The openings became larger, until they a.s.sumed the appearance of vast meadows, inclosed by groves, that at a distance resembled great hedges.
Now and then there were copses that stood apart from the larger tracts of forests, looking like islands upon the surface of a green sea, and by the name of "islands" these detached groves are known among the hunters and other denizens of prairie-land. Sometimes the surface was undulating or, as it is there termed, "rolling," and our road was varied, ascending or descending, as we crossed the gentle declivities.
The timber through which we had up to this time been pa.s.sing consisted of ash, burr oak, black walnut, chestnut oak, buck eye, the American elm, hickory, hackberry, sumach, and, in low moist places, the sycamore, and long-leaved willow. These trees, with many others, form the princ.i.p.al growth of the large forests, upon the banks of the Mississippi, both cast and west.
As we advanced westward, Besancon called our attention to the fact, that all these kinds of timber, one by one, disappeared from the landscape, and in their place a single species alone made up the larger growth of the forest. This was the celebrated "cotton-wood," a species of poplar (_Populus angulatus_). I say celebrated, because, being almost the only tree of large size which is found throughout the region of the great plains, it is well-known to all hunters and prairie travellers, who regard it with a peculiar veneration. A grove of cotton-wood is always a glad sight to those who traverse the limitless levels of the prairie.
It promises shelter from the wind or sun, wood for the camp-fire, and, above all, water to slake the thirst. As the ocean mariner regards the sight of the welcome port, with similar feelings of joy the mariner of the "prairie-sea" beholds, over the broad waste, the silvery foliage of the cotton-wood grove, regarding it as his temporary home--his place of rest and refuge.
After travelling through hundreds of small prairies, separated from each other by groves of cotton-wood, we arrived at a high point on the waters of the "Little Osage," another tributary of the larger river of that name. As yet we had met with no traces of the buffalo, and were beginning to doubt the correctness of the information we had received at Saint Louis, when we fell in with a band of Kansas Indians--a friendly tribe--who received us in the most courteous manner. From them we learned that the buffalo had been upon the Little Osage at an earlier period in that same year, but that hara.s.sed and decimated by their own hunters, they had roamed much farther west, and were now supposed to be on the other side of the "Neosho," or Grand River--a northern tributary of the Arkansas.
This was anything but pleasant news. We should have at least another hundred miles to travel before coming up with our game; but there was no thought of going back, until we had done so. No. One and all declared that rather than give up the object of our expedition, we would travel on to the Rocky Mountains themselves, risking the chances of being scalped by hostile Indians.
There was a good deal of bravado in this, it is true; but we were fully determined that we would not go back without our buffalo-hunt.
Thanking our Kansas friends for their courtesy, we parted from them, and headed westward for the Neosho.
As we proceeded, timber became scarce, until at length it was found only on the banks of streams widely distant from each other. Sometimes not a tree was in sight for the whole day"s journey. We were now fairly on the prairies.
We crossed the Neosho at length--still no buffalo.
We kept on, and crossed several other large streams, all flowing south-eastwardly to the Arkansas. Still no buffalo.
We began to yearn exceedingly for a sight of the great game. The few deer that were killed from time to time offered us but poor sport, and their meat was not sufficient for our supply.
Of bacon we were heartily tired, and we longed for fresh buffalo-beef.
The praises lavished by our guides upon the delicacy of this viand-- their talk over the camp-fire, about "fat cow" and "_boudins_" and "hump-ribs," quite tantalised our palates, and we were all eager to try our teeth upon these vaunted t.i.t-bits. No buffalo appeared yet, and we were forced to chew our bacon, as well as our impatience, for several days longer.
A great change now took place in the appearance of the country. The timber became still more scarce, and the soil drier and more sandy.
Species of cactus (_opuntia_) appeared along the route, with several other plants new to the eyes of most of us, and which to those of Besancon were objects of extreme interest. But that which most gratified us was the appearance of a new herbage, different entirely from what we had been pa.s.sing over, and this was hailed by our guides with exclamations of joy. It was the celebrated "buffalo gra.s.s." The trappers declared we should not have much farther to go until we found the buffaloes themselves, for, wherever this gra.s.s existed in plenty, the buffalo, unless driven off by hunting, were sure to be found.
The buffalo gra.s.s is a short gra.s.s, not more than a few inches in height, with crooked and pointed culms, often throwing out suckers that root again, and produce other leaves and culms, and in this way form a tolerably thick sward. When in flower or seed, it is headed by numerous spikes of half an inch in length, and on these the spikelets are regular and two rowed.
It is a species of _Sesleria_ (_Sesleria dactyloides_), but Besancon informed us that it possesses characters that cause it to differ from the genus, and to resemble the _Chondrosium_.
