As we approached our nooning place, we saw five or six buffalo standing at the very summit of a tall bluff.Trotting forward to the spot where we meant to stop, I flung off my saddle and turned my horse loose.By making a circuit under cover of some rising ground, I reached the foot of the bluff unnoticed, and climbed up its steep side.Lying under the brow of the declivity, I prepared to fire at the buffalo, who stood on the flat surface about not five yards distant.Perhaps I was too hasty, for the gleaming rifle-barrel leveled over the edge caught their notice; they turned and ran.
Close as they were, it was impossible to kill them when in that position, and stepping upon the summit I pursued them over the high arid tableland.It was extremely rugged and broken; a great sandy ravine was channeled through it, with smaller ravines entering on each side like tributary streams.The buffalo scattered, and I soon lost sight of most of them as they scuttled away through the sandy chasms; a bull and a cow alone kept in view.For a while they ran along the edge of the great ravine, appearing and disappearing as they dived into some chasm and again emerged from it.At last they stretched out upon the broad prairie, a plain nearly flat and almost devoid of verdure, for every short grass-blade was dried and shriveled by the glaring sun.Now and then the old bull would face toward me; whenever he did so I fell to the ground and lay motionless.In this manner I chased them for about two miles, until at length I heard in front a deep hoarse bellowing.A moment after a band of about a hundred bulls, before hidden by a slight swell of the plain, came at once into view.The fugitives ran toward them.
Instead of mingling with the band, as I expected, they passed directly through, and continued their flight.At this I gave up the chase, and kneeling down, crawled to within gunshot of the bulls, and with panting breath and trickling brow sat down on the ground to watch them; my presence did not disturb them in the least.They were not feeding, for, indeed, there was nothing to eat; but they seemed to have chosen the parched and scorching desert as the scene of their amusements.Some were rolling on the ground amid a cloud of dust;others, with a hoarse rumbling bellow, were butting their large heads together, while many stood motionless, as if quite inanimate.Except their monstrous growth of tangled grizzly mane, they had no hair; for their old coat had fallen off in the spring, and their new one had not as yet appeared.Sometimes an old bull would step forward, and gaze at me with a grim and stupid countenance; then he would turn and butt his next neighbor; then he would lie down and roll over in the dirt, kicking his hoofs in the air.When satisfied with this amusement he would jerk his head and shoulders upward, and resting on his forelegs stare at me in this position, half blinded by his mane, and his face covered with dirt; then up he would spring upon all-fours, and shake his dusty sides; turning half round, he would stand with his beard touching the ground, in an attitude of profound abstraction, as if reflecting on his puerile conduct."You are too ugly to live," thought I; and aiming at the ugliest, I shot three of them in succession.The rest were not at all discomposed at this;they kept on bellowing and butting and rolling on the ground as before.Henry Chatillon always cautioned us to keep perfectly quiet in the presence of a wounded buffalo, for any movement is apt to excite him to make an attack; so I sat still upon the ground, loading and firing with as little motion as possible.While I was thus employed, a spectator made his appearance; a little antelope came running up with remarkable gentleness to within fifty yards; and there it stood, its slender neck arched, its small horns thrown back, and its large dark eyes gazing on me with a look of eager curiosity.
By the side of the shaggy and brutish monsters before me, it seemed like some lovely young girl wandering near a den of robbers or a nest of bearded pirates.The buffalo looked uglier than ever."Here goes for another of you," thought I, feeling in my pouch for a percussion cap.Not a percussion cap was there.My good rifle was useless as an old iron bar.One of the wounded bulls had not yet fallen, and Iwaited for some time, hoping every moment that his strength would fail him.He still stood firm, looking grimly at me, and disregarding Henry's advice I rose and walked away.Many of the bulls turned and looked at me, but the wounded brute made no attack.
I soon came upon a deep ravine which would give me shelter in case of emergency; so I turned round and threw a stone at the bulls.They received it with the utmost indifference.Feeling myself insulted at their refusal to be frightened, I swung my hat, shouted, and made a show of running toward them; at this they crowded together and galloped off, leaving their dead and wounded upon the field.As Imoved toward the camp I saw the last survivor totter and fall dead.
My speed in returning was wonderfully quickened by the reflection that the Pawnees were abroad, and that I was defenseless in case of meeting with an enemy.I saw no living thing, however, except two or three squalid old bulls scrambling among the sand-hills that flanked the great ravine.When I reached camp the party was nearly ready for the afternoon move.
We encamped that evening at a short distance from the river bank.
About midnight, as we all lay asleep on the ground, the man nearest to me gently reaching out his hand, touched my shoulder, and cautioned me at the same time not to move.It was bright starlight.
