One day we were pushed for horses to work on our scrapers,so I hitched up Brigham, to see how he would work. He wasnot much used to that kind of labour, and I was about givingup the idea of making a work horse of him, when one of themen called to me that there were some buffaloes coming overthe hill. As there had been no buffaloes seen anywherein the vicinity of the camp for several days, we had becomerather short of meat. I immediately told one of our mento hitch his horses to a wagon and follow me, as I was goingout after the herd, and we would bring back some fresh meatfor supper. I had no saddle, as mine had been left at campa mile distant, so taking the harness from Brigham I mountedhim bareback, and started out after the game, being armedwith my celebrated buffalo killer Lucretia Borgia—a newlyimproved breech-loading needle-gun, which I had obtainedfrom the government.While I was riding toward the buffaloes, I observed fivehorsemen coming out from the fort, who had evidently seenthe buffaloes from the post, and were going out for a chase.They proved to be some newly arrived officers in that partof the country, and when they came up closer I could seeby the shoulder-straps that the senior was a captain,while the others were lieutenants."Hello! my friend," sang out the captain; "I see you areafter the same game we are.""Yes, sir; I saw those buffaloes coming over the hill,and as we were about out of fresh meat I thought I wouldgo and get some," said I.They scanned my cheap-looking outfit pretty closely, andas my horse was not very prepossessing in appearance, havingon only a blind bridle, and otherwise looking like a workhorse, they evidently considered me a green hand at hunting."Do you expect to catch those buffaloes on that Gothicsteed?" laughingly asked the captain."I hope so, by pushing on the reins hard enough," wasmy reply."You'll never catch them in the world, my fine fellow,"said the captain. "It requires a fast horse to overtakethe animals on the prairie.""Does it?" asked I, as if I didn't know it."Yes; but come along with us, as we are going to kill themmore for pleasure than anything else. All we want are thetongues and a piece of tenderloin, and you may have allthat is left," said the generous man."I am much obliged to you, captain, and will follow you,"I replied.There were eleven buffaloes in the herd, and they were notmore than a mile ahead of us. The officers dashed on as ifthey had a sure thing on killing them all before I couldcome up with them; but I had noticed that the herd wasmaking toward the creek for water, and as I knew buffalonature, I was perfectly aware that it would be difficultto turn them from their direct course. Thereupon, I startedtoward the creek to head them off, while the officerscame up in the rear and gave chase.The buffaloes came rushing past me not a hundred yardsdistant, with the officers about three hundred yards inthe rear. Now, thought I, is the time to "get my work in,"as they say; and I pulled off the blind bridle from myhorse, who knew as well as I did that we were out afterbuffaloes, as he was a trained hunter. The moment thebridle was off he started at the top of his speed, runningin ahead of the officers, and with a few jumps he brought mealongside the rear buffalo. Raising old Lucretia Borgiato my shoulder, I fired, and killed the animal at thefirst shot. My horse then carried me alongside the nextone, not ten feet away, and I dropped him at the next fire.As soon as one of the buffalo would fall, Brigham wouldtake me so close to the next that I could almost touch itwith my gun. In this manner I killed the eleven buffaloeswith twelve shots; and as the last animal dropped, my horsestopped. I jumped off to the ground, knowing that he wouldnot leave me—it must be remembered that I had been ridinghim without bridle, reins, or saddle—and, turning aroundas the party of astonished officers rode up, I said to them:—"Now, gentlemen, allow me to present to you all the tonguesand tenderloins you wish from these buffaloes."Captain Graham, for such I soon learned was his name,replied: "Well, I never saw the like before. Who underthe sun are you, anyhow?""My name is Cody," said I.Captain Graham, who was considerable of a horseman,greatly admired Brigham, and said: "That horse of yourshas running points.""Yes, sir; he has not only got the points, he is a runnerand knows how to use the points," said I."So I noticed," said the captain.They all finally dismounted, and we continued chattingfor some little time upon the different subjects of horses,buffaloes, hunting, and Indians. They felt a little soreat not getting a single shot at the buffaloes; but the wayI had killed them, they said, amply repaid them for theirdisappointment. They had read of such feats in books,but this was the first time they had ever seen anythingof the kind with their own eyes. It was the first time,also, that they had ever witnessed or heard of a white manrunning buffaloes on horseback without a saddle or bridle.I told them that Brigham knew nearly as much about thebusiness as I did, and if I had twenty bridles they wouldhave been of no use to me, as he understood everything,and all that he expected of me was to do the shooting.It is a fact that Brigham would stop if a buffalo did notfall at the first fire, so as to give me a second chance;but if I did not kill the animal then, he would go on, asif to say, "You are no good, and I will not fool away mytime by giving you more than two shots." Brigham was thebest horse I ever saw or owned for buffalo chasing.