The buffalo gra.s.s is not to be confounded with, another celebrated gra.s.s of the Texan and North Mexican prairies, the "gramma" of the Spaniards.
This last is a true Chondrosium, and there are several species of it.
The _Chondrosium foeneum_ is one of the finest fodders in the world for the food of cattle, almost equal to unthrashed oats.
The buffalo gra.s.s forms the favourite and princ.i.p.al fodder of the buffaloes whenever it is in season, and these animals roam over the prairies in search of it.
Of course with this knowledge we were now on the _qui vive_. At every new rise that we made over the swells of the prairie our eyes were busy, and swept the surface on every side of us, and in the course of a few days we encountered several false alarms.
There is an hallucination peculiar to the clear atmosphere of these regions. Objects are not only magnified, but frequently distorted in their outlines, and it is only an old hunter that knows a buffalo when he sees one. Brothers a bush is often taken for a wild bull, and with us a brace of carrion crows, seated upon the crest of a ridge, were actually thought to be buffaloes, until they suddenly took wing and rose into the air, thus dispelling the illusion!
Long before this time we had encountered that well-known animal of the great plains--the "prairie-wolf,"--(_Lupus latrans_).
The prairie-wolf inhabits the vast and still unpeopled territories that lie between the Mississippi River and the sh.o.r.es of the Pacific Ocean.
Its range extends beyond what is strictly termed "the prairies." It is found in the wooded and mountainous ravines of California and the Rocky Mountain districts. It is common throughout the whole of Mexico, where it is known as the "coyote." I have seen numbers of this species on the battle-field, tearing at corpses, as far south as the valley of Mexico itself. Its name of prairie-wolf is, therefore, in some respects inappropriate, the more so as the larger wolves are also inhabitants of the prairie. No doubt this name was given it, because the animal was first observed in the prairie country west of the Mississippi by the early explorers of that region. In the wooded countries east of the great river, the common large wolf only is known.
Whatever doubt there may be of the many varieties of the large wolf being distinct species, there can be none with regard to the _Lupus latrans_. It differs from all the others in size, and in many of its habits. Perhaps it more nearly resembles the jackal than any other animal. It is the New World representative of that celebrated creature.
In size, it is just midway between the large wolf and fox. With much of the appearance of the former, it combines all the sagacity of the latter. It is usually of a greyish colour, lighter or darker, according to circ.u.mstances, and often with a tinge of cinnamon or brown.
As regards its cunning, the fox is "but a fool to it." It cannot be trapped. Some experiments made for the purpose, show results that throw the theory of instinct quite into the background. It has been known to burrow under a "dead fall," and drag off the bait without springing the trap. The steel-trap it avoids, no matter how concealed; and the cage-trap has been found "no go."
Farther ill.u.s.trations of the cunning of the prairie-wolf might be found in its mode of decoying within reach the antelopes and other creatures on which it preys. Of course this species is as much fox as wolf, for in reality a small wolf is a fox, and a large fox is a wolf. To the traveller and trapper of the prairie regions, it is a pest. It robs the former of his provisions--often stealing them out of his very tent; it unbaits the traps of the latter, or devours the game already secured in them.
It is a constant attendant upon the caravans or travelling-parties that cross prairie-land. A pack of prairie-wolves will follow such a party for hundreds of miles, in order to secure the refuse left at the camps.
They usually he down upon the prairie, just out of range of the rifles of the travellers; yet they do not observe this rule always, as they know there is not much danger of being molested. Hunters rarely shoot them, not deeming their hides worth having, and not caring to waste a charge upon them. They are more cautious when following a caravan of California emigrants, where there are plenty of "greenhorns" and amateur-hunters ready to fire at anything.
Prairie-wolves are also constant attendants upon the "gangs" of buffalo.
They follow these for hundreds of miles--in fact, the outskirts of the buffalo herd are, for the time being, their home. They he down on the prairie at a short distance from the buffaloes, and wait and watch, in hopes that some of these animals may get disabled or separated from the rest, or with the expectation that a cow with her new-dropped calf may fall into the rear. In such cases, the pack gather round the unfortunate individual, and worry it to death. A wounded or superannuated bull sometimes "falls out," and is attacked. In this case the fight is more desperate, and the bull is sadly mutilated before he can be brought to the ground. Several wolves, too, are laid _hors de combat_ during the struggle.
The prairie traveller may often look around him without seeing a single wolf; but let him fire off his gun, and, as if by magic, a score of them will suddenly appear. They start from their hiding-places, and rush forward in hopes of sharing in the produce of the shot.
At night, they enliven the prairie-camp with their dismal howling, although most travellers would gladly dispense with such music. Their note is a bark like that of a terrier-dog repeated three times, and then prolonged into a true wolf"s howl. I have heard farm-house dogs utter a very similar bark. From this peculiarity, some naturalists prefer calling them the "barking wolf," and that (_Lupus latrans_) is the specific appellation given by Say, who first described them.
