RAPIDLY reloading, the little party of whites stood upon the verge of the grove and watched the band of redskins race away across the plains.
“From the looks of things,” said old Dolph, “I’d say they’ll not be back this way.”
Crockett shook his head and laughed.
“No,” said he, “those Comanche gentlemen are completely scared. That was a trick they’d not thought about; and as they hadn’t time to work it out, they thought, very like, it was some kind of ‘bad medicine.’”
However, they made up their minds not to trust to appearances; and mounting their horses they rode away toward the southwest, going at a long, slow lope.
Night fell, and still they continued.
“It’s best to put all the distance between ourselves and that party of reds that we can,” said Crockett. “They’re the kind of varmints you can never count on to do anything.”
When they went into camp an hour or so after dark, they lighted no fires, but ate food that required no cooking.
“It makes hard chewing,” grumbled old Dolph. “But then it can’t be helped. Better a tough bite of grub than an Injun arrow that’d make me bite the dust.”
The night was cool, but they made beds of grass, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and with their saddles for pillows, they slept soundly. For the first time since they started from the Mississippi River, however, they had a guard for the camp, Jed Curley, Ned Chandler and old Dolph taking turns until sunrise and breakfast.
They pushed on rapidly that day, keeping a sharp lookout for the savages. But none came in sight; and so, to rest their ponies, which had been severely tried, they halted a good two hours before sundown and went into camp upon the banks of a small creek whose margin was thick with trees.
Walter Jordan and Ned Chandler had, during the day, tried their marksmanship upon some flocks of prairie chickens; and though these were difficult game to bring down with a rifle, they had bagged a couple of brace. The chickens were now stripped of their feathers and dressed; each was skewered with a ramrod, and put to roast over the red coals. Flour was mixed and baked into flap-jacks; and so they ate a meal such as was enjoyed by the riders of the plains.
A guard was kept that night, also; but there were no signs of Comanches, and they slept undisturbed. After breakfast next morning they mounted once more and started upon their journey.
It was a splendid country which they now crossed, not so level as that of the previous day’s journey, but rich in promise of the yield to the farmer in the days to come.
“A wonderful range for grazing live stock,” said Crockett, his observant eye taking in all the details and possibilities of the region. “There’ll be grass in long seasons, and there’s plenty of water.”
Old Dolph agreed with this.
“It’s the best grazing country in the southwest,” said he. “To prove that just notice the herds of buffalo and wild mustangs that roam through this country. They know the places where the good grass grows.”
There was a silence for some little time, and then Ned Chandler said:
“I’ve heard a good deal about buffalo hunting, and I’d like to have a try at it before we reach San Antonio.”
“So should I,” spoke Jed Curley. “It seems as though it would be fine sport.”
“Well,” said Davy Crockett, “as I’ve said, I shouldn’t despise the chance myself, boys. It’s been many a year since I’ve had a run after a herd of buffalo, and if we sight any, we’ll take half a day off our journey and have a shot at them.”
This filled both Ned and Walter with enthusiasm; and all day they looked forward eagerly to the possibility of sport. But they were disappointed; the sun was getting low, and they were casting about for a camping ground when suddenly old Dolph was heard to call out to Crockett:
“Hello! Look there!”
All turned and they saw him pointing to the ground some little distance away. It was near the brink of a spring that oozed from the ground in a sort of hollow; and all about it were the marks of trampling hoofs.
“Buffalo!” said Colonel Crockett.
The entire party gathered about the spring and examined the tracks.
“There were only about half a dozen,” said the old Texan, as his sharp eyes followed out the hoof prints. “But there’s a herd near by. These were only stragglers, come to look for water.”
Supper was cooked and eaten that evening amid considerable excitement; and as they lay wrapped in their blankets afterward, the boys listened to the stories told by Crockett and old Dolph of mighty buffalo hunters who had gone before and of hunts that had come to be parts of the history of the west. Story after story followed, the other men taking part, telling of their own experiences in chase of the mighty beast of the plains, or those of others whom they had known. Both youngsters dropped off to sleep with the voices still coming out of the shadows around the camp-fire; and little wonder that they dreamed of great herds of buffalo whose hoof beats were like the thunder, and whose mighty rush seemed to shake the earth.
At sunup all were astir, and breakfast was quickly over; then they looked at their arms and ammunition, and climbed upon their horses’ backs.