At one time an old, experienced buffalo hunter was following at the heels of a small herd with that reckless rush to which in the excitement of the chase men abandon themselves, when a great bull just in front of him tumbled into a ravine. The rider's horse fell also, throwing the old hunter over his head sprawling, but with strange accuracy right between the bull's horns! The first to recover from the terrible shock and to regain his legs was the horse, which ran off with wonderful alacrity several miles before he stopped. Next the bull rose, and shook himself with an astonished air, as if he would like to know "how that was done?" The hunter was on the great brute's back, who, perhaps, took the affair as a good practical joke; but he was soon pitched to the ground, as the buffalo commenced to jump "stiff-legged," and the latter, giving the hunter one lingering look, which he long remembered, with remarkable good nature ran off to join his companions. Had the bull been wounded, the rider would have been killed, as the then enraged animal would have gored and trampled him to death.
An officer of the old regular army told me many years ago that in crossing the plains a herd of buffalo were fired at by a twelve-pound howitzer, the ball of which wounded and stunned an immense bull. Nevertheless, heedless of a hundred shots that had been fired at him, and of a bulldog belonging to one of the officers, which had fastened himself to his lips, the enraged beast charged upon the whole troop of dragoons, and tossed one of the horses like a feather. Bull, horse, and rider all fell in a heap. Before the dust cleared away, the trooper, who had hung for a moment to one of the bull's horns by his waistband, crawled out safe, while the horse got a ball from a rifle through his neck while in the air and two great rips in his flank from the bull.
In 1839 Kit Carson and Hobbs were trapping with a party on the Arkansas River, not far from Bent's Fort. Among the trappers was a green Irishman, named O'Neil, who was quite anxious to become proficient in hunting, and it was not long before he received his first lesson. Every man who went out of camp after game was expected to bring in "meat" of some kind. O'Neil said that he would agree to the terms, and was ready one evening to start out on his first hunt alone. He picked up his rifle and stalked after a small herd of buffalo in plain sight on the prairie not more than five or six hundred yards from camp.
All the trappers who were not engaged in setting their traps or cooking supper were watching O'Neil. Presently they heard the report of his rifle, and shortly after he came running into camp, bareheaded, without his gun, and with a buffalo bull close upon his heels; both going at full speed, and the Irishman shouting like a madman,—
"Here we come, by jabers. Stop us! For the love of God, stop us!"
Just as they came in among the tents, with the bull not more than six feet in the rear of O'Neil, who was frightened out of his wits and puffing like a locomotive, his foot caught in a tent-rope, and over he went into a puddle of water head foremost, and in his fall capsized several camp-kettles, some of which contained the trappers' supper. But the buffalo did not escape so easily; for Hobbs and Kit Carson jumped for their rifles, and dropped the animal before he had done any further damage.
The whole outfit laughed heartily at O'Neil when he got up out of the water, for a party of old trappers would show no mercy to any of their companions who met with a mishap of that character; but as he stood there with dripping clothes and face covered with mud, his mother-wit came to his relief and he declared he had accomplished the hunter's task: "For sure," said he, "haven't I fetched the mate into camp? and there was no bargain whether it should be dead or alive!"
Upon Kit's asking O'Neil where his gun was,—
"Sure," said he, "that's more than I can tell you."
Next morning Carson and Hobbs took up O'Neil's tracks and the buffalo's, and after hunting an hour or so found the Irishman's rifle, though he had little use for it afterward, as he preferred to cook and help around camp rather than expose his precious life fighting buffaloes.