Prairie-wolves have all the ferocity of their race, but no creature could be more cowardly. Of course no one fears them under ordinary circ.u.mstances, but they have been known to make a combined attack upon persons disabled, and in severe weather, when they themselves were rendered unusually savage by hunger, as already stated. But they are not regarded with fear either by traveller or hunter; and the latter disdains to waste his charge upon such worthless game.
Our guide, Ike, was an exception to this rule. He was the only one of his sort that shot prairie-wolves, and he did so "on sight." I believe if it had been the last bullet in his pouch, and an opportunity had offered of sending it into a prairie-wolf, he would have despatched the leaden missile. We asked him how many he had killed in his time. He drew a small notched stick from his "possible sack," and desired us to count the notches upon it. We did so. There were one hundred and forty-five in all.
"You have killed one hundred and forty-five, then?" cried we, astonished at the number.
"Yes, i"deed," replied he, with a quiet chuckle, "that many dozen; for every "un of them nutches count twelve. I only make a nutch when I"ve throwed the clur dozen."
"A hundred and forty-five dozen!" we repeated in astonishment; and yet I have no doubt of the truth of the trapper"s statement, for he had no interest in deceiving us. I am satisfied from what I knew of him, that he had slain the full number stated--one thousand seven hundred and forty!
Of course we became curious to learn the cause of his antipathy to the prairie-wolves; for we knew he had an antipathy, and it was that that had induced him to commit such wholesale havoc among these creatures.
It was from this circ.u.mstance he had obtained the soubriquet of "wolf-killer." By careful management, we at last got him upon the edge of the stray, and quietly pushed him into it. He gave it to us as follows:--
"Wal, strengers, about ten winters agone, I wur travellin" from Bent"s Fort on the Arkensaw, to "Laramie on the Platte, all alone by myself. I had undertuk the journey on some business for Bill Bent--no matter now what.
"I had crossed the divide, and got within sight o" the Black Hills, when one night I had to camp out on the open parairy, without either bush or stone to shelter me.
"That wur, perhaps, the coldest night this n.i.g.g.e.r remembers; thur wur a wind kim down from the mountains that wud a froze the bar off an iron dog. I gathered my blanket around me, but that wind whistled through it as if it had been a rail-fence.
""Twan"t no use lyin" down, for I couldn"t a slep, so I sot up.
"You may ask why I hadn"t a fire? I"ll tell you why. Fust, thur wan"t a stick o" timber within ten mile o" me; and, secondly, if thur had been I dasen"t a made a fire. I wur travellin" as bad a bit o" Injun ground as could been found in all the country, and I"d seen Injun sign two or three times that same day. It"s true thur wur a good grist o"
buffler-chips about, tol"ably dry, and I mout have made some sort o" a fire out o" that; an" at last I did make a fire arter a fashion. I did it this a way.
"Seeing that with the cussed cold I wan"t agoin" to get a wink o" sleep, I gathered a wheen o" the buffler-chips. I then dug a hole in the ground with my bowie, an" hard pickin" that wur; but I got through the crust at last, and made a sort o" oven about a fut, or a fut and a half deep. At the bottom I laid some dry gra.s.s and dead branches o" sage plant, and then settin" it afire, I piled the buffler-chips on top. The thing burnt tol"able well, but the smoke o" the buffler-dung would a-choked a skunk.
"As soon as it had got fairly under way, I hunkered, an" sot down over the hole, in sich a position as to catch all the heat under my blanket, an" then I was comf"table enough. Of coorse no Injun kud see the smoke arter night, an it would a tuk sharp eyes to have sighted the fire, I reckon.
"Wal, strengers, the critter I rode wur a young mustang colt, about half-broke. I had bought him from a Mexikin at Bent"s only the week afore, and it wur his fust journey, leastwise with me. Of coorse I had him on the lariat; but up to this time I had kept the eend o" the rope in my hand, because I had that same day lost my picket pin; an" thinkin"
as I wan"t agoin" to sleep, I mout as well hold on to it.
"By "m by, however, I begun to feel drowsy. The fire "atween my legs promised to keep me from freezin", an" I thort I mout as well take a nap. So I tied the lariat round my ankles, sunk my head atween my knees, an" in the twinklin" o" a goat"s tail I wur sound. I jest noticed as I wur goin" off, that the mustang wur out some yards, nibbling away at the dry gra.s.s o" the parairy.
"I guess I must a slep about an hour, or tharabouts--I won"t be sartint how long. I only know that I didn"t wake o" my own accord. I wur awoke; an" when I did awoke, I still thort I wur a-dreamin". It would a been a rough dream; but unfort"nately for me, it wan"t a dream, but a jenwine reality.