed. When awake they could hear the howling of wolves upon the distant prairie, and near their camp. But they were used to this serenading music, and did not regard it. All three slept soundly throughout the live-long night.They were awake by grey dawn, and felt quite refreshed. They watered their horses, and prepared their breakfast of jerked bear-meat. This is not bad eating at any time; but to appetites like theirs it was a luxury indeed; and they broke their fast cleverly enough—eating nearly a pound a-piece. They all felt quite merry and jocund. Marengo was merry, though the claws of the cougar had scored his countenance sadly. Jeanette, too, frisked about, kicking at the flies as she fed. Basil had given her shanks a fresh touch of the bear’s grease; and the scars which the cougar had made were likely to cicatrise speedily. They remained all next day by that sweet spring, and enjoyed another night of undisturbed rest. On the second morning they continued their journey, and in a few days reached the “Cross Timbers,”—those celebrated groves that have so long puzzled the speculations of the curious naturalist. Our travellers did not remain long by them—as they saw no signs of the buffalo—but kept still farther to the west, crossing the head-waters of numerous streams that run into the river Brazos.About the third day, after leaving the Cross Timbers, they encamped on one of these streams—a very small one—that meandered through the prairie, without any timber upon its banks. But our travellers did not feel the want of this, as they could make their fire out of an article—the sight of which had been gladdening their eyes during the whole of that day’s journey. It was thebois de vache, or buffalo “chips,” as it is called by the trappers; and they knew that where this was found, the buffaloes themselves would not be far off. They had now got within therangeof these animals; and might expect to fall in with them at any moment.As soon as the next day dawned, the eyes of our hunters sought the prairie, but as yet no buffaloes were in sight. Nothing could be seen but the green treeless plain, stretching on all sides as if to the very sky. Only one object could be observed that gave a variety to the aspect around. This was an eminence that rose over the sea-like surface of the prairie—called in the language of the hunters, a “butte.” It appeared ten miles distant, at least; and seemed to stand alone, its steep sides rising like cliffs above the prairie level. It lay in the course they had hitherto been travelling.“Shall we make for it?” asked they of one another.“What better can we do?” said Basil. “We are as likely to meet the buffalo in that direction as in any other. We have no guide now; so we must trust to our good fortune to lead us to them, or them to us—which is about the same thing, I fancy.”“Oh! let us ‘catch up,’” advised François, “and ride for the butte. We may find buffalo near it.”“But what if we find no water?” suggested the ever-prudent Lucien.“That is not likely,” returned François. “I’ll warrant there’s water—there generally is where there are mountains, I believe; and yonder butte might almost be called a mountain. I’ll warrant there’s water.”“If there’s not,” added Basil, “we can return here.”“But, brothers,” said Lucien, “you know not the distance of that eminence.”“Ten miles, I should think,” said Basil.“Not more, certainly,” added François.“It is thirty, if an inch,” quietly remarked Lucien.“Thirty!” exclaimed the others; “thirty miles! You are jesting, are you not? Why, I could almost lay my hand upon it!”“That is a misconception of yours,” rejoined the philosopher. “You are both calculating distances, as you would in the low dense atmosphere of Louisiana. Remember you are now four thousand feet above the level of the sea, and surrounded by one of the purest and most translucent atmospheres in the world. Objects can be seen double the distance that you could see them on the banks of the Mississippi. That butte, which you think is only ten miles off, appears to me fifteen, or rather more; and I therefore calculate that it is at least thirty miles distant from the spot where we now are.”“Impossible!” exclaimed Basil, eyeing the butte. “Why, I can see the seams of the rocks on its sides, and trees, I fancy, growing upon its top.”“Well,” continued Lucien, “with all that you’ll find I am not far from the mark. But let us strike for it, since you wish it. We shall meet with water there, I suppose; take notice, however,—we’ll have tojourney all day before reaching it; and we may consider ourselves fortunate if we get there before night-fall.”Lucien’s prudence was not too great. On the contrary, it was not even sufficient for the occasion. This arose from his want of experience on the prairies. If either he or his brothers had had a little more of this, they would have hesitated before striking out so boldly, and leaving the water behind them. They would have known that, to make a long journey, without the certainty of finding water at the end of it, is a risk that even the old hunters themselves will seldom undertake. These, from experience, well know the danger of being without water on the prairies. They dread it more than grizzly bears, or panthers, or wolverines, or even hostile Indians. The fear of thirst is to them the greatest of all terrors.Our young hunters felt but little of this fear. It is true they had, all of them, heard or read of the sufferings that prairie travellers sometimes endure from want of water. But people who live snugly at home, surrounded by springs, and wells, and streams, with cisterns, and reservoirs, and pipes, and hydrants, and jets, and fountains, playing at all times around them, are prone to underrate these sufferings; in fact, too prone, might I not say, to discredit everything that does not come under the sphere of their own observation? They will readily believe that their cat can open a door-latch, and their pig can be taught to play cards, and that their dog can do wonderful things, savouring of something more than instinct. But these same people will shake their heads incredulously, when I tell them that the opossum saves herself from an enemy by hanging suspended to the tree-branch by her tail, or that the big-horn will leap from a precipice lighting upon his horns, or that the red monkeys can bridge a stream by joining themselves to one another by their tails.“Oh! nonsense!” they exclaim; “these things are too strange to be true.” And yet, when compared with thetrickstheir cat and dog can play, and even the little canary that flits about the drawing-room, do they seem either strange or improbable? The absent and distant are always regarded with wonder and incredulity; while familiar facts, in themselves far more wonderful, neither excite curiosity nor challenge credulity. Who now regards the startling phenomenon of the electric wire otherwise than as a simple truth easily comprehended? And yet there was a time—ah! there was a time—when to have proclaimed this truth would have rendered you or me ridiculous. There was a time, indeed, when it might have cost us our lives or our liberties. Remember Galileo!I was saying, then, that people who live at home do not knowwhat thirst is; forhomeis a place where there is always water. They cannot comprehend what it is to be in the desert without this necessary element. Ha!Iknow it; and I give you my word for it, it is a fearful thing.Our young hunters had but a faint idea of its terrors. Hitherto their route had been through a well-watered region—scarcely ever running ten or a dozen miles without crossing some stream with timber upon it, which they could see a long way off, and thus guide themselves to the water; but they little understood the nature of the country that was now before them. They knew not that they were entering upon the desert plains—those vast arid steppes that slope up to the foots of the Rocky Mountains—the Cordilleras of the Northern Andes.François, rash and impetuous, never dreamt of danger: Basil, courageous, did not fear it: Lucien had some misgivings, because he had heard or read more of it than the others. All, however, were curious to visit the strange, mound-looking eminencethatrose out of the plain. This was quite natural. Even the rude savage and the matter-of-fact trapper often diverge from their course, impelled by a similar curiosity.The horses were watered and saddled; Jeanette was packed; the water-gourds were filled; and our adventurers, having mounted, rode forward for the “butte.”

Their route led them through one of those lovely landscapes which are met with only in this southern region—a flower-prairie. They travelled in the midst of flowers. Flowers were before them, behind, and on every side. Their shining corollas covered the prairie as far as the eye could see. There were golden sunflowers (helianthi), and red malvas, euphorbias, and purple lupins. There were the rose-coloured blossoms of the wild althea, and the brilliant orange of Californian poppies—glancing among the green leaves like so many balls of fire—while lower upon the surface grew the humble violas, sparkling like azure gems.

The glorious sun was shining over all; and the late rain that had washed them seemed to have added to the fragrance and brilliancy. Millions of butterflies flew over them, or rested in their soft cups, not less brilliant than the flowers themselves. Some of these were of vast dimensions, their downy wings speckled and striped with varied and gorgeous tints. There were other insects of gay colours and glancing wings. The giant spider-fly flew around, now poised on whirring wing, and now darting off like a thread of lightning to some other part of the boundless garden. There were bees, too; and bee-birds humming from flower to flower, and robbing their rich nectaries. Now and then partridges and ruffed grouse whirred up before the horses; and François succeeded in shooting a brace of the latter, and hanging them behind his saddle.

Through these great flower-beds our travellers rode on, crushing many a beautiful corolla under their horses’ hoofs. Sometimes the flowers grew upon tall stalks that stood thickly together, and reached up to the shoulders of the horses, completely hiding them from the view of one at a distance. Sometimes the travellers passed through beds of helianthi alone—whose large heads, brushing against their thighs, covered them with yellow pollen-dust.

It was, altogether, a rare and beautiful landscape; and the young hunters would have enjoyed it much, had they not been suffering from weariness and want of sleep. The fragrance of the flowers seemed at first to refresh them; but after a while they became sensible of a narcotic influence which it exercised over them, as they felt more sleepy than ever. They would have encamped among them, but there was no water; and without water they could not remain. There was no grass, either, for their animals; as, strange to say, upon these flower-prairies grass is seldom met with. The flower-stalks usurp the soil, and no turf is ever found about their roots. The travellers, therefore, were compelled to ride on, until they should reach some spot having grass and water—two of the necessary requisites of a “night-camp.”

After proceeding about ten miles the flowers began to appear more thinly scattered over the surface, and at length declined into thegrassprairie. Two or three miles farther brought our adventurers to a small “spring branch” that ran through the open plain, with no timber upon its banks, except a few willows. Here they were glad to halt for the night, and they dismounted, and staked their animals upon the tempting sward.

All three were weary, and could have slept; but they were hungry as well, and must first eat—so they set about preparing supper. The willows were green, and would not burn very well; but by dint of perseverance they managed to make a fire. François’ grouse were plunged into the kettle. These, seasoned with wild onions, nasturtium, and prairie-turnips—which Lucien had gathered along the route,—made a dish that was far from unpalatable. The stock of bear-meat was not touched—with the exception of a small piece, which, with the heads and other refuse parts of the grouse, formed the supper of Marengo. As soon as they had finished eating, the hunters spread their buffalo-robes upon the grass; and, drawing their blankets over them, went off into a sound sleep.

This night they were not disturbed. When awake they could hear the howling of wolves upon the distant prairie, and near their camp. But they were used to this serenading music, and did not regard it. All three slept soundly throughout the live-long night.