A great herd of buffaloes on the plains in the early days, when one could approach near enough without disturbing it to quietly watch its organization and the apparent discipline which its leaders seemed to exact, was a very curious sight. Among the striking features of the spectacle was the apparently uniform manner in which the immense mass of shaggy animals moved; there was constancy of action indicating a degree of intelligence to be found only in the most intelligent of the brute creation. Frequently the single herd was broken up into many smaller ones, that travelled relatively close together, each led by an independent master. Perhaps a few rods only marked the dividing-line between them, but it was always unmistakably plain, and each moved synchronously in the direction in which all were going.
The leadership of a herd was attained only by hard struggles for the place; once reached, however, the victor was immediately recognized, and kept his authority until some new aspirant overcame him, or he became superannuated and was driven out of the herd to meet his inevitable fate, a prey to those ghouls of the desert, the gray wolves.
In the event of a stampede, every animal of the separate, yet consolidated, herds rushed off together, as if they had all gone mad at once; for the buffalo, like the Texas steer, mule, or domestic horse, stampedes on the slightest provocation; frequently without any assignable cause. The simplest affair, sometimes, will start the whole herd; a prairie-dog barking at the entrance to his burrow, a shadow of one of themselves or that of a passing cloud, is sufficient to make them run for miles as if a real and dangerous enemy were at their heels.
Like an army, a herd of buffaloes put out vedettes to give the alarm in case anything beyond the ordinary occurred. These sentinels were always to be seen in groups of four, five, or even six, at some distance from the main body. When they perceived something approaching that the herd should beware of or get away from, they started on a run directly for the centre of the great mass of their peacefully grazing congeners. Meanwhile, the young bulls were on duty as sentinels on the edge of the main herd watching the vedettes; the moment the latter made for the centre, the former raised their heads, and in the peculiar manner of their species gazed all around and sniffed the air as if they could smell both the direction and source of the impending danger. Should there be something which their instinct told them to guard against, the leader took his position in front, the cows and calves crowded in the centre, while the rest of the males gathered on the flanks and in the rear, indicating a gallantry that might be emulated at times by the genus homo.
Generally buffalo went to their drinking-places but once a day, and that late in the afternoon. Then they ambled along, following each other in single file, which accounts for the many trails on the plains, always ending at some stream or lake. They frequently travelled twenty or thirty miles for water, so the trails leading to it were often worn to the depth of a foot or more.
That curious depression so frequently seen on the great plains, called a buffalo-wallow, is caused in this wise: The huge animals paw and lick the salty, alkaline earth, and when once the sod is broken the loose dirt drifts away under the constant action of the wind. Then, year after year, through more pawing, licking, rolling, and wallowing by the animals, the wind wafts more of the soil away, and soon there is a considerable hole in the prairie.
Many an old trapper and hunter's life has been saved by following a buffalo-trail when he was suffering from thirst. The buffalo-wallows retain usually a great quantity of water, and they have often saved the lives of whole companies of cavalry, both men and horses.
There was, however, a stranger and more wonderful spectacle to be seen every recurring spring during the reign of the buffalo, soon after the grass had started. There were circles trodden bare on the plains, thousands, yes, millions of them, which the early travellers, who did not divine their cause, called fairy-rings. From the first of April until the middle of May was the wet season; you could depend upon its recurrence almost as certainly as on the sun and moon rising at their proper time. This was also the calving period of the buffalo, as they, unlike our domestic cattle, only rutted during a single month; consequently, the cows all calved during a certain time; this was the wet month, and as there were a great many gray wolves that roamed singly and in immense packs over the whole prairie region, the bulls, in their regular beats, kept guard over the cows while in the act of parturition, and drove the wolves away, walking in a ring around the females at a short distance, and thus forming the curious circles.
In every herd at each recurring season there were always ambitious young bulls that came to their majority, so to speak, and these were ever ready to test their claims for the leadership, so that it may be safely stated that a month rarely passed without a bloody battle between them for the supremacy; though, strangely enough, the struggle scarcely ever resulted in the death of either combatant.
