It was strangely dark, though wanting still an hour of sunset.The freezing storm soon penetrated to the skin, but the uneasy trot of our heavy-gaited horses kept us warm enough, as we forced them unwillingly in the teeth of the sleet and rain, by the powerful suasion of our Indian whips.The prairie in this place was hard and level.A flourishing colony of prairie dogs had burrowed into it in every direction, and the little mounds of fresh earth around their holes were about as numerous as the hills in a cornfield; but not a yelp was to be heard; not the nose of a single citizen was visible;all had retired to the depths of their burrows, and we envied them their dry and comfortable habitations.An hour's hard riding showed us our tent dimly looming through the storm, one side puffed out by the force of the wind, and the other collapsed in proportion, while the disconsolate horses stood shivering close around, and the wind kept up a dismal whistling in the boughs of three old half-dead trees above.Shaw, like a patriarch, sat on his saddle in the entrance, with a pipe in his mouth, and his arms folded, contemplating, with cool satisfaction, the piles of meat that we flung on the ground before him.A dark and dreary night succeeded; but the sun rose with heat so sultry and languid that the captain excused himself on that account from waylaying an old buffalo bull, who with stupid gravity was walking over the prairie to drink at the river.So much for the climate of the Platte!
But it was not the weather alone that had produced this sudden abatement of the sportsmanlike zeal which the captain had always professed.He had been out on the afternoon before, together with several members of his party; but their hunting was attended with no other result than the loss of one of their best horses, severely injured by Sorel, in vainly chasing a wounded bull.The captain, whose ideas of hard riding were all derived from transatlantic sources, expressed the utmost amazement at the feats of Sorel, who went leaping ravines, and dashing at full speed up and down the sides of precipitous hills, lashing his horse with the recklessness of a Rocky Mountain rider.Unfortunately for the poor animal he was the property of R., against whom Sorel entertained an unbounded aversion.
The captain himself, it seemed, had also attempted to "run" a buffalo, but though a good and practiced horseman, he had soon given over the attempt, being astonished and utterly disgusted at the nature of the ground he was required to ride over.
Nothing unusual occurred on that day; but on the following morning Henry Chatillon, looking over the oceanlike expanse, saw near the foot of the distant hills something that looked like a band of buffalo.He was not sure, he said, but at all events, if they were buffalo, there was a fine chance for a race.Shaw and I at once determined to try the speed of our horses.
"Come, captain; we'll see which can ride hardest, a Yankee or an Irishman."But the captain maintained a grave and austere countenance.He mounted his led horse, however, though very slowly; and we set out at a trot.The game appeared about three miles distant.As we proceeded the captain made various remarks of doubt and indecision;and at length declared he would have nothing to do with such a breakneck business; protesting that he had ridden plenty of steeple-chases in his day, but he never knew what riding was till he found himself behind a band of buffalo day before yesterday."I am convinced," said the captain, "that, 'running' is out of the question.* Take my advice now and don't attempt it.It's dangerous, and of no use at all."*The method of hunting called "running" consists in attacking the buffalo on horseback and shooting him with bullets or arrows when at full-speed.In "approaching," the hunter conceals himself and crawls on the ground toward the game, or lies in wait to kill them.
"Then why did you come out with us? What do you mean to do?""I shall 'approach,'" replied the captain.
"You don't mean to 'approach' with your pistols, do you? We have all of us left our rifles in the wagons."The captain seemed staggered at the suggestion.In his characteristic indecision, at setting out, pistols, rifles, "running"and "approaching" were mingled in an inextricable medley in his brain.He trotted on in silence between us for a while; but at length he dropped behind and slowly walked his horse back to rejoin the party.Shaw and I kept on; when lo! as we advanced, the band of buffalo were transformed into certain clumps of tall bushes, dotting the prairie for a considerable distance.At this ludicrous termination of our chase, we followed the example of our late ally, and turned back toward the party.We were skirting the brink of a deep ravine, when we saw Henry and the broad-chested pony coming toward us at a gallop.
"Here's old Papin and Frederic, down from Fort Laramie!" shouted Henry, long before he came up.We had for some days expected this encounter.Papin was the bourgeois of Fort Laramie.He had come down the river with the buffalo robes and the beaver, the produce of the last winter's trading.I had among our baggage a letter which Iwished to commit to their hands; so requesting Henry to detain the boats if he could until my return, I set out after the wagons.They were about four miles in advance.In half an hour I overtook them, got the letter, trotted back upon the trail, and looking carefully, as I rode, saw a patch of broken, storm-blasted trees, and moving near them some little black specks like men and horses.Arriving at the place, I found a strange assembly.The boats, eleven in number, deep-laden with the skins, hugged close to the shore, to escape being borne down by the swift current.The rowers, swarthy ignoble Mexicans, turned their brutish faces upward to look, as I reached the bank.Papin sat in the middle of one of the boats upon the canvas covering that protected the robes.He was a stout, robust fellow, with a little gray eye, that had a peculiarly sly twinkle.
