We meant to remain at this place long enough to prepare provisions for our journey to the frontier, which as we supposed might occupy about a month.Had the distance been twice as great and the party ten times as large, the unerring rifle of Henry Chatillon would have supplied meat enough for the whole within two days; we were obliged to remain, however, until it should be dry enough for transportation;so we erected our tent and made the other arrangements for a permanent camp.The California men, who had no such shelter, contented themselves with arranging their packs on the grass around their fire.In the meantime we had nothing to do but amuse ourselves.Our tent was within a rod of the river, if the broad sand-beds, with a scanty stream of water coursing here and there along their surface, deserve to be dignified with the name of river.
The vast flat plains on either side were almost on a level with the sand-beds, and they were bounded in the distance by low, monotonous hills, parallel to the course of the Arkansas.All was one expanse of grass; there was no wood in view, except some trees and stunted bushes upon two islands which rose from amid the wet sands of the river.Yet far from being dull and tame this boundless scene was often a wild and animated one; for twice a day, at sunrise and at noon, the buffalo came issuing from the hills, slowly advancing in their grave processions to drink at the river.All our amusements were too at their expense.Except an elephant, I have seen no animal that can surpass a buffalo bull in size and strength, and the world may be searched in vain to find anything of a more ugly and ferocious aspect.At first sight of him every feeling of sympathy vanishes; no man who has not experienced it can understand with what keen relish one inflicts his death wound, with what profound contentment of mind he beholds him fall.The cows are much smaller and of a gentler appearance, as becomes their sex.While in this camp we forebore to attack them, leaving to Henry Chatillon, who could better judge their fatness and good quality, the task of killing such as we wanted for use; but against the bulls we waged an unrelenting war.Thousands of them might be slaughtered without causing any detriment to the species, for their numbers greatly exceed those of the cows; it is the hides of the latter alone which are used for purpose of commerce and for making the lodges of the Indians; and the destruction among them is therefore altogether disproportioned.
Our horses were tired, and we now usually hunted on foot.The wide, flat sand-beds of the Arkansas, as the reader will remember, lay close by the side of our camp.While we were lying on the grass after dinner, smoking, conversing, or laughing at Tete Rouge, one of us would look up and observe, far out on the plains beyond the river, certain black objects slowly approaching.He would inhale a parting whiff from the pipe, then rising lazily, take his rifle, which leaned against the cart, throw over his shoulder the strap of his pouch and powder-horn, and with his moccasins in his hand walk quietly across the sand toward the opposite side of the river.This was very easy;for though the sands were about a quarter of a mile wide, the water was nowhere more than two feet deep.The farther bank was about four or five feet high, and quite perpendicular, being cut away by the water in spring.Tall grass grew along its edge.Putting it aside with his hand, and cautiously looking through it, the hunter can discern the huge shaggy back of the buffalo slowly swaying to and fro, as with his clumsy swinging gait he advances toward the water.
The buffalo have regular paths by which they come down to drink.
Seeing at a glance along which of these his intended victim is moving, the hunter crouches under the bank within fifteen or twenty yards, it may be, of the point where the path enters the river.Here he sits down quietly on the sand.Listening intently, he hears the heavy monotonous tread of the approaching bull.The moment after he sees a motion among the long weeds and grass just at the spot where the path is channeled through the bank.An enormous black head is thrust out, the horns just visible amid the mass of tangled mane.
Half sliding, half plunging, down comes the buffalo upon the river-bed below.He steps out in full sight upon the sands.Just before him a runnel of water is gliding, and he bends his head to drink.
You may hear the water as it gurgles down his capacious throat.He raises his head, and the drops trickle from his wet beard.He stands with an air of stupid abstraction, unconscious of the lurking danger.
Noiselessly the hunter cocks his rifle.As he sits upon the sand, his knee is raised, and his elbow rests upon it, that he may level his heavy weapon with a steadier aim.The stock is at his shoulder;his eye ranges along the barrel.Still he is in no haste to fire.
The bull, with slow deliberation, begins his march over the sands to the other side.He advances his foreleg, and exposes to view a small spot, denuded of hair, just behind the point of his shoulder; upon this the hunter brings the sight of his rifle to bear; lightly and delicately his finger presses upon the hair-trigger.Quick as thought the spiteful crack of the rifle responds to his slight touch, and instantly in the middle of the bare spot appears a small red dot.
The buffalo shivers; death has overtaken him, he cannot tell from whence; still he does not fall, but walks heavily forward, as if nothing had happened.Yet before he has advanced far out upon the sand, you see him stop; he totters; his knees bend under him, and his head sinks forward to the ground.Then his whole vast bulk sways to one side; he rolls over on the sand, and dies with a scarcely perceptible struggle.