They were awake by grey dawn, and felt quite refreshed. They watered their horses, and prepared their breakfast of jerked bear-meat. This is not bad eating at any time; but to appetites like theirs it was a luxury indeed; and they broke their fast cleverly enough—eating nearly a pound a-piece. They all felt quite merry and jocund. Marengo was merry, though the claws of the cougar had scored his countenance sadly. Jeanette, too, frisked about, kicking at the flies as she fed. Basil had given her shanks a fresh touch of the bear’s grease; and the scars which the cougar had made were likely to cicatrise speedily. They remained all next day by that sweet spring, and enjoyed another night of undisturbed rest. On the second morning they continued their journey, and in a few days reached the “Cross Timbers,”—those celebrated groves that have so long puzzled the speculations of the curious naturalist. Our travellers did not remain long by them—as they saw no signs of the buffalo—but kept still farther to the west, crossing the head-waters of numerous streams that run into the river Brazos.

About the third day, after leaving the Cross Timbers, they encamped on one of these streams—a very small one—that meandered through the prairie, without any timber upon its banks. But our travellers did not feel the want of this, as they could make their fire out of an article—the sight of which had been gladdening their eyes during the whole of that day’s journey. It was thebois de vache, or buffalo “chips,” as it is called by the trappers; and they knew that where this was found, the buffaloes themselves would not be far off. They had now got within therangeof these animals; and might expect to fall in with them at any moment.

As soon as the next day dawned, the eyes of our hunters sought the prairie, but as yet no buffaloes were in sight. Nothing could be seen but the green treeless plain, stretching on all sides as if to the very sky. Only one object could be observed that gave a variety to the aspect around. This was an eminence that rose over the sea-like surface of the prairie—called in the language of the hunters, a “butte.” It appeared ten miles distant, at least; and seemed to stand alone, its steep sides rising like cliffs above the prairie level. It lay in the course they had hitherto been travelling.

“Shall we make for it?” asked they of one another.

“What better can we do?” said Basil. “We are as likely to meet the buffalo in that direction as in any other. We have no guide now; so we must trust to our good fortune to lead us to them, or them to us—which is about the same thing, I fancy.”

“Oh! let us ‘catch up,’” advised François, “and ride for the butte. We may find buffalo near it.”

“But what if we find no water?” suggested the ever-prudent Lucien.

“That is not likely,” returned François. “I’ll warrant there’s water—there generally is where there are mountains, I believe; and yonder butte might almost be called a mountain. I’ll warrant there’s water.”

“If there’s not,” added Basil, “we can return here.”

“But, brothers,” said Lucien, “you know not the distance of that eminence.”

“Ten miles, I should think,” said Basil.

“Not more, certainly,” added François.

“It is thirty, if an inch,” quietly remarked Lucien.

“Thirty!” exclaimed the others; “thirty miles! You are jesting, are you not? Why, I could almost lay my hand upon it!”

“That is a misconception of yours,” rejoined the philosopher. “You are both calculating distances, as you would in the low dense atmosphere of Louisiana. Remember you are now four thousand feet above the level of the sea, and surrounded by one of the purest and most translucent atmospheres in the world. Objects can be seen double the distance that you could see them on the banks of the Mississippi. That butte, which you think is only ten miles off, appears to me fifteen, or rather more; and I therefore calculate that it is at least thirty miles distant from the spot where we now are.”

“Impossible!” exclaimed Basil, eyeing the butte. “Why, I can see the seams of the rocks on its sides, and trees, I fancy, growing upon its top.”

“Well,” continued Lucien, “with all that you’ll find I am not far from the mark. But let us strike for it, since you wish it. We shall meet with water there, I suppose; take notice, however,—we’ll have tojourney all day before reaching it; and we may consider ourselves fortunate if we get there before night-fall.”

Lucien’s prudence was not too great. On the contrary, it was not even sufficient for the occasion. This arose from his want of experience on the prairies. If either he or his brothers had had a little more of this, they would have hesitated before striking out so boldly, and leaving the water behind them. They would have known that, to make a long journey, without the certainty of finding water at the end of it, is a risk that even the old hunters themselves will seldom undertake. These, from experience, well know the danger of being without water on the prairies. They dread it more than grizzly bears, or panthers, or wolverines, or even hostile Indians. The fear of thirst is to them the greatest of all terrors.

Our young hunters felt but little of this fear. It is true they had, all of them, heard or read of the sufferings that prairie travellers sometimes endure from want of water. But people who live snugly at home, surrounded by springs, and wells, and streams, with cisterns, and reservoirs, and pipes, and hydrants, and jets, and fountains, playing at all times around them, are prone to underrate these sufferings; in fact, too prone, might I not say, to discredit everything that does not come under the sphere of their own observation? They will readily believe that their cat can open a door-latch, and their pig can be taught to play cards, and that their dog can do wonderful things, savouring of something more than instinct. But these same people will shake their heads incredulously, when I tell them that the opossum saves herself from an enemy by hanging suspended to the tree-branch by her tail, or that the big-horn will leap from a precipice lighting upon his horns, or that the red monkeys can bridge a stream by joining themselves to one another by their tails.

“Oh! nonsense!” they exclaim; “these things are too strange to be true.” And yet, when compared with thetrickstheir cat and dog can play, and even the little canary that flits about the drawing-room, do they seem either strange or improbable? The absent and distant are always regarded with wonder and incredulity; while familiar facts, in themselves far more wonderful, neither excite curiosity nor challenge credulity. Who now regards the startling phenomenon of the electric wire otherwise than as a simple truth easily comprehended? And yet there was a time—ah! there was a time—when to have proclaimed this truth would have rendered you or me ridiculous. There was a time, indeed, when it might have cost us our lives or our liberties. Remember Galileo!

I was saying, then, that people who live at home do not knowwhat thirst is; forhomeis a place where there is always water. They cannot comprehend what it is to be in the desert without this necessary element. Ha!Iknow it; and I give you my word for it, it is a fearful thing.

Our young hunters had but a faint idea of its terrors. Hitherto their route had been through a well-watered region—scarcely ever running ten or a dozen miles without crossing some stream with timber upon it, which they could see a long way off, and thus guide themselves to the water; but they little understood the nature of the country that was now before them. They knew not that they were entering upon the desert plains—those vast arid steppes that slope up to the foots of the Rocky Mountains—the Cordilleras of the Northern Andes.

François, rash and impetuous, never dreamt of danger: Basil, courageous, did not fear it: Lucien had some misgivings, because he had heard or read more of it than the others. All, however, were curious to visit the strange, mound-looking eminencethatrose out of the plain. This was quite natural. Even the rude savage and the matter-of-fact trapper often diverge from their course, impelled by a similar curiosity.

The horses were watered and saddled; Jeanette was packed; the water-gourds were filled; and our adventurers, having mounted, rode forward for the “butte.”