Perhaps there is no animal in which maternal love is so wonderfully developed as the buffalo cow; she is as dangerous with a calf by her side as a she-grizzly with cubs, as all old mountaineers know.
The buffalo bull that has outlived his usefulness is one of the most pitiable objects in the whole range of natural history. Old age has probably been decided in the economy of buffalo life as the unpardonable sin. Abandoned to his fate, he may be discovered, in his dreary isolation, near some stream or lake, where it does not tax him too severely to find good grass; for he is now feeble, and exertion an impossibility. In this new stage of his existence he seems to have completely lost his courage. Frightened at his own shadow, or the rustling of a leaf, he is the very incarnation of nervousness and suspicion. Gregarious in his habits from birth, solitude, foreign to his whole nature, has changed him into a new creature; and his inherent terror of the most trivial things is intensified to such a degree that if a man were compelled to undergo such constant alarm, it would probably drive him insane in less than a week. Nobody ever saw one of these miserable and helplessly forlorn creatures dying a natural death, or ever heard of such an occurrence. The cowardly coyote and the gray wolf had already marked him for their own; and they rarely missed their calculations.
Riding suddenly to the top of a divide once with a party of friends in 1866, we saw standing below us in the valley an old buffalo bull, the very picture of despair. Surrounding him were seven gray wolves in the act of challenging him to mortal combat. The poor beast, undoubtedly realizing the utter hopelessness of his situation, had determined to die game. His great shaggy head, filled with burrs, was lowered to the ground as he confronted his would-be executioners; his tongue, black and parched, lolled out of his mouth, and he gave utterance at intervals to a suppressed roar.
The wolves were sitting on their haunches in a semi-circle immediately in front of the tortured beast, and every time that the fear-stricken buffalo would give vent to his hoarsely modulated groan, the wolves howled in concert in most mournful cadence.
After contemplating his antagonists for a few moments, the bull made a dash at the nearest wolf, tumbling him howling over the silent prairie; but while this diversion was going on in front, the remainder of the pack started for his hind legs, to hamstring him. Upon this the poor brute turned to the point of attack only to receive a repetition of it in the same vulnerable place by the wolves, who had as quickly turned also and fastened themselves on his heels again. His hind quarters now streamed with blood and he began to show signs of great physical weakness. He did not dare to lie down; that would have been instantly fatal. By this time he had killed three of the wolves or so maimed them that they were entirely out of the fight.
At this juncture the suffering animal was mercifully shot, and the wolves allowed to batten on his thin and tough carcass.
Often there are serious results growing out of a stampede, either by mules or a herd of buffalo. A portion of the Fifth United States Infantry had a narrow escape from a buffalo stampede on the Old Trail, in the early summer of 1866. General George A. Sykes, who commanded the Division of Regulars in the Army of the Potomac during the Civil War, was ordered to join his regiment, stationed in New Mexico, and was conducting a body of recruits, with their complement of officers, to fill up the decimated ranks of the army stationed at the various military posts, in far-off Greaser Land.
The command numbered nearly eight hundred, including the subaltern officers. These recruits, or the majority of them at least, were recruits in name only; they had seen service in many a hard campaign of the Rebellion. Some, of course, were beardless youths just out of their teens, full of that martial ardour which induced so many young men of the nation to follow the drum on the remote plains and in the fastnesses of the Rocky Mountains, where the wily savages still held almost undisputed sway, and were a constant menace to the pioneer settlers.
One morning, when the command had just settled itself in careless repose on the short grass of the apparently interminable prairie at the first halt of the day's march, a short distance beyond Fort Larned, a strange noise, like the low muttering of thunder below the horizon, greeted the ears of the little army.
All were startled by the ominous sound, unlike anything they had heard before on their dreary tour. The general ordered his scouts out to learn the cause; could it be Indians? Every eye was strained for something out of the ordinary. Even the horses of the officers and the mules of the supply-train were infected by something that seemed impending; they grew restless, stamped the earth, and vainly essayed to stampede, but were prevented by their hobbles and picket-pins.
Presently one of the scouts returned from over the divide, and reported to the general that an immense herd of buffalo was tearing down toward the Trail, and from the great clouds of dust they raised, which obscured the horizon, there must have been ten thousand of them. The roar wafted to the command, and which seemed so mysterious, was made by their hoofs as they rattled over the dry prairie.
