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

Without

          Making any Noise.  I Started them, And, Oh Dear!  I Was

          Afraid To Tread Upon A Weed, Lest It Would Snap And Bring

          The Indians Down On My Trail.  Until I Had Put Several

          Miles Between Them And Me, I Could Not Rest Easy For

          A Moment.  Tired as I Was, Tired as Were Both My Horse

          And The Cattle, I Drove Them Twenty-Five Miles Before

          I Halted.  Then Daylight Was Upon Me.  I Was At What Is

          Known As Chouteau'S Island, A Once Famous Place In the

          Days Of The Old Santa Fe Trail.

 

 

 

          Of Course, I Had To Let The Oxen And My Horse Rest And Fill

          Themselves Until The Afternoon, And I Lay Down, And Fell

          Asleep, But Did Not Sleep Long, As I Thought It Dangerous

          To Remain Too Near The Cattle.  I Rose And Walked up A Big,

          Dry Sand Creek That Opened into The River, And After I Had

          Ascended it For A Couple Of Miles, Found The Banks Very

          Steep; In fact, They Rose To A Height Of Eighteen Or Twenty

          Feet, And Were Sharply Cut Up By Narrow Trails Made By

          The Buffalo.

 

 

 

          The Whole Face Of The Earth Was Covered by Buffalo, And

          They Were Slowly Grazing Toward The Arkansas.  All At Once

          They Became Frightened at Something, And Stampeded pell-Mell

          Toward The Very Spot On Which I Stood.  I Quickly Ran Into

          One Of The Precipitous Little Paths And Up On The Prairie,

          To See What Had Scared them.  They Were Making The Ground

          Fairly Tremble As Their Mighty Multitude Came Rushing On

          At Full Speed, The Sound Of Their Hoofs Resembling Thunder,

          But In a Continuous Peal.  It Appeared to Me That They Must

          Sweep Everything In their Path, And For My Own Preservation

          I Rushed under The Creek-Bank, But On They Came Like A

          Tornado, With One Old Bull In the Lead.  He Held Up A Second

          To Descend The Narrow Trail, And When He Had Got About

          Halfway Down I Let Him Have It; I Was Only A Few Steps From

          Him And Over He Tumbled.  I Don'T Know Why I Killed him;

          Out Of Pure Wantonness, I Expect, Or Perhaps I Thought

          It Would Frighten The Others Back.  Not So, However;

          They Only Quickened their Pace, And Came Dashing Down In

          Great Numbers.  Dozens Of Them Stumbled and Fell Over The

          Dead Bull; Others Fell Over Them.  The Top Of The Bank

          Was Fairly Swarming With Them; They Leaped, Pitched, And

          Rolled down.  I Crouched as Close To The Bank As Possible,

          But Many Of Them Just Grazed my Head, Knocking The Sand

          And Gravel In great Streams Down My Neck; Indeed i Was

          Half Buried before The Herd Had Passed over.  That Old Bull

          Was The Last Buffalo I Ever Shot Wantonly, Excepting Once,

          From An Ambulance While Riding On The Old Trail, To Please

          A Distinguished englishman, Who Had Never Seen One Shot;

          Then I Did It Only After His Most Earnest Persuasion.

 

 

 

          One Day A Stage-Driver Named frank Harris And Myself Started

          Out After Buffalo; They Were Scarce, For A Wonder, And

          We Were Very Hungry For Fresh Meat.  The Day Was Fine And

          We Rode A Long Way, Expecting Sooner Or Later A Bunch Would

          Jump Up, But In the Afternoon, Having Seen None, We Gave

          It Up And Started for The Ranch.  Of Course, We Didn'T

          Care To Save Our Ammunition, So Shot It Away At Everything

          In sight, Skunks, Rattlesnakes, Prairie-Dogs, And Gophers,

          Until We Had Only A Few Loads Left.  Suddenly An Old Bull

          Jumped up That Had Been Lying Down In one Of Those

          Sugar-Loaf-Shaped sand Hills, Whose Tops Are Hollowed out

          By The Action Of The Wind.  Harris Emptied his Revolver

          Into Him, And So Did I; But The Old Fellow Sullenly Stood

          Still There On Top Of The Sand Hill, Bleeding Profusely

          At The Nose, And Yet Absolutely Refusing To Die, Although

          He Would Repeatedly Stagger And Nearly Tumble Over.