Chapter Twenty Three.The Hunt of the Wild Horse.“There must be buffalo in this neighbourhood,” said Basil, looking to the ground as they rode on. “These ‘chips’ are very fresh. They cannot have lain for many days. See! there is a buffalo-road covered with tracks!”As Basil said this, he pointed to a trough-like hollow in the prairie, running as far as the eye could reach. It looked like the dry bed of a stream; but the hoof-tracks in the bottom showed that it was what he had called it,—a buffalo-road, leading, no doubt, to some river or watering-place. It was so deep that, in riding along it, the heads of our travellers were on a level with the prairie. It had been thus hollowed out by the water during heavy rains, as the soil, previously loosened by the hoofs of the buffaloes, was then carried off to the rivers. Such roads the buffaloes follow at times, thousands of them keeping in the same trail. They travel thus when they are migrating in search of better pastures, or water—to which they know by experience the roads will conduct them.Our hunters did not follow this road far, as there was no certainty that it would bring them to where the animals then were. They crossed over, and kept on for the butte.“Voilà!” cried François, “what are these?” François pointed to several circular hollows that appeared in the prairie before them.“Buffalo-wallows, I declare!” said Basil: “some of them are quite fresh too!”“Buffalo-wallows!” echoed François; “what are they?”“Why, have you never heard of them, Frank?” asked Basil. “Places where the buffalo wallow and tumble like horses and farm-cattle.”“Oh, that’s it,” said François; “but what do they do it for?”“Well, that I don’t know. Perhaps Luce can tell.”“Some say,” said Lucien, thus appealed to, “they do it to scratch themselves, and get rid of the flies and other insects that annoy them. Others believe that they practise this curious exercise only by way of diversion.”“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed François, “what funny fellows they must be!”“There is yet another more curious explanation,” continued Lucien, “which is this:—that the buffaloes make these hollows to catch water when it rains, so that they may come back to them and drink!”“Ha! ha! ha!” again laughed François; “I can’t believe that, brother.”“I would not have you neither,” said Lucien; “of course, the supposition is not true—as the buffalo is not an animal possessing sufficient intelligence for that. It is only offered as a curious suggestion. It is certain, however, that the water collects in these holes during rain-time, and often remains there for days; and the buffaloes, wandering about, drink out of them. Therefore, it may, in one sense, be truly said that the buffaloesdig their own wells! These often prove of service to other animals, as well as those who have made them. Lost trappers and Indians have been saved by finding water in them, when otherwise they would have perished from thirst.”“How very round they are!” said François; “why, they are perfect circles! How do the buffaloes make them so?”“By laying themselves out at full length and spinning round and round like a wagon wheel upon its nave. They revolve with great rapidity, using their humped shoulders as a pivot, and their legs as levers. They sometimes continue this motion for half-an-hour at a time. No doubt they do this, as has been said, to scratch themselves; for, notwithstanding their thick hides and hair, they are much annoyed by insect-parasites. They do it, too, for amusement, or to give themselves pleasure, which is the same thing. You have often witnessed horses at a similar exercise; and was it not evident that they took a pleasure in it? Have you not fancied so?”“Oh, yes,” cried François, “I am sure horses enjoy a good tumble.”“Well, then, it is to be supposed the buffaloes do the same. Getting rid of their tormentors, and pressing their hot sides into the fresh cool earth, is, no doubt, a source of enjoyment to them. They are not very cleanly; as they are often seen wandering about, so covered with dirt, that one cannot tell what colour their hide is.”“Well!” added François, “I hope we shall soon come across one with awhitehide!”Talking after this fashion, our young hunters continued their journey. They had ridden about ten miles, when Basil—whose eye was all the time wandering around the prairie horizon—uttered an exclamation, and suddenly reined up his horse. The others, seeing him do so, stopped also.“What do you see?” asked Lucien.“I do not know,” replied Basil; “but there is something yonder upon the edge of the prairie—to the southward—do you see it?”“Yes; it looks like a clump of low trees.”“No,” said Basil; “they are not trees. This moment I saw one apart from the rest, and I do not see it now. It appeared to move in toward the mass. I fancy they are animals of some kind or other.”“Buffaloes, I hope!” cried François, raising himself to his full height in the stirrups, and endeavouring to get a sight of them. But François’ pony did not give him a sufficient elevation to enable him to see the objects; and he was, therefore, compelled to withhold an opinion as to what they might be.“Should we ride towards them?” asked Lucien, addressing Basil.“I think they are moving this way,” replied the latter. “They extend more along the horizon, and that may be because they are getting nearer. Buffaloes! no—as I live,” continued he, elevating his voice, “they are horsemen—perhaps mounted Indians!”“Why do you think so?” inquired Lucien, hurriedly.“I saw one between me and the sky. I can tell the shape of a horse as far as I can see him. I am sure it was one. Look! yonder goes another!”“It is,” added Lucien; “it is a horse. But see! there is no rider—no one on his back; and yonder’s another, also without a rider. Ha! I know now—they are mustangs!”“Mustangs!” echoed François; “good!—that will be something worth seeing.”It soon proved that Lucien was right. It was a drove of mustangs, or wild horses. Basil was also right in saying that they were coming towards them; for in a few moments they appeared to be within less than a mile, and approaching at a rapid gallop.They galloped closely together like a trained troop; and one could be perceived some lengths in the advance apparently acting as leader. Now and then one would shy out of the ranks, and rear a moment apart from the rest, but would return again, and fall in with his companions. It was a rare sight to see them as they came on; and the ground thundered under their hoofs as though a squadron of cavalry was charging over it.When within less than half a mile of the party, they seemed to notice the latter for the first time. All at once the foremost halted, threw up his head with a snort, and stood still. The others stopped, imitating the example of their leader. The latter was still some paces in the advance; while the breasts of his followers seemed to form a compact front, like cavalry in line of battle! After standing still for a few seconds, the leader uttered a shrill neigh, shied to the right, and dashed off at full speed. The others answered the call; and, instantly wheeling into the same direction, followed after. The movement was executed with the precision of a troop!Our hunters supposed the horses were about to pass them, and part company without coming closer. They all regretted this, as they were desirous of having a nearer view of these noble creatures. In order not to alarm them as they were coming up, all three had taken the precaution to dismount; and now stood partially screened by their own horses, yet holding the latter firmly—as these were terrified by the thundering tramp of the wild steeds.In a moment the mustangs appeared opposite—that is, with their sides turned to the hunters; and the latter now saw with joy that they were not passing away, butgalloping in a circle—of which they, the spectators, were the centre!The circle in which the horses ran was scarcely half a mile in diameter, and they appeared to be approaching nearer to the centre. In fact, they were not following the circumference of a circle, but a spiral curve that contracted gradually inward.The boys had now a fair view of them, and a beautiful sight it was. There were about two hundred in all, but they were of different colours—scarcely two of them being marked alike. There were black and white ones, and bay and roan. Some were brown, some sorrel, and some of an iron-grey; and there were others—many of them—mottled and spotted like hounds! All had flowing manes and long waving tails; and these streamed behind them as they galloped, adding to the gracefulness of their appearance. It was, in truth, a beautiful sight, and the hearts of the boys bounded within them, while their eyes followed the moving troop as it circled round and round.But the eyes of all three soon centred upon one—the leader, and a fairer object none of them had ever beheld. Basil, who loved a fine horse more than any living thing, was in an ecstasy as he gazed upon this beautiful creature. It was no wonder, for a more perfect-looking animal could hardly have been conceived. He was larger than any of the herd, though still under the size of an English horse. His full chest and prominent eye-balls—his well-bound flanks and quarters—his light cylindrical limbs and small finely-shaped hoofs, showed of what race he was—an Arab of the Andalusian breed—a descendant of the noble steeds that carried the first conquerors of Mexico. His proportions were what a judge would have pronounced perfect; and Basil, who, in fact,wasa judge, had already said so. He was white all over—white as the mountain-snow. As he galloped, his nostrils appeared open and red, his eyes stood prominently forth, his mane was tossed on both sides of his neck from his crest to his withers, and his long tail streamed horizontally behind him. His free, graceful movements—like that of all his followers—showed that no saddle had ever been laid across his back.As Basil gazed upon this noble creature, he became imbued with an irresistible desire to possess him. It is true he already had a horse, and as fine a one as ever wore saddle; but it was Basil’s weakness to covet every fine horse he saw; and this one had inspired him with a most particular longing to become his owner. In a few seconds’ time, so eager had grown this desire, that Basil felt as if he would have given all he had in the world—Black Hawk, perhaps, excepted—to be the master of this prairie steed. Throwing a lasso, as Basil could, and mounted as he was, it would strike you that he might soon have gratified his wish; but it was not so easy a thing, and Basil knew that. He knew that he might without difficulty overtake and fling his noose over some of the “fags” of the herd; but to capture the leader was quite another thing—a featnever accomplished upon the prairies, even by the Indians themselves. He had often heard this, nevertheless, he was determined to try. He had great confidence in the speed and bottom of Black Hawk.He communicated his determination to his brothers, in a whisper—lest he might frighten the mustangs, now circling very near. Lucien tried to dissuade him, offering as a reason, that it would lead them from their course, and might separate them from each other.“No,” said Basil. “Go on to the butte, you and François. I shall come to you—perhaps I may be there before you. Do not say a word, brother,—you need not. Imust have that horse; and I shall capture him if it cost me a fifty-mile gallop.”While Basil was speaking, he drew closer to his left stirrup, looked to the lasso that hung coiled upon the horn of his saddle, and then stood ready to mount. Lucien saw it was of no use to urge his advice farther, and ceased to interfere. François would fondly have joined Basil in the chase; but his diminutive pony rendered the idea too absurd to be acted upon.During all this time the wild horses had continued their evolutions. At intervals they would halt at a signal from their leader, and wheel into line, facing inward towards the little group. In this position they would remain for a few seconds, with heads erect, gazing with curious wonder at the strange intruders upon their domain. Some of them would paw the ground, and snort as if in anger. Then the foremost would utter his shrill neigh, and all would go off again, circling about as before.They had got within less than two hundred yards of where the hunters stood, but it was evident they intended coming no nearer. On the contrary, they showed symptoms of bearing off. At each fresh movement from a halt, they turned their heads for the prairie, and then came circling back again—as though they had not yet quite satisfied their curiosity.During their last halt—or what Basil believed might be the last—he again cautioned his brothers to keep on to the butte, and quietly placing his foot in the stirrup, vaulted into the saddle. The movement caused the mustangs to start; but, before they could turn themselves, the young hunter had plied the spur, and made several springs towards them across the prairie. He looked not at the drove—he cared not which way they might go—his eye rested only on the white leader, and towards him he rode in full charge.The latter, when he saw this sudden movement, stood for a moment, as if in surprise. Then giving a wild neigh—far different from any of the calls he had hitherto uttered—wheeled to the right, and led off in a gallop, the rest following at the top of their speed. As the rearmost came round upon the prairie, Basil was not a dozen yards from them; and in a few springs had got so close that he could easily have thrown his lasso over some of them. In turning, however, he was left far behind; but he soon recovered his distance, and spurred on, bearing slightly to one side of the drove. He did not wish to get in amongst them—as he believed that might be dangerous, and would only impede him. His object was to head the drove, or in some way to separate the leader from the others. This was what he wanted first; and to this task he bent himself with all his energy.On flew the wild steeds straining themselves to their utmost speed. On followed the hunter,—apparently in reckless pursuit, but carefully guiding his horse as he rode. His lasso hung at his saddle-peak. He had not yet touched it—time enough for that.On flew the wild horses, and closer followed the daring hunter, until miles of the prairie lay between him and the starting-point. In a few minutes he was no longer visible to those he had left behind.But the small Andalusian steeds were no match for the Godolphin Arab. The herd had changed its shape. The horses no longer ran in a body, but in a long string—each taking place according to his speed—and far in advance of all, like a meteor, glanced the snow-white leader.The hindmost were soon passed—each swerving off from the track, as soon as he saw himself headed by the great dark horse that carried the strange and dreaded object upon his back. One by one they were passed, until Black Hawk had forged ahead of the whole drove; and his rider now saw nothing before him but the white steed, the green prairie, and the blue sky. He looked not back. Had he done so, he would have seen the mustangs scattering in every direction over the plain. But he looked not back. All that he now cared for was before him; and he plied the spur freshly and galloped on.He had no need to use the spur. Black Hawk seemed to think that his credit rested upon the result, and the faithful brute was doing his best. On the other hand, the wild horse felt that his life, or at least his freedom, depended upon it, and this was enough to urgehimto his utmost. Both flew like the wind—pursuer and pursued.As they parted from the herd, there was not more than three hundred yards between them; and they must have passed over some miles afterwards, before this distance was greatly lessened. Their line of flight was as straight as an arrow; and from this it was evident that the mustang usually trusted to his hoofs to save him from his enemies.In a race like this, however, the pursuer has the advantage of the pursued. The latter, always anxious, is constrained to look back; and is, therefore, less sure of the ground that lies before. He loses his proper attitude for speed, and is besides in danger of stumbling. So it was with the wild horse. He did not stumble—he was too sure of foot for that—but his head was occasionally thrown to one side, until his large dark eye commanded a view of his enemy behind him. This, of course, to some extent, retarded him. It was only at these moments that Basil could gain upon him; and the proofs he thus gave of his superior powers, only rendered the latter the more eager to capture and possess him.After a long chase the distance between them was still two hundred paces at the least. The young hunter, with a feeling of impatience, once more plied the spur in a fresh effort to come up; while the other seemed to spring forward as swiftly as ever.All at once Basil observed that the white steed, instead of running straight forward, appeared to go from side to side, moving in crooked lines! Basil saw this with surprise. He looked to discover the cause. As his eye glanced along the ground, he perceived that it was uneven—covered, as far as he could see, with little hillocks. The mustang was among them. It was this, then, that was causing him to run so strangely. Basil had hardly made the observation, when he felt his horse sink suddenly under him, and tumble headlong upon the prairie!The rider was flung from his seat, though not much hurt. He rose at once to his feet. Black Hawk struggled up at the same time, and stood still, his wet flanks rising and falling as he breathed and panted. He was not in a condition to gallop farther. But even had he been fresh, Basil saw that the chase was now at an end. The little hillocks, which he had just noticed, stood thick upon the prairie, as far as the eye could reach; and among these the wild horse was gliding off as swiftly as ever. When the hunter got to his feet again, the other was nearly a quarter of a mile distant, and at that moment sent back a shrill neigh, as if triumphing over his escape—for he had escaped beyond a doubt.Basil saw this with chagrin. He saw that further pursuit was not only useless, but dangerous; for although he had never seen anything like these little mounds before, he knew very well what they were, and the danger of riding at a rapid rate among them. He had received a timely lesson—for he was just entering their borders when his horse fell—fortunately to rise again with sound limbs. He knew he might not get off so safely a second time, and he had no inclination to take the chances of another tumble. He was not going to risk the loss of his favourite Black Hawk for the white steed, even had he been certain of capturing the latter. But this was no longer likely. On the contrary, he might, instead of making a capture, lose his own horse, were he to continue the chase; and that he well knew would be a terrible situation. With the best grace he could, therefore, he abandoned the pursuit, leaving the mustang to scamper off alone. He watched him for several minutes, until the latter, far, far away, faded like a white cloud into the pale blue of the horizon.The young hunter now bethought him of returning to his companions. In what direction was he to go? He looked around for the butte. There it was; but, to his astonishment, it lay directly before him, and nearer than when he last saw it! He had been all this while galloping towards it; but in his haste had not noticed this. Lucien and François must be behind, thought he, and would soon come that way. The best thing he could do, therefore, would be to wait until they should come up; and, with this intention, he sat down upon one of the little hillocks, leaving his horse to wander about at will.