The sound increased in volume rapidly, and soon a black, surging mass was discovered bearing right down on the Trail. Behind it could be seen a cavalcade of about five hundred Cheyennes, Comanches, and Kiowas, who had maddened the shaggy brutes, hoping to capture the train without an attack by forcing the frightened animals to overrun the command.
Luckily, something caused the herd to open before it reached the foot of the divide, and it passed in two masses, leaving the command between, not two hundred feet from either division of the infuriated beasts.
The rage of the savages was evident when they saw that their attempt to annihilate the troops had failed, and they rode off sullenly into the sand hills, as the number of soldiers was too great for them to think of charging.
Cody tells of a buffalo stampede which he witnessed in his youth on the plains, when he was a wagon-master. The caravan was on its way with government stores for the military posts in the mountains, and the wagons were hauled by oxen.
He says: The country was alive with buffalo, and besides killingquite a number we had a rare day for sport. One morningwe pulled out of camp, and the train was strung out to aconsiderable length along the Trail, which ran near the footof the sand hills, two miles from the river. Between theroad and the river we saw a large herd of buffalo grazingquietly, they having been down to the stream to drink.Just at this time we observed a party of returningCalifornians coming from the west. They, too, noticedthe buffalo herd, and in another moment they were dashingdown upon them, urging their horses to their greatest speed.The buffalo herd stampeded at once, and broke down the sidesof the hills; so hotly were they pursued by the huntersthat about five hundred of them rushed pell-mell throughour caravan, frightening both men and oxen. Some of thewagons were turned clear around and many of the terrifiedoxen attempted to run to the hills with the heavy wagonsattached to them. Others were turned around so shortthat they broke the tongues off. Nearly all the teamsgot entangled in their gearing and became wild and unruly,so that the perplexed drivers were unable to manage them.The buffalo, the cattle, and the men were soon runningin every direction, and the excitement upset everybodyand everything. Many of the oxen broke their yokes andstampeded. One big buffalo bull became entangled in oneof the heavy wagon-chains, and it is a fact that in hisdesperate efforts to free himself, he not only snappedthe strong chain in two, but broke the ox-yoke to whichit was attached, and the last seen of him he was runningtoward the hills with it hanging from his horns.
Stampedes were a great source of profit to the Indians of the plains. The Comanches were particularly expert and daring in this kind of robbery. They even trained their horses to run from one point to another in expectation of the coming of the trains. When a camp was made that was nearly in range, they turned their trained animals loose, which at once flew across the prairie, passing through the herd and penetrating the very corrals of their victims. All of the picketed horses and mules would endeavour to follow these decoys, and were invariably led right into the haunts of the Indians, who easily secured them. Young horses and mules were easily frightened; and, in the confusion which generally ensued, great injury was frequently done to the runaways themselves.
At times when the herd was very large, the horses scattered over the prairie and were irrevocably lost; and such as did not become wild fell a prey to the wolves. That fate was very frequently the lot of stampeded horses bred in the States, they not having been trained by a prairie life to take care of themselves. Instead of stopping and bravely fighting off the blood-thirsty beasts, they would run. Then the whole pack were sure to leave the bolder animals and make for the runaways, which they seldom failed to overtake and despatch.
On the Old Trail some years ago one of these stampedes occurred of a band of government horses, in which were several valuable animals. It was attended, however, with very little loss, through the courage and great exertion of the men who had them in charge; many were recovered, but none without having sustained injuries.
Hon. R. M. Wright, of Dodge City, Kansas, one of the pioneers in the days of the Santa Fe trade, and in the settlement of the State, has had many exciting experiences both with the savages of the great plains, and the buffalo. In relation to the habits of the latter, no man is better qualified to speak.
