THE OLD SANTA FE TRAIL by COLONEL HENRY INMAN (any book recommendations txt) 📖

That Brigham Knew Nearly As Much About The

          Business As I Did, And If I Had Twenty Bridles They Would

          Have Been Of No Use To Me, As He Understood Everything,

          And All That He Expected of Me Was To Do The Shooting.

          It Is A Fact That Brigham Would Stop If A Buffalo Did Not

          Fall At The First Fire, So As To Give Me A Second Chance;

          But If I Did Not Kill The Animal Then, He Would Go On, As

          If To Say, "You Are No Good, And I Will Not Fool Away My

          Time By Giving You More Than Two Shots."  Brigham Was The

          Best Horse I Ever Saw Or Owned for Buffalo Chasing.

 

 

 

At One Time An Old, Experienced buffalo Hunter Was Following at The

Heels Of A Small Herd With That Reckless Rush To Which In the

Excitement Of The Chase Men Abandon Themselves, When A Great Bull

Just In front Of Him Tumbled into A Ravine.  The Rider'S Horse Fell

Also, Throwing The Old Hunter Over His Head Sprawling, But With

Strange Accuracy Right Between The Bull'S Horns!  The First To

Recover From The Terrible Shock And To Regain His Legs Was The Horse,

Which Ran Off With Wonderful Alacrity Several Miles Before He Stopped.

Next The Bull Rose, And Shook Himself With An Astonished air, As If

He Would Like To Know "How That Was Done?"  The Hunter Was On The

Great Brute'S Back, Who, Perhaps, Took The Affair As A Good Practical

Joke; But He Was Soon Pitched to The Ground, As The Buffalo Commenced

To Jump "Stiff-Legged," And The Latter, Giving The Hunter One

Lingering Look, Which He Long Remembered, With Remarkable Good Nature

Ran Off To Join His Companions.  Had The Bull Been Wounded, The Rider

Would Have Been Killed, As The Then Enraged animal Would Have Gored

And Trampled him To Death.

 

 

 

An Officer Of The Old Regular Army Told Me Many Years Ago That In

Crossing The Plains A Herd Of Buffalo Were Fired at By A Twelve-Pound

Howitzer, The Ball Of Which Wounded and Stunned an Immense Bull.

Nevertheless, Heedless Of A Hundred shots That Had Been Fired at Him,

And Of A Bulldog Belonging To One Of The Officers, Which Had Fastened

Himself To His Lips, The Enraged beast Charged upon The Whole Troop

Of Dragoons, And Tossed one Of The Horses Like A Feather.  Bull,

Horse, And Rider All Fell In a Heap.  Before The Dust Cleared away,

The Trooper, Who Had Hung For A Moment To One Of The Bull'S Horns

By His Waistband, Crawled out Safe, While The Horse Got A Ball From

A Rifle Through His Neck While In the Air And Two Great Rips In his

Flank From The Bull.

 

 

 

In 1839 Kit Carson And Hobbs Were Trapping With A Party On The

Arkansas River, Not Far From Bent'S Fort.  Among The Trappers Was

A Green Irishman, Named o'Neil, Who Was Quite Anxious To Become

Proficient In hunting, And It Was Not Long Before He Received his

First Lesson.  Every Man Who Went Out Of Camp After Game Was Expected

To Bring In "Meat" Of Some Kind.  O'Neil Said That He Would Agree

To The Terms, And Was Ready One Evening To Start Out On His First

Hunt Alone.  He Picked up His Rifle And Stalked after A Small Herd

Of Buffalo In plain Sight On The Prairie Not More Than Five Or Six

Hundred yards From Camp.

 

 

 

All The Trappers Who Were Not Engaged in setting Their Traps Or

Cooking Supper Were Watching O'Neil.  Presently They Heard The Report

Of His Rifle, And Shortly After He Came Running Into Camp, Bareheaded,

Without His Gun, And With A Buffalo Bull Close Upon His Heels;

Both Going at Full Speed, And The Irishman Shouting Like A Madman,--

 

 

 

"Here We Come, By Jabers.  Stop Us!  For The Love Of God, Stop Us!"

 

 

 

Just As They Came In among The Tents, With The Bull Not More Than

Six Feet In the Rear Of O'Neil, Who Was Frightened out Of His Wits

And Puffing Like A Locomotive, His Foot Caught In a Tent-Rope, And

Over He Went Into A Puddle Of Water Head Foremost, And In his Fall

Capsized several Camp-Kettles, Some Of Which Contained the Trappers'

Supper.  But The Buffalo Did Not Escape So Easily; For Hobbs And

Kit Carson Jumped for Their Rifles, And Dropped the Animal Before

He Had Done Any Further Damage.