“There must be buffalo in this neighbourhood,” said Basil, looking to the ground as they rode on. “These ‘chips’ are very fresh. They cannot have lain for many days. See! there is a buffalo-road covered with tracks!”

As Basil said this, he pointed to a trough-like hollow in the prairie, running as far as the eye could reach. It looked like the dry bed of a stream; but the hoof-tracks in the bottom showed that it was what he had called it,—a buffalo-road, leading, no doubt, to some river or watering-place. It was so deep that, in riding along it, the heads of our travellers were on a level with the prairie. It had been thus hollowed out by the water during heavy rains, as the soil, previously loosened by the hoofs of the buffaloes, was then carried off to the rivers. Such roads the buffaloes follow at times, thousands of them keeping in the same trail. They travel thus when they are migrating in search of better pastures, or water—to which they know by experience the roads will conduct them.

Our hunters did not follow this road far, as there was no certainty that it would bring them to where the animals then were. They crossed over, and kept on for the butte.

“Voilà!” cried François, “what are these?” François pointed to several circular hollows that appeared in the prairie before them.

“Buffalo-wallows, I declare!” said Basil: “some of them are quite fresh too!”

“Buffalo-wallows!” echoed François; “what are they?”

“Why, have you never heard of them, Frank?” asked Basil. “Places where the buffalo wallow and tumble like horses and farm-cattle.”

“Oh, that’s it,” said François; “but what do they do it for?”

“Well, that I don’t know. Perhaps Luce can tell.”

“Some say,” said Lucien, thus appealed to, “they do it to scratch themselves, and get rid of the flies and other insects that annoy them. Others believe that they practise this curious exercise only by way of diversion.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed François, “what funny fellows they must be!”

“There is yet another more curious explanation,” continued Lucien, “which is this:—that the buffaloes make these hollows to catch water when it rains, so that they may come back to them and drink!”

“Ha! ha! ha!” again laughed François; “I can’t believe that, brother.”

“I would not have you neither,” said Lucien; “of course, the supposition is not true—as the buffalo is not an animal possessing sufficient intelligence for that. It is only offered as a curious suggestion. It is certain, however, that the water collects in these holes during rain-time, and often remains there for days; and the buffaloes, wandering about, drink out of them. Therefore, it may, in one sense, be truly said that the buffaloesdig their own wells! These often prove of service to other animals, as well as those who have made them. Lost trappers and Indians have been saved by finding water in them, when otherwise they would have perished from thirst.”

“How very round they are!” said François; “why, they are perfect circles! How do the buffaloes make them so?”

“By laying themselves out at full length and spinning round and round like a wagon wheel upon its nave. They revolve with great rapidity, using their humped shoulders as a pivot, and their legs as levers. They sometimes continue this motion for half-an-hour at a time. No doubt they do this, as has been said, to scratch themselves; for, notwithstanding their thick hides and hair, they are much annoyed by insect-parasites. They do it, too, for amusement, or to give themselves pleasure, which is the same thing. You have often witnessed horses at a similar exercise; and was it not evident that they took a pleasure in it? Have you not fancied so?”

“Oh, yes,” cried François, “I am sure horses enjoy a good tumble.”

“Well, then, it is to be supposed the buffaloes do the same. Getting rid of their tormentors, and pressing their hot sides into the fresh cool earth, is, no doubt, a source of enjoyment to them. They are not very cleanly; as they are often seen wandering about, so covered with dirt, that one cannot tell what colour their hide is.”

“Well!” added François, “I hope we shall soon come across one with awhitehide!”

Talking after this fashion, our young hunters continued their journey. They had ridden about ten miles, when Basil—whose eye was all the time wandering around the prairie horizon—uttered an exclamation, and suddenly reined up his horse. The others, seeing him do so, stopped also.

“What do you see?” asked Lucien.

“I do not know,” replied Basil; “but there is something yonder upon the edge of the prairie—to the southward—do you see it?”

“Yes; it looks like a clump of low trees.”

“No,” said Basil; “they are not trees. This moment I saw one apart from the rest, and I do not see it now. It appeared to move in toward the mass. I fancy they are animals of some kind or other.”

“Buffaloes, I hope!” cried François, raising himself to his full height in the stirrups, and endeavouring to get a sight of them. But François’ pony did not give him a sufficient elevation to enable him to see the objects; and he was, therefore, compelled to withhold an opinion as to what they might be.

“Should we ride towards them?” asked Lucien, addressing Basil.

“I think they are moving this way,” replied the latter. “They extend more along the horizon, and that may be because they are getting nearer. Buffaloes! no—as I live,” continued he, elevating his voice, “they are horsemen—perhaps mounted Indians!”

“Why do you think so?” inquired Lucien, hurriedly.

“I saw one between me and the sky. I can tell the shape of a horse as far as I can see him. I am sure it was one. Look! yonder goes another!”

“It is,” added Lucien; “it is a horse. But see! there is no rider—no one on his back; and yonder’s another, also without a rider. Ha! I know now—they are mustangs!”

“Mustangs!” echoed François; “good!—that will be something worth seeing.”

It soon proved that Lucien was right. It was a drove of mustangs, or wild horses. Basil was also right in saying that they were coming towards them; for in a few moments they appeared to be within less than a mile, and approaching at a rapid gallop.

They galloped closely together like a trained troop; and one could be perceived some lengths in the advance apparently acting as leader. Now and then one would shy out of the ranks, and rear a moment apart from the rest, but would return again, and fall in with his companions. It was a rare sight to see them as they came on; and the ground thundered under their hoofs as though a squadron of cavalry was charging over it.

When within less than half a mile of the party, they seemed to notice the latter for the first time. All at once the foremost halted, threw up his head with a snort, and stood still. The others stopped, imitating the example of their leader. The latter was still some paces in the advance; while the breasts of his followers seemed to form a compact front, like cavalry in line of battle! After standing still for a few seconds, the leader uttered a shrill neigh, shied to the right, and dashed off at full speed. The others answered the call; and, instantly wheeling into the same direction, followed after. The movement was executed with the precision of a troop!

Our hunters supposed the horses were about to pass them, and part company without coming closer. They all regretted this, as they were desirous of having a nearer view of these noble creatures. In order not to alarm them as they were coming up, all three had taken the precaution to dismount; and now stood partially screened by their own horses, yet holding the latter firmly—as these were terrified by the thundering tramp of the wild steeds.

In a moment the mustangs appeared opposite—that is, with their sides turned to the hunters; and the latter now saw with joy that they were not passing away, butgalloping in a circle—of which they, the spectators, were the centre!

The circle in which the horses ran was scarcely half a mile in diameter, and they appeared to be approaching nearer to the centre. In fact, they were not following the circumference of a circle, but a spiral curve that contracted gradually inward.

The boys had now a fair view of them, and a beautiful sight it was. There were about two hundred in all, but they were of different colours—scarcely two of them being marked alike. There were black and white ones, and bay and roan. Some were brown, some sorrel, and some of an iron-grey; and there were others—many of them—mottled and spotted like hounds! All had flowing manes and long waving tails; and these streamed behind them as they galloped, adding to the gracefulness of their appearance. It was, in truth, a beautiful sight, and the hearts of the boys bounded within them, while their eyes followed the moving troop as it circled round and round.

But the eyes of all three soon centred upon one—the leader, and a fairer object none of them had ever beheld. Basil, who loved a fine horse more than any living thing, was in an ecstasy as he gazed upon this beautiful creature. It was no wonder, for a more perfect-looking animal could hardly have been conceived. He was larger than any of the herd, though still under the size of an English horse. His full chest and prominent eye-balls—his well-bound flanks and quarters—his light cylindrical limbs and small finely-shaped hoofs, showed of what race he was—an Arab of the Andalusian breed—a descendant of the noble steeds that carried the first conquerors of Mexico. His proportions were what a judge would have pronounced perfect; and Basil, who, in fact,wasa judge, had already said so. He was white all over—white as the mountain-snow. As he galloped, his nostrils appeared open and red, his eyes stood prominently forth, his mane was tossed on both sides of his neck from his crest to his withers, and his long tail streamed horizontally behind him. His free, graceful movements—like that of all his followers—showed that no saddle had ever been laid across his back.