He was once owner of Fort Aubrey, a celebrated point on the Trail, but was compelled to abandon it on account of constant persecution by the Indians, or rather he was ordered to do so by the military authorities. While occupying the once famous landmark, in connection with others, had a contract to furnish hay to the government at Fort Lyon, seventy-five miles further west. His journal, which he kindly placed at my disposal, says:
While we were preparing to commence the work, a vast herdof buffalo stampeded through our range one night, andtook off with them about half of our work cattle. The nextday a stage-driver and conductor on the Overland Route toldus they had seen a number of our oxen twenty-five miles eastof Aubrey, and this information gave me an idea in whichdirection to hunt for the missing beasts. I immediatelystarted after them, while my partner took those thatremained and a few wagons and left with them for Fort Lyon.Let me explain here that while the Indians were supposed tobe peaceable, small war-parties of young men, who could notbe controlled by their chiefs, were continually committingdepredations, and the main body of savages themselves werevery uneasy, and might be expected to break out any day.In consequence of this unsettled state of affairs, therehad been a brisk movement among the United States troopsstationed at the various military posts, a large number ofwhom were believed to be on the road from Denver to Fort Lyon.I filled my saddle-bags with jerked buffalo, hardtack andground coffee, and took with me a belt of cartridges,my rifle and six-shooter, a field-glass and my blankets,prepared for any emergency. The first day out, I found afew of the lost cattle, and placed them on the river-bottom,which I continued to do as fast as I recovered them, for adistance of about eighty-five miles down the Arkansas.There I met a wagon-train, the drivers of which told methat I would find several more of my oxen with a trainthat had arrived at the Cimarron crossing the day before.I came up with this train in eight or ten hours' travelsouth of the river, got my cattle, and started next morningfor home.I picked up those I had left on the Arkansas as I wentalong, and after having made a very hard day's travel,about sundown I concluded I would go into camp. I hadonly fairly halted when the oxen began to drop down,so completely tired out were they, as I believed. Just asit was growing dark, I happened to look toward the west,and I saw several fires on a big island, near what wascalled "The Lone Tree," about a mile from where I haddetermined to remain for the night.Thinking the fires were those of the soldiers that I hadheard were on the road from Denver, and anticipating andlonging for a cup of good coffee, as I had had none forfive days, knowing, too, that the troops would be full ofnews, I felt good and determined to go over to their camp.The Arkansas was low, but the banks steep, with high,rank grass growing to the very water's edge. I founda buffalo-trail cut through the deep bank, narrow andprecipitous, and down this I went, arriving in a short timewithin a little distance of my supposed soldiers' camp.When I had reached the middle of another deep cut in thebank, I looked across to the island, and, great Caesar!saw a hundred little fires, around which an aggregationof a thousand Indians were huddled!I slid backwards off my horse, and by dint of great exertion,worked him up the river-bank as quietly and quickly aspossible, then led him gently away out on the prairie.My first impulse was not to go back to the cattle; but aswe needed them very badly, I concluded to return, put themall on their feet, and light out mighty lively, withoutmaking any noise. I started them, and, oh dear! I wasafraid to tread upon a weed, lest it would snap and bringthe Indians down on my trail. Until I had put severalmiles between them and me, I could not rest easy fora moment. Tired as I was, tired as were both my horseand the cattle, I drove them twenty-five miles beforeI halted. Then daylight was upon me. I was at what isknown as Chouteau's Island, a once famous place in thedays of the Old Santa Fe Trail.Of course, I had to let the oxen and my horse rest and fillthemselves until the afternoon, and I lay down, and fellasleep, but did not sleep long, as I thought it dangerousto remain too near the cattle. I rose and walked up a big,dry sand creek that opened into the river, and after I hadascended it for a couple of miles, found the banks verysteep; in fact, they rose to a height of eighteen or twentyfeet, and were sharply cut up by narrow trails made bythe buffalo.The whole face of the earth was covered by buffalo, andthey were slowly grazing toward the Arkansas. All at oncethey became frightened at something, and stampeded pell-melltoward the very spot on which I stood. I quickly ran intoone of the precipitous little paths and up on the prairie,to see what had scared them. They were making the groundfairly tremble as their