 

 

 

The Whole Outfit Laughed heartily At O'Neil When He Got Up Out Of

The Water, For A Party Of Old Trappers Would Show No Mercy To Any

Of Their Companions Who Met With A Mishap Of That Character; But

As He Stood There With Dripping Clothes And Face Covered with Mud,

His Mother-Wit Came To His Relief And He Declared he Had Accomplished

The Hunter'S Task: "For Sure," Said He, "Haven'T I Fetched the Mate

Into Camp? And There Was No Bargain Whether It Should Be Dead Or Alive!"

 

 

 

Upon Kit'S Asking O'Neil Where His Gun Was,--

 

 

 

"Sure," Said He, "That'S More Than I Can Tell You."

 

 

 

Next Morning Carson And Hobbs Took Up O'Neil'S Tracks And The

Buffalo'S, And After Hunting an Hour Or So Found The Irishman'S Rifle,

Though He Had Little Use For It Afterward, As He Preferred to Cook

And Help Around Camp Rather Than Expose His Precious Life Fighting

Buffaloes.

 

 

 

A Great Herd Of Buffaloes On The Plains In the Early Days, When One

Could Approach Near Enough Without Disturbing It To Quietly Watch

Its Organization And The Apparent Discipline Which Its Leaders Seemed

To Exact, Was A Very Curious Sight.  Among The Striking Features

Of The Spectacle Was The Apparently Uniform Manner In which The

Immense Mass Of Shaggy Animals Moved; There Was Constancy Of Action

Indicating a Degree Of Intelligence To Be Found Only In the Most

Intelligent Of The Brute Creation.  Frequently The Single Herd Was

Broken Up Into Many Smaller Ones, That Travelled relatively Close

Together, Each Led by An Independent Master.  Perhaps A Few Rods

Only Marked the Dividing-Line Between Them, But It Was Always

Unmistakably Plain, And Each Moved synchronously In the Direction

In Which All Were Going.

 

 

 

The Leadership Of A Herd Was Attained only By Hard Struggles For The

Place; Once Reached, However, The Victor Was Immediately Recognized,

And Kept His Authority Until Some New Aspirant Overcame Him, Or He

Became Superannuated and Was Driven Out Of The Herd To Meet His

Inevitable Fate, A Prey To Those Ghouls Of The Desert, The Gray Wolves.

 

 

 

In The Event Of A Stampede, Every Animal Of The Separate, Yet

Consolidated, Herds Rushed off Together, As If They Had All Gone Mad

At Once; For The Buffalo, Like The Texas Steer, Mule, Or Domestic

Horse, Stampedes On The Slightest Provocation; Frequently Without

Any Assignable Cause.  The Simplest Affair, Sometimes, Will Start

The Whole Herd; A Prairie-Dog Barking at The Entrance To His Burrow,

A Shadow Of One Of Themselves Or That Of A Passing Cloud, Is

Sufficient To Make Them Run For Miles As If A Real And Dangerous

Enemy Were At Their Heels.

 

 

 

Like An Army, A Herd Of Buffaloes Put Out Vedettes To Give The Alarm

In Case Anything Beyond The Ordinary Occurred.  These Sentinels Were

Always To Be Seen In groups Of Four, Five, Or Even Six, At Some

Distance From The Main Body.  When They Perceived something approaching

That The Herd Should Beware Of Or Get Away From, They Started on

A Run Directly For The Centre Of The Great Mass Of Their Peacefully

Grazing Congeners.  Meanwhile, The Young Bulls Were On Duty As

Sentinels On The Edge Of The Main Herd Watching The Vedettes;

The Moment The Latter Made For The Centre, The Former Raised their

Heads, And In the Peculiar Manner Of Their Species Gazed all Around

And Sniffed the Air As If They Could Smell Both The Direction And

Source Of The Impending Danger.  Should There Be Something Which Their

Instinct Told Them To Guard Against, The Leader Took His Position

In Front, The Cows And Calves Crowded in the Centre, While The Rest

Of The Males Gathered on The Flanks And In the Rear, Indicating

A Gallantry That Might Be Emulated at Times By The Genus Homo.

 

 

 

Generally Buffalo Went To Their Drinking-Places But Once A Day, And

That Late In the Afternoon.  Then They Ambled along, Following Each

Other In single File, Which Accounts For The Many Trails On The

Plains, Always Ending at Some Stream Or Lake.  They Frequently

Travelled twenty Or Thirty Miles For Water, So The Trails Leading

To It Were Often Worn To The Depth Of A Foot Or More.