“Now, boys,” said Crockett, to the two young fellows who rode beside him, “as you never rode the buffalo range before, it’s just as well that you know something about the matter. Above all, look out for the buffalo bull; you’ve heard of the grizzly bear and the panther and other dangerous beasts, and they are dangerous enough, to be sure. But the buffalo bull, especially when he’s wounded, is one of the worst brutes that a man ever faced.”
“So, when you draw a bead on one,” said old Dolph, who rode near by, “be sure and aim at a place that’ll make the shot fatal. If you don’t, you’ll have a job on your hands that’ll be hard to finish.”
The tracks of the buffalo they’d been following finally merged into a wide, much trampled trail, evidently made by hundreds of the animals.
“Just as I thought,” said the old Texan, in a satisfied tone. “They belonged to a big herd, and now have joined the rest of them.”
Along the broad, trampled track of the buffalo rode the hunters, their eyes ahead to catch the first glimpse of the game.
“Some ponies don’t like the smell of buffalo,” said Dolph; “and they are hard to get up to a herd. Others again don’t care anything about them and are likely to run you into danger if you don’t look out. The best kind of a horse is the kind that understands what you are about—that the thing’s a hunt—that there’s a time for getting in close, and a time for getting away.”
“I suppose,” said Walter, “they must be trained to that.”
“Mostly, yes,” said Dolph. “But not always. Some mustangs take to the thing naturally. This one that I’m riding is one of that kind. He knows all about buffalo. But it may be that none of the others know anything. So give one eye to the game and the other to your pony.”
It was about noon that they sighted the herd; far off on the plains the great shaggy beasts were grazing on the dry grass, scattered over a great extent of country. The hunters halted at the first glimpse of them, and held a consultation.
“The wind is dead from the west,” said Crockett.
“It’d be well if some of us stayed here,” said old Dolph, “and if some others rode around to the east, and others to the north. Then at a signal—say a rifle shot—we could all ride down on them from three directions and scatter them all over the prairie.”
This was considered a good idea. So Dolph and two of the men were left at the halting place and the other five pushed around to the east. Here Jed Curley and one other man were left; Crockett and the two boys held on until they reached a point south of the grazing buffalo.
The great animals were slowly moving about upon the range, never suspecting that their hunters were so close at hand.
“All ready?” asked Colonel Crockett.
“All ready,” answered the boys in a breath.
They rode forward at a sharp gallop. Crockett’s rifle rang out in signal to the others waiting to the north and east; and the shot also served to bring down a cow which stood near. Startled at the shot, the great heads lifted and the bulls stared about for a sight of the enemy. Then the rifles of the boys spoke and another of the beasts fell.
The air was filled with bellowings; away toward the north moved the herd. But in a few moments the reports of rifles from that point turned them toward the south and east. Jed Curley and his companion were now heard from; and as their rifles were discharged, the buffalo halted in a panic. For a moment there was a pause; then helter skelter they went in every direction over the plains, their tails up and their heads down.
The hunters had all reloaded their pieces and they now dashed in among the scattered herd, each selecting his particular quarry. The pony which Walter Jordan rode was a hard-mouthed little beast, with a temper all its own. He fancied he’d have some trouble with it if it proved to be one of those mounts which Dolph said didn’t like the smell of buffalo.
But it was the contrary. The mustang seemed to enter into the spirit of the chase with such excellent good will that the boy was delighted. He passed several cows and yearling bulls; but held his fire for bigger game. His eyes traveling over the racing buffalo had lighted upon a huge bull, a monstrous black fellow with a huge head and the shoulders and hump of a giant of his kind.
Fired with ambition and encouraged by the willingness of his horse, Walter dashed toward the black bull. When within fifteen yards he dropped the reins, steadied his pony with his knees and raised his long rifle. Clear and sharp the report rang out; the great bull stopped in his tracks, threw up his huge black head and bellowed with rage.
“Watch that fellow!” yelled Jed Curley as he dashed away in pursuit of another bull. “He’s only wounded!”
Walter remembered what old Dolph had said regarding wounded bulls, and wheeled his horse away. Rapidly he began recharging his rifle; his eyes went from this operation to the wounded bull; for the moment he forgot his horse entirely. Suddenly the mustang went to his knees; he had planted a forefoot in a prairie-dog’s hole, and Walter, unable to stop himself, went flying over his head, his rifle dropping from his hands.
Like a cat, the mustang scrambled to its feet and darted away; and the boy stood dismounted and weaponless, facing the great black bull.