mighty multitude came rushing onat full speed, the sound of their hoofs resembling thunder,but in a continuous peal. It appeared to me that they mustsweep everything in their path, and for my own preservationI rushed under the creek-bank, but on they came like atornado, with one old bull in the lead. He held up a secondto descend the narrow trail, and when he had got abouthalfway down I let him have it; I was only a few steps fromhim and over he tumbled. I don't know why I killed him;out of pure wantonness, I expect, or perhaps I thoughtit would frighten the others back. Not so, however;they only quickened their pace, and came dashing down ingreat numbers. Dozens of them stumbled and fell over thedead bull; others fell over them. The top of the bankwas fairly swarming with them; they leaped, pitched, androlled down. I crouched as close to the bank as possible,but many of them just grazed my head, knocking the sandand gravel in great streams down my neck; indeed I washalf buried before the herd had passed over. That old bullwas the last buffalo I ever shot wantonly, excepting once,from an ambulance while riding on the Old Trail, to pleasea distinguished Englishman, who had never seen one shot;then I did it only after his most earnest persuasion.One day a stage-driver named Frank Harris and myself startedout after buffalo; they were scarce, for a wonder, andwe were very hungry for fresh meat. The day was fine andwe rode a long way, expecting sooner or later a bunch wouldjump up, but in the afternoon, having seen none, we gaveit up and started for the ranch. Of course, we didn'tcare to save our ammunition, so shot it away at everythingin sight, skunks, rattlesnakes, prairie-dogs, and gophers,until we had only a few loads left. Suddenly an old bulljumped up that had been lying down in one of thosesugar-loaf-shaped sand hills, whose tops are hollowed outby the action of the wind. Harris emptied his revolverinto him, and so did I; but the old fellow sullenly stoodstill there on top of the sand hill, bleeding profuselyat the nose, and yet absolutely refusing to die, althoughhe would repeatedly stagger and nearly tumble over.It was getting late and we couldn't wait on him, so Harrissaid: "I will dismount, creep up behind him, and cut hishamstrings with my butcher-knife." The bull having nowlain down, Harris commenced operations, but his movementseemed to infuse new life into the old fellow; he jumpedto his feet, his head lowered in the attitude of fight,and away he went around the outside of the top of thesand hill! It was a perfect circus with one ring; Harris,who was a tall, lanky fellow, took hold of the enragedanimal's tail as he rose to his feet, and in a moment hislegs were flying higher than his head, but he did not darelet go of his hold on the bull's tail, and around andaround they went; it was his only show for life. I couldnot assist him a particle, but had to sit and hold his horse,and be judge of the fight. I really thought that old bullwould never weaken. Finally, however, the "ring" performancebegan to show symptoms of fatigue; slower and slower theactions of the bull grew, and at last Harris succeededin cutting his hamstrings and the poor beast went down.Harris said afterward, when the danger was all over, thatthe only thing he feared was that perhaps the bull's tailwould pull out, and if it did, he was well aware that hewas a goner. We brought his tongue, hump, and a hindquarterto the ranch with us, and had a glorious feast and a biglaugh that night with the boys over the ridiculous adventure.
General Richard Irving Dodge, United States army, in his work on the big game of America, says:
It is almost impossible for a civilized being to realizethe value to the plains Indian of the buffalo. It furnishedhim with home, food, clothing, bedding, horse equipment—almost everything.From 1869 to 1873 I was stationed at various posts alongthe Arkansas River. Early in spring, as soon as the dryand apparently desert prairie had begun to change its coatof dingy brown to one of palest green, the horizon wouldbegin to be dotted with buffalo, single or in groups of twoor three, forerunners of the coming herd. Thick and thicker,and in large groups they come, until by the time the grassis well up, the whole vast landscape appears a mass ofbuffalo, some individuals feeding, others lying down, butthe herd slowly moving to the northward; of their number,it was impossible to form a conjecture.Determined as they are to pursue their journey northward,yet they are exceedingly cautious and timid about it,and on any alarm rush to the southward with all speed,until that alarm is dissipated. Especially is this the casewhen any unusual object appears in their rear, and soutterly regardless of consequences are they, that an oldplainsman will not risk a wagon-train in such a herd,where rising ground will permit those in front to geta good view of their rear.In May, 1871, I drove in a buggy from old Fort Zarahto Fort Larned, on the Arkansas