 

 

 

          It Was Getting Late And We Couldn'T Wait On Him, So Harris

          Said: "I Will Dismount, Creep Up Behind Him, And Cut His

          Hamstrings With My Butcher-Knife."  The Bull Having Now

          Lain Down, Harris Commenced operations, But His Movement

          Seemed to Infuse New Life Into The Old Fellow; He Jumped

          To His Feet, His Head Lowered in the Attitude Of Fight,

          And Away He Went Around The Outside Of The Top Of The

          Sand Hill!  It Was A Perfect Circus With One Ring; Harris,

          Who Was A Tall, Lanky Fellow, Took Hold Of The Enraged

          Animal'S Tail As He Rose To His Feet, And In a Moment His

          Legs Were Flying Higher Than His Head, But He Did Not Dare

          Let Go Of His Hold On The Bull'S Tail, And Around And

          Around They Went; It Was His Only Show For Life.  I Could

          Not Assist Him A Particle, But Had To Sit And Hold His Horse,

          And Be Judge Of The Fight.  I Really Thought That Old Bull

          Would Never Weaken.  Finally, However, The "Ring" Performance

          Began To Show Symptoms Of Fatigue; Slower And Slower The

          Actions Of The Bull Grew, And At Last Harris Succeeded

          In cutting His Hamstrings And The Poor Beast Went Down.

          Harris Said Afterward, When The Danger Was All Over, That

          The Only Thing He Feared was That Perhaps The Bull'S Tail

          Would Pull Out, And If It Did, He Was Well Aware That He

          Was A Goner.  We Brought His Tongue, Hump, And A Hindquarter

          To The Ranch With Us, And Had A Glorious Feast And A Big

          Laugh That Night With The Boys Over The Ridiculous Adventure.

 

 

 

General Richard Irving Dodge, United states Army, In his Work On

The Big Game Of America, Says:

 

 

 

          It Is Almost Impossible For A Civilized being To Realize

          The Value To The Plains Indian Of The Buffalo.  It Furnished

          Him With Home, Food, Clothing, Bedding, Horse Equipment--

          Almost Everything.

 

 

 

          From 1869 To 1873 I Was Stationed at Various Posts Along

          The Arkansas River.  Early In spring, As Soon As The Dry

          And Apparently Desert Prairie Had Begun To Change Its Coat

          Of Dingy Brown To One Of Palest Green, The Horizon Would

          Begin To Be Dotted with Buffalo, Single Or In groups Of Two

          Or Three, Forerunners Of The Coming Herd.  Thick And Thicker,

          And In large Groups They Come, Until By The Time The Grass

          Is Well Up, The Whole Vast Landscape Appears A Mass Of

          Buffalo, Some Individuals Feeding, Others Lying Down, But

          The Herd Slowly Moving To The Northward; Of Their Number,

          It Was Impossible To Form A Conjecture.

 

 

 

          Determined as They Are To Pursue Their Journey Northward,

          Yet They Are Exceedingly Cautious And Timid About It,

          And On Any Alarm Rush To The Southward With All Speed,

          Until That Alarm Is Dissipated.  Especially Is This The Case

          When Any Unusual Object Appears In their Rear, And So

          Utterly Regardless Of Consequences Are They, That An Old

          Plainsman Will Not Risk A Wagon-Train In such A Herd,

          Where Rising Ground Will Permit Those In front To Get

          A Good View Of Their Rear.

 

 

 

          In may, 1871, I Drove In a Buggy From Old Fort Zarah

          To Fort Larned, On The Arkansas River.  The Distance Is

          Thirty-Four Miles.  At Least Twenty-Five Miles Of That

          Distance Was Through An Immense Herd.  The Whole Country

          Was One Mass Of Buffalo, Apparently, And It Was Only When

          Actually Among Them, That The Seemingly Solid Body Was

          Seen To Be An Agglomeration Of Countless Herds Of From

          Fifty To Two Hundred animals, Separated from The Surrounding

          Herds By A Greater Or Less Space, But Still Separated.

 

 

 

          The Road Ran Along The Broad Valley Of The Arkansas.

          Some Miles From Zarah A Low Line Of Hills Rises From The

          Plain On The Right, Gradually Increasing In height And

          Approaching Road And River, Until They Culminate In

          Pawnee Rock.