 

 

 

That Curious Depression So Frequently Seen On The Great Plains,

Called a Buffalo-Wallow, Is Caused in this Wise: The Huge Animals

Paw And Lick The Salty, Alkaline Earth, And When Once The Sod Is

Broken The Loose Dirt Drifts Away Under The Constant Action Of

The Wind.  Then, Year After Year, Through More Pawing, Licking,

Rolling, And Wallowing By The Animals, The Wind Wafts More Of The

Soil Away, And Soon There Is A Considerable Hole In the Prairie.

 

 

 

Many An Old Trapper And Hunter'S Life Has Been Saved by Following

A Buffalo-Trail When He Was Suffering From Thirst.  The Buffalo-Wallows

Retain Usually A Great Quantity Of Water, And They Have Often Saved

The Lives Of Whole Companies Of Cavalry, Both Men And Horses.

 

 

 

There Was, However, A Stranger And More Wonderful Spectacle To Be Seen

Every Recurring Spring During The Reign Of The Buffalo, Soon After

The Grass Had Started.  There Were Circles Trodden Bare On The Plains,

Thousands, Yes, Millions Of Them, Which The Early Travellers, Who Did

Not Divine Their Cause, Called fairy-Rings.  From The First Of April

Until The Middle Of May Was The Wet Season; You Could Depend Upon Its

Recurrence Almost As Certainly As On The Sun And Moon Rising at Their

Proper Time.  This Was Also The Calving Period Of The Buffalo, As

They, Unlike Our Domestic Cattle, Only Rutted during a Single Month;

Consequently, The Cows All Calved during a Certain Time; This Was The

Wet Month, And As There Were A Great Many Gray Wolves That Roamed

Singly And In immense Packs Over The Whole Prairie Region, The Bulls,

In Their Regular Beats, Kept Guard Over The Cows While In the Act

Of Parturition, And Drove The Wolves Away, Walking In a Ring around

The Females At A Short Distance, And Thus Forming The Curious Circles.

 

 

 

In Every Herd At Each Recurring Season There Were Always Ambitious

Young Bulls That Came To Their Majority, So To Speak, And These Were

Ever Ready To Test Their Claims For The Leadership, So That It May

Be Safely Stated that A Month Rarely Passed without A Bloody Battle

Between Them For The Supremacy; Though, Strangely Enough, The Struggle

Scarcely Ever Resulted in the Death Of Either Combatant.

 

 

 

Perhaps There Is No Animal In which Maternal Love Is So Wonderfully

Developed as The Buffalo Cow; She Is As Dangerous With A Calf By

Her Side As A She-Grizzly With Cubs, As All Old Mountaineers Know.

 

 

 

The Buffalo Bull That Has Outlived his Usefulness Is One Of The Most

Pitiable Objects In the Whole Range Of Natural History.  Old Age

Has Probably Been Decided in the Economy Of Buffalo Life As The

Unpardonable Sin.  Abandoned to His Fate, He May Be Discovered,

In His Dreary Isolation, Near Some Stream Or Lake, Where It Does Not

Tax Him Too Severely To Find Good Grass; For He Is Now Feeble, And

Exertion An Impossibility.  In this New Stage Of His Existence He

Seems To Have Completely Lost His Courage.  Frightened at His Own

Shadow, Or The Rustling Of A Leaf, He Is The Very Incarnation Of

Nervousness And Suspicion.  Gregarious In his Habits From Birth,

Solitude, Foreign To His Whole Nature, Has Changed him Into A New

Creature; And His Inherent Terror Of The Most Trivial Things Is

Intensified to Such A Degree That If A Man Were Compelled to Undergo

Such Constant Alarm, It Would Probably Drive Him Insane In less Than

A Week.  Nobody Ever Saw One Of These Miserable And Helplessly

Forlorn Creatures Dying a Natural Death, Or Ever Heard Of Such An

Occurrence.  The Cowardly Coyote And The Gray Wolf Had Already

Marked him For Their Own; And They Rarely Missed their Calculations.

 

 

 

Riding Suddenly To The Top Of A Divide Once With A Party Of Friends

In 1866, We Saw Standing Below Us In the Valley An Old Buffalo Bull,

The Very Picture Of Despair.  Surrounding Him Were Seven Gray Wolves

In The Act Of Challenging Him To Mortal Combat.  The Poor Beast,

Undoubtedly Realizing The Utter Hopelessness Of His Situation,

Had Determined to Die Game.  His Great Shaggy Head, Filled with Burrs,

Was Lowered to The Ground As He Confronted his Would-Be Executioners;

His Tongue, Black And Parched, Lolled out Of His Mouth, And He Gave

Utterance At Intervals To A Suppressed roar.

 

 

 

The Wolves Were Sitting On Their Haunches In a Semi-Circle Immediately

In Front Of