As Basil gazed upon this noble creature, he became imbued with an irresistible desire to possess him. It is true he already had a horse, and as fine a one as ever wore saddle; but it was Basil’s weakness to covet every fine horse he saw; and this one had inspired him with a most particular longing to become his owner. In a few seconds’ time, so eager had grown this desire, that Basil felt as if he would have given all he had in the world—Black Hawk, perhaps, excepted—to be the master of this prairie steed. Throwing a lasso, as Basil could, and mounted as he was, it would strike you that he might soon have gratified his wish; but it was not so easy a thing, and Basil knew that. He knew that he might without difficulty overtake and fling his noose over some of the “fags” of the herd; but to capture the leader was quite another thing—a featnever accomplished upon the prairies, even by the Indians themselves. He had often heard this, nevertheless, he was determined to try. He had great confidence in the speed and bottom of Black Hawk.

He communicated his determination to his brothers, in a whisper—lest he might frighten the mustangs, now circling very near. Lucien tried to dissuade him, offering as a reason, that it would lead them from their course, and might separate them from each other.

“No,” said Basil. “Go on to the butte, you and François. I shall come to you—perhaps I may be there before you. Do not say a word, brother,—you need not. Imust have that horse; and I shall capture him if it cost me a fifty-mile gallop.”

While Basil was speaking, he drew closer to his left stirrup, looked to the lasso that hung coiled upon the horn of his saddle, and then stood ready to mount. Lucien saw it was of no use to urge his advice farther, and ceased to interfere. François would fondly have joined Basil in the chase; but his diminutive pony rendered the idea too absurd to be acted upon.

During all this time the wild horses had continued their evolutions. At intervals they would halt at a signal from their leader, and wheel into line, facing inward towards the little group. In this position they would remain for a few seconds, with heads erect, gazing with curious wonder at the strange intruders upon their domain. Some of them would paw the ground, and snort as if in anger. Then the foremost would utter his shrill neigh, and all would go off again, circling about as before.

They had got within less than two hundred yards of where the hunters stood, but it was evident they intended coming no nearer. On the contrary, they showed symptoms of bearing off. At each fresh movement from a halt, they turned their heads for the prairie, and then came circling back again—as though they had not yet quite satisfied their curiosity.

During their last halt—or what Basil believed might be the last—he again cautioned his brothers to keep on to the butte, and quietly placing his foot in the stirrup, vaulted into the saddle. The movement caused the mustangs to start; but, before they could turn themselves, the young hunter had plied the spur, and made several springs towards them across the prairie. He looked not at the drove—he cared not which way they might go—his eye rested only on the white leader, and towards him he rode in full charge.

The latter, when he saw this sudden movement, stood for a moment, as if in surprise. Then giving a wild neigh—far different from any of the calls he had hitherto uttered—wheeled to the right, and led off in a gallop, the rest following at the top of their speed. As the rearmost came round upon the prairie, Basil was not a dozen yards from them; and in a few springs had got so close that he could easily have thrown his lasso over some of them. In turning, however, he was left far behind; but he soon recovered his distance, and spurred on, bearing slightly to one side of the drove. He did not wish to get in amongst them—as he believed that might be dangerous, and would only impede him. His object was to head the drove, or in some way to separate the leader from the others. This was what he wanted first; and to this task he bent himself with all his energy.

On flew the wild steeds straining themselves to their utmost speed. On followed the hunter,—apparently in reckless pursuit, but carefully guiding his horse as he rode. His lasso hung at his saddle-peak. He had not yet touched it—time enough for that.

On flew the wild horses, and closer followed the daring hunter, until miles of the prairie lay between him and the starting-point. In a few minutes he was no longer visible to those he had left behind.

But the small Andalusian steeds were no match for the Godolphin Arab. The herd had changed its shape. The horses no longer ran in a body, but in a long string—each taking place according to his speed—and far in advance of all, like a meteor, glanced the snow-white leader.

The hindmost were soon passed—each swerving off from the track, as soon as he saw himself headed by the great dark horse that carried the strange and dreaded object upon his back. One by one they were passed, until Black Hawk had forged ahead of the whole drove; and his rider now saw nothing before him but the white steed, the green prairie, and the blue sky. He looked not back. Had he done so, he would have seen the mustangs scattering in every direction over the plain. But he looked not back. All that he now cared for was before him; and he plied the spur freshly and galloped on.

He had no need to use the spur. Black Hawk seemed to think that his credit rested upon the result, and the faithful brute was doing his best. On the other hand, the wild horse felt that his life, or at least his freedom, depended upon it, and this was enough to urgehimto his utmost. Both flew like the wind—pursuer and pursued.

As they parted from the herd, there was not more than three hundred yards between them; and they must have passed over some miles afterwards, before this distance was greatly lessened. Their line of flight was as straight as an arrow; and from this it was evident that the mustang usually trusted to his hoofs to save him from his enemies.

In a race like this, however, the pursuer has the advantage of the pursued. The latter, always anxious, is constrained to look back; and is, therefore, less sure of the ground that lies before. He loses his proper attitude for speed, and is besides in danger of stumbling. So it was with the wild horse. He did not stumble—he was too sure of foot for that—but his head was occasionally thrown to one side, until his large dark eye commanded a view of his enemy behind him. This, of course, to some extent, retarded him. It was only at these moments that Basil could gain upon him; and the proofs he thus gave of his superior powers, only rendered the latter the more eager to capture and possess him.

After a long chase the distance between them was still two hundred paces at the least. The young hunter, with a feeling of impatience, once more plied the spur in a fresh effort to come up; while the other seemed to spring forward as swiftly as ever.

All at once Basil observed that the white steed, instead of running straight forward, appeared to go from side to side, moving in crooked lines! Basil saw this with surprise. He looked to discover the cause. As his eye glanced along the ground, he perceived that it was uneven—covered, as far as he could see, with little hillocks. The mustang was among them. It was this, then, that was causing him to run so strangely. Basil had hardly made the observation, when he felt his horse sink suddenly under him, and tumble headlong upon the prairie!

The rider was flung from his seat, though not much hurt. He rose at once to his feet. Black Hawk struggled up at the same time, and stood still, his wet flanks rising and falling as he breathed and panted. He was not in a condition to gallop farther. But even had he been fresh, Basil saw that the chase was now at an end. The little hillocks, which he had just noticed, stood thick upon the prairie, as far as the eye could reach; and among these the wild horse was gliding off as swiftly as ever. When the hunter got to his feet again, the other was nearly a quarter of a mile distant, and at that moment sent back a shrill neigh, as if triumphing over his escape—for he had escaped beyond a doubt.

Basil saw this with chagrin. He saw that further pursuit was not only useless, but dangerous; for although he had never seen anything like these little mounds before, he knew very well what they were, and the danger of riding at a rapid rate among them. He had received a timely lesson—for he was just entering their borders when his horse fell—fortunately to rise again with sound limbs. He knew he might not get off so safely a second time, and he had no inclination to take the chances of another tumble. He was not going to risk the loss of his favourite Black Hawk for the white steed, even had he been certain of capturing the latter. But this was no longer likely. On the contrary, he might, instead of making a capture, lose his own horse, were he to continue the chase; and that he well knew would be a terrible situation. With the best grace he could, therefore, he abandoned the pursuit, leaving the mustang to scamper off alone. He watched him for several minutes, until the latter, far, far away, faded like a white cloud into the pale blue of the horizon.

The young hunter now bethought him of returning to his companions. In what direction was he to go? He looked around for the butte. There it was; but, to his astonishment, it lay directly before him, and nearer than when he last saw it! He had been all this while galloping towards it; but in his haste had not noticed this. Lucien and François must be behind, thought he, and would soon come that way. The best thing he could do, therefore, would be to wait until they should come up; and, with this intention, he sat down upon one of the little hillocks, leaving his horse to wander about at will.