River. The distance isthirty-four miles. At least twenty-five miles of thatdistance was through an immense herd. The whole countrywas one mass of buffalo, apparently, and it was only whenactually among them, that the seemingly solid body wasseen to be an agglomeration of countless herds of fromfifty to two hundred animals, separated from the surroundingherds by a greater or less space, but still separated.The road ran along the broad valley of the Arkansas.Some miles from Zarah a low line of hills rises from theplain on the right, gradually increasing in height andapproaching road and river, until they culminate inPawnee Rock.So long as I was in the broad, level valley, the herdssullenly got out of my way, and, turning, stared stupidlyat me, some within thirty or forty yards. When, however,I had reached a point where the hills were no more thana mile from the road, the buffalo on the crests, seeing anunusual object in their rear, turned, stared an instant,then started at full speed toward me, stampeding andbringing with them the numberless herds through whichthey passed, and pouring down on me, no longer separatedbut compacted into one immense mass of plunging animals,mad with fright, irresistible as an avalanche.The situation was by no means pleasant. There was butone hope of escape. My horse was, fortunately, a quietold beast, that had rushed with me into many a herd, andbeen in at the death of many a buffalo. Reining him up,I waited until the front of the mass was within fifty yards,then, with a few well-directed shots, dropped some ofthe leaders, split the herd and sent it off in two streamsto my right and left. When all had passed me, they stopped,apparently satisfied, though thousands were yet withinreach of my rifle. After my servant had cut out thetongues of the fallen, I proceeded on my journey, only tohave a similar experience within a mile or two, and thisoccurred so often that I reached Fort Larned with twenty-sixtongues, representing the greatest number of buffalo thatI can blame myself with having murdered in one day.Some years, as in 1871, the buffalo appeared to movenorthward in one immense column, oftentimes from twentyto fifty miles in width, and of unknown depth from frontto rear. Other years the northward journey was madein several parallel columns moving at the same rate andwith their numerous flankers covering a width of a hundredor more miles.When the food in one locality fails, they go to another,and toward fall, when the grass of the high prairiesbecomes parched by the heat and drought, they graduallywork their way back to the south, concentrating on therich pastures of Texas and the Indian Territory, whence,the same instinct acting on all, they are ready to starttogether again on their northward march as soon as springstarts the grass.Old plainsmen and the Indians aver that the buffalo neverreturn south; that each year's herd was composed of animalswhich had never made the journey before, and would nevermake it again. All admit the northern migration, thatbeing too pronounced for any one to dispute, but refuseto admit the southern migration. Thousands of young calveswere caught and killed every spring that were producedduring this migration, and accompanied the herd northward;but because the buffalo did not return south in one vastbody as they went north, it was stoutly maintained thatthey did not go south at all. The plainsman could giveno reasonable hypothesis of his "No-return theory" on whichto base the origin of the vast herds which yearly madetheir march northward. The Indian was, however, equalto the occasion. Every plains Indian firmly believed thatthe buffalo were produced in countless numbers in a countryunder ground; that every spring the surplus swarmed,like bees from a hive, out of the immense cave-like openingin the region of the great Llano Estacado, or Staked Plainof Texas. In 1879 Stone Calf, a celebrated chief, assuredme that he knew exactly where the caves were, though he hadnever seen them; that the good God had provided thismeans for the constant supply of food for the Indian, andhowever recklessly the white men might slaughter, they couldnever exterminate them. When last I saw him, the old manwas beginning to waver in this belief, and feared thatthe "Bad God" had shut the entrances, and that his tribemust starve.
The old trappers and plainsmen themselves, even as early as the beginning of the Santa Fe trade, noticed the gradual disappearance of the buffalo, while they still existed in countless numbers. One veteran French Canadian, an employee of the American Fur Company, way back in the early '30's, used to mourn thus: "Mais, sacre! les Amarican, dey go to de Missouri frontier, de buffalo he ron to de montaigne; de trappaire wid his fusil, he follow to de Bayou Salade, he ron again. Dans les Montaignes Espagnol, bang! bang! toute la journee, toute la journee, go de sacre voleurs. De bison he leave, parceque les fusils scare im vara moche, ici là de sem-sacré!"