Search      Hot    Newest Novel
HOME > Classical Novels > Tracks of a Rolling Stone > Chapter 21
Font Size:【Large】【Middle】【Small】 Add Bookmark  
Chapter 21

SPORT had been the final cause of my trip to America - sportand the love of adventure. As the bison - buffalo, as theyare called - are now extinct, except in preserved districts,a few words about them as they then were may interest gamehunters of the present day.

  No description could convey an adequate conception of thenumbers in which they congregated. The admirableillustrations in Catlin's great work on the North AmericanIndians, afford the best idea to those who have never seenthe wonderful sight itself. The districts they frequentedwere vast sandy uplands sparsely covered with the tuftybuffalo or gramma grass. These regions were always withinreach of the water-courses; to which morning and evening theherds descended by paths, after the manner of sheep or cattlein a pasture. Never shall I forget the first time Iwitnessed the extraordinary event of the evening drink.

  Seeing the black masses galloping down towards the river, bythe banks of which our party were travelling, we halted somehundred yards short of the tracks. To have been caughtamongst the animals would have been destruction; for, do whatthey would to get out of one's way, the weight of thethousands pushing on would have crushed anything that impededthem. On the occasion I refer to we approached to withinsafe distance, and fired into them till the ammunition in ourpouches was expended.

  As examples of our sporting exploits, three days taken almostat random will suffice. The season was so far advanced that,unless we were to winter at Fort Laramie, it was necessary tokeep going. It was therefore agreed that whoever left theline of march - that is, the vicinity of the North Platte -for the purpose of hunting should take his chance of catchingup the rest of the party, who were to push on as speedily aspossible. On two of the days which I am about to record thisrule nearly brought me into trouble. I quote from myjournal:

  'Left camp to hunt by self. Got a shot at some deer lying inlong grass on banks of a stream. While stalking, I couldhardly see or breathe for mosquitos; they were in my eyes,nose, and mouth. Steady aim was impossible; and, to mydisgust, I missed the easiest of shots. The neck and flanksof my little grey are as red as if painted. He is weak fromloss of blood. Fred's head is now so swollen he cannot wearhis hard hat; his eyes are bunged up, and his face is comicto look at. Several deer and antelopes; but ground toolevel, and game too wild to let one near. Hardly caring whatdirection I took, followed outskirts of large wood, four orfive miles away from the river. Saw a good many summerlodges; but knew, by the quantity of game, that the Indianshad deserted them. In the afternoon came suddenly upon deer;and singling out one of the youngest fawns, tried to run itdown. The country being very rough, I found it hard work tokeep between it and the wood. First, my hat blew off; then apistol jumped out of the holster; but I was too near to giveup, - meaning to return for these things afterwards. Two orthree times I ran right over the fawn, which bleated in themost piteous manner, but always escaped the death-blow fromthe grey's hoofs. By degrees we edged nearer to the thicket,when the fawn darted down the side of a bluff, and was lostin the long grass and brushwood, I followed at full speed;but, unable to arrest the impetus of the horse, we dashedheadlong into the thick scrub, and were both thrown withviolence to the ground. I was none the worse; but the poorbeast had badly hurt his shoulder, and for the time was deadlame.

  'For an hour at least I hunted, for my pistol. It was muchmore to me than my hat. It was a huge horse pistol, thatthrew an ounce ball of exactly the calibre of my doublerifle. I had shot several buffaloes with it, by riding closeto them in a chase; and when in danger of Indians I loaded itwith slugs. At last I found it. It was getting late; and Ididn't rightly know where I was. I made for the low country.

  But as we camped last night at least two miles from theriver, on account of the swamps, the difficulty was to findthe tracks. The poor little grey and I hunted for it invain. The wet ground was too wet, the dry ground too hard,to show the tracks in the now imperfect light.

  'The situation was a disagreeable one: it might be two orthree days before I again fell in with my friends. I had nottouched food since the early morning, and was rather done.

............

Join or Log In! You need to log in to continue reading
   
 

Login into Your Account

Email: 
Password: 
  Remember me on this computer.

All The Data From The Network AND User Upload, If Infringement, Please Contact Us To Delete! Contact Us
About Us | Terms of Use | Privacy Policy | Tag List | Recent Search  
©2010-2018 wenovel.com, All Rights Reserved