Chapter Twenty Four.A Dog-Town.Black Hawk strayed off to some distance in search of grass, for the latter was scanty near the spot; and what there was of it had been eaten as close to the ground, as if a thousand rabbits had been feeding upon it! Basil did not hinder his horse from going. He knew that he was too well trained to run away, and that he could recall him at any moment by a whistle. He sat still, therefore; now scanning the prairie to the eastward, and now endeavouring to kill time by examining the strange little mounds on the other side. Of these there were thousands—indeed, they covered the plain, both to the north and south, and west, as far as Basil could see. They were shaped like truncated cones, about three feet in diameter at the base, and not over two in height. Near the top of each was the entrance—a hole not much larger than would have been used by a rat. There was no grass immediately around this hole, although the sides and tops of the mounds were clothed with a smooth green turf that gave them the appearance of having been constructed a long time ago.The inhabitants of these singular dwellings soon began to show themselves. They had been terrified by the thundering tread of the steeds, and had hidden at their approach. All was now silent again, and they thought they might venture abroad. First one little snout peeped out, and then another, and another until every hole had a head and a pair of sparkling eyes looking forth. After a while the owners of the heads became more courageous, and boldly stepped out-of-doors; and then could be seen hundreds of these strange creatures. They were of a reddish-brown colour, with breasts and bellies of a dirty white. Their bodies were about the size of the common grey squirrel; but their general appearance partook of the squirrel, the weasel, and the rat—all three of which they in some respects resembled, and yet were not like any of them. They were a distinct species of animals. They wereMarmots, that species known by the fanciful appellation of “prairie-dogs,” (Arctomys ludoviciana). Their tails were very short, and not bushy as those of squirrels; and altogether their bodies had not the graceful symmetry of these animals. In a short time every mound had two or three on its top—for several individuals dwell together in the same house. Some sat upon all fours, while others erected themselves on their hind-feet, and stood up like little bears or monkeys—all the while flourishing their tails and uttering their tiny barking, that sounded like the squeak of a toy-dog. It is from this that they derive the name of “prairie-dogs,” for in nothing else do they resemble the canine species. Like all marmots—and there are many different kinds—they are innocent little creatures, and live upon grass, seeds, and roots. They must eat very little; and indeed it is a puzzle to naturalists how they sustain themselves. Their great “towns” near the Rocky Mountains are generally in barren tracts, where there is but a scanty herbage; and yet the inhabitants are never found more than half a mile from their dwellings. How, then, do thousands of them subsist on what little grass can grow in a pasture so circumscribed? This has not been explained; nor is it known why they choose these barren tracts for their dwelling-places, in preference to the more fertile prairies. All these things await the study and observation of the historian of nature.Basil was surprised to observe that the marmots were not alone the occupants of their town. There were other creatures moving about of an entirely different kind, and they also seemed to be perfectly at home. There were white owls, about the size of pigeons, of a species he had never seen before. These were the burrowing owls (Strix cunicularia), differing altogether from their blind cousins of the night who dwell in thick woods and old ruins. He saw these little owls gliding about on silent wing, or standing erect upon the tops of the houses, at a distance looking exactly like the marmots themselves.Besides the marmots and owls there were other live creatures in sight. There were small lizards scuttling about; and crawling among the mounds was seen a hideous form—also of the lizard kind—the “horned frog” (Agama cornuta). These creatures were new to Basil; and their ugly earth-coloured bodies, their half-toad half-lizard shape, with the thorn like protuberances, upon their back, shoulders, and head, inspired him with disgust as he gazed upon them. He could see, too, the small land-tortoise (Cistuda) squatting upon the ground, and peeping cautiously out of its box-like shell. But there was another creature in this community more fearful than all the rest. This was theground rattle-snake, which could be seen, coiled up, and basking in the sun, or gliding among the mounds, as if searching for his prey. Basil noticed that it was a different species from any of the rattle-snakes he had seen—differing from them in its shape and markings, but equally vicious in its appearance and habits. It was theCrotalus tergeminus—found only in barren grounds, such as those inhabited by the prairie-marmot.Basil could not help falling into a train of reflection about this varied community of creatures. Were they friends to each other? or did they form a chain of destruction, preying upon one another? Friends they could not all be. The marmots lived upon grass; and the lizards upon insects and prairie-crickets, of which there were numbers around. Upon these, too, no doubt, the tortoises supported themselves; but upon what fed the owls and snakes?These questions puzzled Basil. He could not satisfy himself about them; and he thought of Lucien, who understood the habits of these various animals better than himself. He began to think both of Lucien and François—for two hours had now passed, and they did not make their appearance! He was fast becoming uneasy, when a small group of objects was seen approaching from the eastward, which, to his joy, proved to be the party.In half an hour afterwards they rode up greeting their brother with joyful shouts. They had been travelling briskly ever since the morning, and upon Basil’s tracks too, showing what a stretch of ground he must have passed over in his wild gallop. They saw at once that the white horse had got off; and Basil, in a few words, gave them an account of the chase and how it had come to an end.As it was now afternoon, and the butte still appeared distant, they made but a short halt—just long enough to swallow a morsel of meat and take a drink from their water-gourds, which, owing to the intense heat, were now better than half empty. Their animals already suffered from thirst; so, without delay, the young hunters got into their saddles, with the intention of continuing their journey.“Across the dog-town?” inquired François, who had mounted first. “Shall we ride through it or go round?”Here was a difficulty, indeed. The dog-town lay directly between them and the butte. To keep straight forward they would have to ride through it. That would impede them to a considerable extent, as they could only ride slowly and in zig-zag lines without danger. To go round it, on the other hand, might lead them miles out of the way—perhaps many miles—for these marmot villages are frequently of large extent.“Let us go south a bit,” advised Lucien. “Perhaps we may come to the end of it that way.”They all turned their horses for the south, and commenced riding in that direction.They rode for at least two miles, keeping along the border of the settlement: but they could still see it ahead, apparently stretching for miles farther.“We have come the wrong way,” said Lucien; “we might have done better had we turned north. We must cross it now; what say you, brothers?”All agreed to this; for it is not very pleasant to be going about, when the goal of one’s journey is within sight. So the heads of the horses were brought round once more facing the butte; and the party rode in among the mounds, and proceeded slowly and with great caution. As they approached, the little “dogs” ran to their hillocks, barked at the intruders, shook their short tails, and then whisked themselves off into their holes. Whenever the party had got past, a hundred yards or so, the marmots would come forth again, and utter their tiny cough-like notes as before; so that, when our travellers were fairly into the “town,” they found themselves at all times in the centre of a barking circle!The owls rose up before them, alighting at short distances; then, once more startled, they would fly farther off, sometimes sailing away until out of sight, and sometimes, like the marmots, hiding themselves within the burrows. The rattle-snakes, too, betook themselves to the burrows, and so did the lizards and agamas. What appeared most strange, was, that all of these creatures—marmots, owls, snakes, lizards, and agamas—were observed, when suddenly escaping, sometimes to enter the same mound! This our travellers witnessed more than once.Very naturally the conversation turned upon these things; and Lucien added some facts to what Basil had already observed.“The holes,” said he, “had we time to dig them up, would be found to descend perpendicularly for two or three feet. They then run obliquely for several feet farther, and end in a little chamber which is the real house of the marmot. I say therealhouse, for these cone-like mounds are only the entrances. They have been formed out of the earth brought up from below at the making of the burrows. As you see, this earth has not been allowed to lie in a neglected heap, such as rats and rabbits leave at the mouths of their burrows. On the contrary, it has been built up with great care, and beaten together by the marmots’ feet until quite firm and smooth; and the grass has been allowed to grow over it to save it from being washed down by rain. It is evident the animal does all this with design—just as beavers, in building their houses. Now, upon these mounds the marmots love to bask, and amuse themselves in the sun; and it is likely that they can watch their enemies better from this elevated position, and thus gain time to make good their retreat.”“But some of the mounds look quite dilapidated,” observed François. “Look yonder, there are several of them caved in, and guttered by the rain! What is the reason, I wonder?”“These are the ones in which the owls live,” replied Lucien. “See! yonder goes an owl into one this very moment! It is supposed that the owls have taken these from the marmots, and use them exclusively for their own dwellings; and, as you perceive, they do not keep them in repair. All they care for is the hole to take shelter in, leaving the outside works to go to ruin as they may. Certain it is that, although we have seen them and the dogs rush into the same hole together, it is because we came suddenly upon them. They do not live thus. The marmots have their own dwellings, and the owls theirs, which last are the ruined ones you have noticed.”“But do not the owls eat the marmots?” inquired Basil. “The great owls of the woods prey upon animals as large. I have seen them kill rabbits in the dusk of the evening.”“These do not,” answered the naturalist; “at least it is supposed they do not. Many that have been shot and opened proved to have nothing in their stomachs but insects and beetles—such as these we see upon the prairie. I think it is probable the owls make an occasional meal of the horned frogs and lizards; though I have no proof of this farther than that birds of this kind usually prey upon such reptiles.”“But how live the rattle-snakes?” inquired François; “what do they feed upon?”“Ah!” replied Lucien, “that is the puzzle of naturalists. Some assert that they are the tyrants of the community, and devour the old marmots. This can hardly be, as these snakes are not large enough to swallow them, in my opinion. Certain it is, however, that they prey occasionally upon the young, as many of them have been killed with young marmots in their belly?”“Why, then,” rejoined François, “the snakes seem to have it all their own way. If they eat the young marmots, what is to hinder them from killing as many as they please? They can enter the burrows with as much ease as the marmots themselves!”“That is true,” replied Lucien, “but not half so nimbly; and perhaps the latter can even escape them within. The rattle-snake is a very slow crawler; and, besides, only strikes his prey when coiled up. Perhaps, in these subterranean galleries, he is still less able to capture it; and the old marmots may, after all, have some mode of defending both themselves and their young from his venomous attacks. As yet very little is known of these creatures. The remote regions in which they are found place them beyond the observation of naturalists; and such of these, as have visited their towns, have been only allowed time to make a hurried examination of them. They are very shy; rarely letting you get within range of a gun. They are, therefore, seldom shot at. Moreover, it takes great trouble to capture them by digging—on account of the depth of their burrows—and as their skins are not very valuable, and their flesh but a bite at best, they are not often molested by the hunter.”“But are they eatable?” inquired François.“Yes,” answered Lucien; “the Indians are very fond of their flesh, and eat it whenever they can conveniently get it; but, indeed, they will do the same for almost every living creature.”“What do marmots feed upon in winter, when there is no grass for them?” inquired François.“They then lie torpid. They have nests in their subterranean chambers, and curious nests these are. They are constructed of grass and roots, are as round as a globe, and so firmly woven together, that one of them might be kicked over the prairie like a foot-ball. The nest is within, with a small hole leading into it, just large enough to admit your finger—for when the marmot goes inside, he closes all up, except this little hole, through which he gets all the air he requires. In these snug beds they lie asleep during the cold season, and at that time are rarely seen outside their burrows.”

Black Hawk strayed off to some distance in search of grass, for the latter was scanty near the spot; and what there was of it had been eaten as close to the ground, as if a thousand rabbits had been feeding upon it! Basil did not hinder his horse from going. He knew that he was too well trained to run away, and that he could recall him at any moment by a whistle. He sat still, therefore; now scanning the prairie to the eastward, and now endeavouring to kill time by examining the strange little mounds on the other side. Of these there were thousands—indeed, they covered the plain, both to the north and south, and west, as far as Basil could see. They were shaped like truncated cones, about three feet in diameter at the base, and not over two in height. Near the top of each was the entrance—a hole not much larger than would have been used by a rat. There was no grass immediately around this hole, although the sides and tops of the mounds were clothed with a smooth green turf that gave them the appearance of having been constructed a long time ago.