 

 

 

          So Long As I Was In the Broad, Level Valley, The Herds

          Sullenly Got Out Of My Way, And, Turning, Stared stupidly

          At Me, Some Within Thirty Or Forty Yards.  When, However,

          I Had Reached a Point Where The Hills Were No More Than

          A Mile From The Road, The Buffalo On The Crests, Seeing an

          Unusual Object In their Rear, Turned, Stared an Instant,

          Then Started at Full Speed toward Me, Stampeding and

          Bringing With Them The Numberless Herds Through Which

          They Passed, And Pouring Down On Me, No Longer Separated

          But Compacted into One Immense Mass Of Plunging animals,

          Mad With Fright, Irresistible As An Avalanche.

 

 

 

          The Situation Was By No Means Pleasant.  There Was But

          One Hope Of Escape.  My Horse Was, Fortunately, A Quiet

          Old Beast, That Had Rushed with Me Into Many A Herd, And

          Been In at The Death Of Many A Buffalo.  Reining Him Up,

          I Waited until The Front Of The Mass Was Within Fifty Yards,

          Then, With A Few Well-Directed shots, Dropped some Of

          The Leaders, Split The Herd And Sent It Off In two Streams

          To My Right And Left.  When All Had Passed me, They Stopped,

          Apparently Satisfied, Though Thousands Were Yet Within

          Reach Of My Rifle.  After My Servant Had Cut Out The

          Tongues Of The Fallen, I Proceeded on My Journey, Only To

          Have A Similar Experience Within A Mile Or Two, And This

          Occurred so Often That I Reached fort Larned with Twenty-Six

          Tongues, Representing The Greatest Number Of Buffalo That

          I Can Blame Myself With Having Murdered in one Day.

 

 

 

          Some Years, As In 1871, The Buffalo Appeared to Move

          Northward In one Immense Column, Oftentimes From Twenty

          To Fifty Miles In width, And Of Unknown Depth From Front

          To Rear.  Other Years The Northward Journey Was Made

          In several Parallel Columns Moving at The Same Rate And

          With Their Numerous Flankers Covering a Width Of A Hundred

          Or More Miles.

 

 

 

          When The Food In one Locality Fails, They Go To Another,

          And Toward Fall, When The Grass Of The High Prairies

          Becomes Parched by The Heat And Drought, They Gradually

          Work Their Way Back To The South, Concentrating On The

          Rich Pastures Of Texas And The Indian Territory, Whence,

          The Same Instinct Acting On All, They Are Ready To Start

          Together Again On Their Northward March As Soon As Spring

          Starts The Grass.

 

 

 

          Old Plainsmen And The Indians Aver That The Buffalo Never

          Return South; That Each Year'S Herd Was Composed of Animals

          Which Had Never Made The Journey Before, And Would Never

          Make It Again.  All Admit The Northern Migration, That

          Being Too Pronounced for Any One To Dispute, But Refuse

          To Admit The Southern Migration.  Thousands Of Young Calves

          Were Caught And Killed every Spring That Were Produced

          During This Migration, And Accompanied the Herd Northward;

          But Because The Buffalo Did Not Return South In one Vast

          Body As They Went North, It Was Stoutly Maintained that

          They Did Not Go South At All.  The Plainsman Could Give

          No Reasonable Hypothesis Of His "No-Return Theory" On Which

          To Base The Origin Of The Vast Herds Which Yearly Made

          Their March Northward.  The Indian Was, However, Equal

          To The Occasion.  Every Plains Indian Firmly Believed that

          The Buffalo Were Produced in countless Numbers In a Country

          Under Ground; That Every Spring The Surplus Swarmed,

          Like Bees From A Hive, Out Of The Immense Cave-Like Opening

          In the Region Of The Great Llano Estacado, Or Staked plain

          Of Texas.  In 1879 Stone Calf, A Celebrated chief, Assured

          Me That He Knew Exactly Where The Caves Were, Though He Had

          Never Seen Them; That The Good God Had Provided this

          Means For The Constant Supply Of Food For The Indian, And

          However Recklessly The White Men Might Slaughter, They Could

          Never Exterminate Them.  When Last I Saw Him, The Old Man

          Was Beginning To Waver In this Belief, And Feared that

          The "Bad God" Had Shut The Entrances, And That His Tribe

          Must Starve.

 

 

 

The Old Trappers And Plainsmen Themselves, Even As Early As The

Beginning Of The Santa Fe Trade, Noticed the Gradual Disappearance

Of