The inhabitants of these singular dwellings soon began to show themselves. They had been terrified by the thundering tread of the steeds, and had hidden at their approach. All was now silent again, and they thought they might venture abroad. First one little snout peeped out, and then another, and another until every hole had a head and a pair of sparkling eyes looking forth. After a while the owners of the heads became more courageous, and boldly stepped out-of-doors; and then could be seen hundreds of these strange creatures. They were of a reddish-brown colour, with breasts and bellies of a dirty white. Their bodies were about the size of the common grey squirrel; but their general appearance partook of the squirrel, the weasel, and the rat—all three of which they in some respects resembled, and yet were not like any of them. They were a distinct species of animals. They wereMarmots, that species known by the fanciful appellation of “prairie-dogs,” (Arctomys ludoviciana). Their tails were very short, and not bushy as those of squirrels; and altogether their bodies had not the graceful symmetry of these animals. In a short time every mound had two or three on its top—for several individuals dwell together in the same house. Some sat upon all fours, while others erected themselves on their hind-feet, and stood up like little bears or monkeys—all the while flourishing their tails and uttering their tiny barking, that sounded like the squeak of a toy-dog. It is from this that they derive the name of “prairie-dogs,” for in nothing else do they resemble the canine species. Like all marmots—and there are many different kinds—they are innocent little creatures, and live upon grass, seeds, and roots. They must eat very little; and indeed it is a puzzle to naturalists how they sustain themselves. Their great “towns” near the Rocky Mountains are generally in barren tracts, where there is but a scanty herbage; and yet the inhabitants are never found more than half a mile from their dwellings. How, then, do thousands of them subsist on what little grass can grow in a pasture so circumscribed? This has not been explained; nor is it known why they choose these barren tracts for their dwelling-places, in preference to the more fertile prairies. All these things await the study and observation of the historian of nature.

Basil was surprised to observe that the marmots were not alone the occupants of their town. There were other creatures moving about of an entirely different kind, and they also seemed to be perfectly at home. There were white owls, about the size of pigeons, of a species he had never seen before. These were the burrowing owls (Strix cunicularia), differing altogether from their blind cousins of the night who dwell in thick woods and old ruins. He saw these little owls gliding about on silent wing, or standing erect upon the tops of the houses, at a distance looking exactly like the marmots themselves.

Besides the marmots and owls there were other live creatures in sight. There were small lizards scuttling about; and crawling among the mounds was seen a hideous form—also of the lizard kind—the “horned frog” (Agama cornuta). These creatures were new to Basil; and their ugly earth-coloured bodies, their half-toad half-lizard shape, with the thorn like protuberances, upon their back, shoulders, and head, inspired him with disgust as he gazed upon them. He could see, too, the small land-tortoise (Cistuda) squatting upon the ground, and peeping cautiously out of its box-like shell. But there was another creature in this community more fearful than all the rest. This was theground rattle-snake, which could be seen, coiled up, and basking in the sun, or gliding among the mounds, as if searching for his prey. Basil noticed that it was a different species from any of the rattle-snakes he had seen—differing from them in its shape and markings, but equally vicious in its appearance and habits. It was theCrotalus tergeminus—found only in barren grounds, such as those inhabited by the prairie-marmot.

Basil could not help falling into a train of reflection about this varied community of creatures. Were they friends to each other? or did they form a chain of destruction, preying upon one another? Friends they could not all be. The marmots lived upon grass; and the lizards upon insects and prairie-crickets, of which there were numbers around. Upon these, too, no doubt, the tortoises supported themselves; but upon what fed the owls and snakes?

These questions puzzled Basil. He could not satisfy himself about them; and he thought of Lucien, who understood the habits of these various animals better than himself. He began to think both of Lucien and François—for two hours had now passed, and they did not make their appearance! He was fast becoming uneasy, when a small group of objects was seen approaching from the eastward, which, to his joy, proved to be the party.

In half an hour afterwards they rode up greeting their brother with joyful shouts. They had been travelling briskly ever since the morning, and upon Basil’s tracks too, showing what a stretch of ground he must have passed over in his wild gallop. They saw at once that the white horse had got off; and Basil, in a few words, gave them an account of the chase and how it had come to an end.

As it was now afternoon, and the butte still appeared distant, they made but a short halt—just long enough to swallow a morsel of meat and take a drink from their water-gourds, which, owing to the intense heat, were now better than half empty. Their animals already suffered from thirst; so, without delay, the young hunters got into their saddles, with the intention of continuing their journey.

“Across the dog-town?” inquired François, who had mounted first. “Shall we ride through it or go round?”

Here was a difficulty, indeed. The dog-town lay directly between them and the butte. To keep straight forward they would have to ride through it. That would impede them to a considerable extent, as they could only ride slowly and in zig-zag lines without danger. To go round it, on the other hand, might lead them miles out of the way—perhaps many miles—for these marmot villages are frequently of large extent.

“Let us go south a bit,” advised Lucien. “Perhaps we may come to the end of it that way.”

They all turned their horses for the south, and commenced riding in that direction.

They rode for at least two miles, keeping along the border of the settlement: but they could still see it ahead, apparently stretching for miles farther.

“We have come the wrong way,” said Lucien; “we might have done better had we turned north. We must cross it now; what say you, brothers?”

All agreed to this; for it is not very pleasant to be going about, when the goal of one’s journey is within sight. So the heads of the horses were brought round once more facing the butte; and the party rode in among the mounds, and proceeded slowly and with great caution. As they approached, the little “dogs” ran to their hillocks, barked at the intruders, shook their short tails, and then whisked themselves off into their holes. Whenever the party had got past, a hundred yards or so, the marmots would come forth again, and utter their tiny cough-like notes as before; so that, when our travellers were fairly into the “town,” they found themselves at all times in the centre of a barking circle!

The owls rose up before them, alighting at short distances; then, once more startled, they would fly farther off, sometimes sailing away until out of sight, and sometimes, like the marmots, hiding themselves within the burrows. The rattle-snakes, too, betook themselves to the burrows, and so did the lizards and agamas. What appeared most strange, was, that all of these creatures—marmots, owls, snakes, lizards, and agamas—were observed, when suddenly escaping, sometimes to enter the same mound! This our travellers witnessed more than once.

Very naturally the conversation turned upon these things; and Lucien added some facts to what Basil had already observed.

“The holes,” said he, “had we time to dig them up, would be found to descend perpendicularly for two or three feet. They then run obliquely for several feet farther, and end in a little chamber which is the real house of the marmot. I say therealhouse, for these cone-like mounds are only the entrances. They have been formed out of the earth brought up from below at the making of the burrows. As you see, this earth has not been allowed to lie in a neglected heap, such as rats and rabbits leave at the mouths of their burrows. On the contrary, it has been built up with great care, and beaten together by the marmots’ feet until quite firm and smooth; and the grass has been allowed to grow over it to save it from being washed down by rain. It is evident the animal does all this with design—just as beavers, in building their houses. Now, upon these mounds the marmots love to bask, and amuse themselves in the sun; and it is likely that they can watch their enemies better from this elevated position, and thus gain time to make good their retreat.”

“But some of the mounds look quite dilapidated,” observed François. “Look yonder, there are several of them caved in, and guttered by the rain! What is the reason, I wonder?”

“These are the ones in which the owls live,” replied Lucien. “See! yonder goes an owl into one this very moment! It is supposed that the owls have taken these from the marmots, and use them exclusively for their own dwellings; and, as you perceive, they do not keep them in repair. All they care for is the hole to take shelter in, leaving the outside works to go to ruin as they may. Certain it is that, although we have seen them and the dogs rush into the same hole together, it is because we came suddenly upon them. They do not live thus. The marmots have their own dwellings, and the owls theirs, which last are the ruined ones you have noticed.”

“But do not the owls eat the marmots?” inquired Basil. “The great owls of the woods prey upon animals as large. I have seen them kill rabbits in the dusk of the evening.”

“These do not,” answered the naturalist; “at least it is supposed they do not. Many that have been shot and opened proved to have nothing in their stomachs but insects and beetles—such as these we see upon the prairie. I think it is probable the owls make an occasional meal of the horned frogs and lizards; though I have no proof of this farther than that birds of this kind usually prey upon such reptiles.”

“But how live the rattle-snakes?” inquired François; “what do they feed upon?”

“Ah!” replied Lucien, “that is the puzzle of naturalists. Some assert that they are the tyrants of the community, and devour the old marmots. This can hardly be, as these snakes are not large enough to swallow them, in my opinion. Certain it is, however, that they prey occasionally upon the young, as many of them have been killed with young marmots in their belly?”

“Why, then,” rejoined François, “the snakes seem to have it all their own way. If they eat the young marmots, what is to hinder them from killing as many as they please? They can enter the burrows with as much ease as the marmots themselves!”

“That is true,” replied Lucien, “but not half so nimbly; and perhaps the latter can even escape them within. The rattle-snake is a very slow crawler; and, besides, only strikes his prey when coiled up. Perhaps, in these subterranean galleries, he is still less able to capture it; and the old marmots may, after all, have some mode of defending both themselves and their young from his venomous attacks. As yet very little is known of these creatures. The remote regions in which they are found place them beyond the observation of naturalists; and such of these, as have visited their towns, have been only allowed time to make a hurried examination of them. They are very shy; rarely letting you get within range of a gun. They are, therefore, seldom shot at. Moreover, it takes great trouble to capture them by digging—on account of the depth of their burrows—and as their skins are not very valuable, and their flesh but a bite at best, they are not often molested by the hunter.”

“But are they eatable?” inquired François.

“Yes,” answered Lucien; “the Indians are very fond of their flesh, and eat it whenever they can conveniently get it; but, indeed, they will do the same for almost every living creature.”

“What do marmots feed upon in winter, when there is no grass for them?” inquired François.

“They then lie torpid. They have nests in their subterranean chambers, and curious nests these are. They are constructed of grass and roots, are as round as a globe, and so firmly woven together, that one of them might be kicked over the prairie like a foot-ball. The nest is within, with a small hole leading into it, just large enough to admit your finger—for when the marmot goes inside, he closes all up, except this little hole, through which he gets all the air he requires. In these snug beds they lie asleep during the cold season, and at that time are rarely seen outside their burrows.”

Chapter Twenty Five.A Night in the Desert.Conversing in this way, the young hunters rode on, keeping as far from the edges of the mounds as possible, lest the hoofs of their horses might sink in the excavated ground. They had ridden full five miles, and still the marmot village stretched before them! still the dogs on all sides uttered their “Choo-choo”—still the owls flapped silently up, and the rattle-snakes crawled across their track.It was near sun-down when they emerged from among the hillocks, and commenced stepping out on the hard, barren plain. Their conversation now assumed a gloomier turn, for their thoughts were gloomy. They had drunk all their water. The heat and dust had made them extremely thirsty; and the water, warmed as it was in their gourd canteens, scarcely gave them any relief. They began to experience the cravings of thirst. The butte still appeared at a great distance—at least ten miles off. What, if on reaching it, they should find no water? This thought, combined with the torture they were already enduring, was enough to fill them with apprehension and fear.Basil now felt how inconsiderately they had acted, in not listening to the more prudent suggestions of Lucien; but it was too late for regrets—as is often the case with those who act rashly.They saw that they must reach the butte as speedily as possible, for the night was coming on. If it should prove a dark night, they would be unable to guide themselves by the eminence, and losing their course might wander all night. Oppressed with this fear, they pushed forward as fast as possible; but their animals, wearied with the long journey and suffering from thirst, could only travel at a lagging pace.They had ridden about three miles from the dog-town, when, to their consternation, a new object presented itself. The prairie yawned before them, exhibiting one of those vast fissures often met with on the high table-lands of America. It was abarranca, of nearly a thousand feet in depth, sheer down into the earth, although its two edges at the top were scarcely that distance apart from each other! It lay directly across the track of the travellers; and they could trace its course for miles to the right and left, here running for long reaches in a straight line, and there curving or zig-zagging through the prairie. When they arrived upon its brink, they saw at a glance that they could not cross it. It was precipitous on both sides, with dark jutting rocks, which in some places overhung its bed. There was no water in it to gladden their eyes; but, even had there been such, they could not have reached it. Its bottom was dry, and covered with loose boulders of rock that had fallen from above.This was an interruption which our travellers little expected; and they turned to each other with looks of dismay. For some minutes they deliberated, uncertain how to act. Would they ride along its edge, and endeavour to find a crossing-place? Or would it be better to retrace their steps, and attempt to reach the stream which they had left in the morning? The latter was a fearful alternative, as they knew they could not pass the marmot hillocks in the darkness without losing time and encountering danger. It is discouraging at all times togo back, particularly as they had ridden so far—they believed that water would be found near the butte. They resolved, at length, to search for a crossing.With this intention they made a fresh start, and kept along the edge of the barranca. They chose the path that appeared to lead upward—as by so doing they believed they would the sooner reach a point where the chasm was shallower. They rode on for miles; but still the fissure, with its steep cliffs, yawned below them, and no crossing could be found. The sun went down, and the night came on as dark as pitch. They halted. They dared ride no farther. They dared not even go back—lest they might chance upon some outlying angle of the crooked chasm, and ride headlong into it! They dismounted from their horses, and sunk down upon the prairie with feelings almost of despair.It would be impossible to picture their sufferings throughout that long night. They did not sleep even for a moment. The agonising pangs of thirst as well as the uncertainty of what was before them on the morrow kept them awake. They did not even picket their horses—for there was no grass near the spot where they were—but sat up all night holding their bridles. Their poor horses, like themselves, suffered both from thirst and hunger; and the mule Jeanette occasionally uttered a wild hinnying that was painful to hear.As soon as day broke they remounted, and continued on along the edge of the barranca. They saw that it still turned in various directions; and, to add to their terror, they now discovered that they could not even retrace the path upon which they had come, without going all the way back on their own tracks. The sun was obscured by clouds, and they knew not in what direction lay the stream they had left—even had they possessed strength enough to have reached it.They were advancing and discussing whether they should make the attempt, when they came upon a deep buffalo-road that crossed their path. It was beaten with tracks apparently fresh. They hailed the sight with joyful exclamations—as they believed that it would lead them to a crossing. They hesitated not, but riding boldly into it, followed it downward. As they had anticipated, it wound down to the bottom of the barranca, and passed up to the prairie on the opposite side, where they soon arrived in safety.This, however, was no termination to their sufferings, which had now grown more acute than ever. The atmosphere felt like an oven; and the light dust, kicked up by their horses’ hoofs, enveloped them in a choking cloud, so that at times they could not see the butte for which they were making. It was of no use halting again. To halt was certain death—and they struggled on with fast-waning strength, scarcely able to retain their seats or speak to one another. Thirst had almost deprived them of the power of speech!It was near sunset, when the travellers, faint, choking, panting for breath, bent down in their saddles, their horses dragging along under them like loaded bees, approached the foot of the eminence. Their eyes were thrown forward in eager glances—glances in which hope and despair were strangely blended.The grey, rocky bluff, that fronted them, looked parched and forbidding. It seemed to frown inhospitably upon them as they drew near.“O brothers! should there be no water!”This exclamation was hardly uttered, when the mule Jeanette, hitherto lagging behind, sprang forward in a gallop, hinnying loudly as she ran. Jeanette, as we have said, was an old prairie traveller, and could scent water as far as a wolf could have done her own carcass. The other animals, seeing her act in this manner, rushed after; and the next moment the little cavalcade passed round a point of rocks, where a green sward gladdened the eyes of all. They saw grass and willows, among whose leaves gurgled the crystal waters of a prairie spring; and in a few seconds’ time, both horses and riders were quenching their thirst in its cool current.

Conversing in this way, the young hunters rode on, keeping as far from the edges of the mounds as possible, lest the hoofs of their horses might sink in the excavated ground. They had ridden full five miles, and still the marmot village stretched before them! still the dogs on all sides uttered their “Choo-choo”—still the owls flapped silently up, and the rattle-snakes crawled across their track.

It was near sun-down when they emerged from among the hillocks, and commenced stepping out on the hard, barren plain. Their conversation now assumed a gloomier turn, for their thoughts were gloomy. They had drunk all their water. The heat and dust had made them extremely thirsty; and the water, warmed as it was in their gourd canteens, scarcely gave them any relief. They began to experience the cravings of thirst. The butte still appeared at a great distance—at least ten miles off. What, if on reaching it, they should find no water? This thought, combined with the torture they were already enduring, was enough to fill them with apprehension and fear.

Basil now felt how inconsiderately they had acted, in not listening to the more prudent suggestions of Lucien; but it was too late for regrets—as is often the case with those who act rashly.

They saw that they must reach the butte as speedily as possible, for the night was coming on. If it should prove a dark night, they would be unable to guide themselves by the eminence, and losing their course might wander all night. Oppressed with this fear, they pushed forward as fast as possible; but their animals, wearied with the long journey and suffering from thirst, could only travel at a lagging pace.

They had ridden about three miles from the dog-town, when, to their consternation, a new object presented itself. The prairie yawned before them, exhibiting one of those vast fissures often met with on the high table-lands of America. It was abarranca, of nearly a thousand feet in depth, sheer down into the earth, although its two edges at the top were scarcely that distance apart from each other! It lay directly across the track of the travellers; and they could trace its course for miles to the right and left, here running for long reaches in a straight line, and there curving or zig-zagging through the prairie. When they arrived upon its brink, they saw at a glance that they could not cross it. It was precipitous on both sides, with dark jutting rocks, which in some places overhung its bed. There was no water in it to gladden their eyes; but, even had there been such, they could not have reached it. Its bottom was dry, and covered with loose boulders of rock that had fallen from above.

This was an interruption which our travellers little expected; and they turned to each other with looks of dismay. For some minutes they deliberated, uncertain how to act. Would they ride along its edge, and endeavour to find a crossing-place? Or would it be better to retrace their steps, and attempt to reach the stream which they had left in the morning? The latter was a fearful alternative, as they knew they could not pass the marmot hillocks in the darkness without losing time and encountering danger. It is discouraging at all times togo back, particularly as they had ridden so far—they believed that water would be found near the butte. They resolved, at length, to search for a crossing.

With this intention they made a fresh start, and kept along the edge of the barranca. They chose the path that appeared to lead upward—as by so doing they believed they would the sooner reach a point where the chasm was shallower. They rode on for miles; but still the fissure, with its steep cliffs, yawned below them, and no crossing could be found. The sun went down, and the night came on as dark as pitch. They halted. They dared ride no farther. They dared not even go back—lest they might chance upon some outlying angle of the crooked chasm, and ride headlong into it! They dismounted from their horses, and sunk down upon the prairie with feelings almost of despair.

It would be impossible to picture their sufferings throughout that long night. They did not sleep even for a moment. The agonising pangs of thirst as well as the uncertainty of what was before them on the morrow kept them awake. They did not even picket their horses—for there was no grass near the spot where they were—but sat up all night holding their bridles. Their poor horses, like themselves, suffered both from thirst and hunger; and the mule Jeanette occasionally uttered a wild hinnying that was painful to hear.

As soon as day broke they remounted, and continued on along the edge of the barranca. They saw that it still turned in various directions; and, to add to their terror, they now discovered that they could not even retrace the path upon which they had come, without going all the way back on their own tracks. The sun was obscured by clouds, and they knew not in what direction lay the stream they had left—even had they possessed strength enough to have reached it.

They were advancing and discussing whether they should make the attempt, when they came upon a deep buffalo-road that crossed their path. It was beaten with tracks apparently fresh. They hailed the sight with joyful exclamations—as they believed that it would lead them to a crossing. They hesitated not, but riding boldly into it, followed it downward. As they had anticipated, it wound down to the bottom of the barranca, and passed up to the prairie on the opposite side, where they soon arrived in safety.

This, however, was no termination to their sufferings, which had now grown more acute than ever. The atmosphere felt like an oven; and the light dust, kicked up by their horses’ hoofs, enveloped them in a choking cloud, so that at times they could not see the butte for which they were making. It was of no use halting again. To halt was certain death—and they struggled on with fast-waning strength, scarcely able to retain their seats or speak to one another. Thirst had almost deprived them of the power of speech!

It was near sunset, when the travellers, faint, choking, panting for breath, bent down in their saddles, their horses dragging along under them like loaded bees, approached the foot of the eminence. Their eyes were thrown forward in eager glances—glances in which hope and despair were strangely blended.

The grey, rocky bluff, that fronted them, looked parched and forbidding. It seemed to frown inhospitably upon them as they drew near.

“O brothers! should there be no water!”

This exclamation was hardly uttered, when the mule Jeanette, hitherto lagging behind, sprang forward in a gallop, hinnying loudly as she ran. Jeanette, as we have said, was an old prairie traveller, and could scent water as far as a wolf could have done her own carcass. The other animals, seeing her act in this manner, rushed after; and the next moment the little cavalcade passed round a point of rocks, where a green sward gladdened the eyes of all. They saw grass and willows, among whose leaves gurgled the crystal waters of a prairie spring; and in a few seconds’ time, both horses and riders were quenching their thirst in its cool current.

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