The Silver Canyon

by Fenn, George Manville

  Then he looked round for some one to echo his cry, and he saw a widespread stretch of undulating prairie land, with some tufts of bush here, some tall grass there, and beneath his feet the huge game beast that he had fairly run down and shot, while close beside him Black Boy was recompensing himself for his long run by munching the coarse brown grass.

  And that was all.

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty Six.

  Alone in the Plains.

  Where were the hundreds of buffalo that had been thundering over the plain?

  Where was Joses?

  Where were the Indians?

  These were the questions Bart asked as he gazed round him in dismay. For the excitement of his gallop was over now, and, though they wanted meat so badly, he felt half sorry that he had shot the poor beast that lay stiffening by his side for he had leaped down, and had, as if by instinct, taken hold of Black Boy’s rein, lest he should suddenly take it into his head to gallop off and leave his master in the solitude by himself.

  For a few minutes there was something novel and strange in the sensation of being the only human being in that vast circle whose circumference was the horizon, seen from his own centre.

  Then it began to be astonishing, and Bart wondered why he could not see either hunters or buffaloes.

  Lastly, it began to be painful, and to be mingled with a curious sensation of dread. He realised that he was alone in that vast plain—that he had galloped on for a long while without noticing in which direction he had gone, and then, half-stunned and wondering as he fully realised the fact that he was lost, he mounted his horse and sat thinking.

  He did not think much, for there was a singular, stupefied feeling in his head for a time. But this passed off, and was succeeded by a bewildering rush of thought—what was to become of him if he were left here like this—alone—without a friend—hopeless of being found?

  This wild race of fancies was horrible while it endured, and Bart pressed the cold barrel of his rifle to his forehead in the hope of finding relief, but it gave none.

  The relief came from his own effort as he tried to pull himself together, laughing at his own cowardice, and ridiculing his fears.

  “What a pretty sort of a hunter I shall make!” he said aloud, “to be afraid of being left alone for a few minutes in broad daylight, with the sun shining down upon my head, and plenty of beef to eat if I like to light myself a fire.”

  It was ridiculous, he told himself, and that he ought to feel ashamed; for he was ignorant of the fact that even old plainsmen and practised hunters may lose their nerve at such a time, and suffer so from the horror of believing themselves lost that some even become insane.

  Fortunately, perhaps, Bart did not know this, and he bantered himself until he grew cooler, when he began to calculate on what was the proper thing to do.

  “Let me see,” he said; “they are sure to begin looking for me as soon as I am missed. What shall I do? Fire my rifle—make a fire—ride off to try and find them?”

  He sat upon his horse thinking.

  If he fired his rifle or made a fire, he might bring down Indians upon him, and that would be worse than being lost, so he determined to wait patiently until he was able to see some of his party; and no sooner had he come to this determination than he cheered up, for he recollected directly that the Beaver, or some one or other of his men, would be sure to find him by his trail, even though it had been amongst the trampling hoof-marks of the bison. The prints of a well-shod horse would be unmistakable, and with this thought he grew more patient, and waited on.

  It was towards evening, though, before he had the reward of his patience in seeing the figure of a mounted Indian in the distance; and even then it gave no comfort, for he felt sure that it might be an enemy, for it appeared to be in the very opposite direction from that which he had come.

  Bart’s first idea was to go off at a gallop, only he did not know where to go, and after all, this might be a friend.

  Then another appeared, and another; and dismounting, and turning his horse and the bison into bulwarks, Bart stood with his rifle resting, ready for a shot, should these Indians prove to be enemies, and patiently waited them as they came on.

  This they did so quickly and full of confidence that there was soon no doubt as to who they were, and Bart at last mounted again, and rode forward to meet them.

  The Indians came on, waving their rifles above their heads, and no sooner did they catch sight of the prize the lad had shot than they gave a yell of delight; and then, forgetting their customary stolidity, they began to chatter to him volubly in their own tongue, as they flung themselves from their horses and began to skin the bison as it lay.

  Bart could not help thinking how thoroughly at home these men seemed in the wilds. A short time before he had been in misery and despair because he felt that he was lost. Here were these Indians perfectly at their ease, and ready to set to work and prepare for a stay if needs be, for nothing troubled them—the immensity and solitude had no terrors for their untutored minds.

  They had not been at work above an hour before a couple more Indians came into sight, and soon after, to his great delight, Bart recognised Joses and the Beaver coming slowly over a ridge in the distance, and he cantered off to meet them at once.

  “Thought we lost you, Master Bart,” cried Joses, with a grim smile. “Well, how many bufflers did you shoot?”

  “Only one,” replied Bart, “but it was a very big fellow.”

  “Calf?” asked Joses, laughing.

  “No; that great bull that came over the ridge.”

  “You don’t mean to say you ran him down, lad, and shot him, do you?” cried Joses, excitedly.

  “There he lies, and the Indians are cutting him up,” said Bart quietly.

  Joses pressed his horse’s sides with his heels, and went off at a gallop to inspect Bart’s prize, coming back in a few minutes smiling all over his face.

  “He’s a fine one, my lad. He’s a fine one, Master Bart—finest shot to-day. I tell you what, my lad, if I’d shot that great bull I should have thought myself a lucky man.”

  As he spoke he pointed to the spot, and the Beaver cantered off to have his look, and he now came back ready to nod and say a few commendatory words to the young hunter, whom they considered to have well won his spurs.

  The result of this first encounter with the bison was that nine were slain, and for many hours to come the party were busy cutting up the meat into strips, which were hung in the sun to dry.

  Then four of the Indians went slowly off towards the miners’ camp at the mountain, their horses laden with the strips of meat, their instructions being to come back with a couple of waggons, which Joses believed they would be able to fill next day.

  “How far do you think we are from the camp?” asked Bart.

  “’Bout fifteen miles or so, no more,” replied Joses. “You see the run after the bison led us down towards it, so that there isn’t so far to go.”

  “Why, I fancied that we were miles upon miles away,” cried Bart; “regularly lost in the wilderness.”

  “Instead of being close at home, eh, lad? Well, we shall have to camp somewhere out here to-night, so we may as well pick out a good place.”

  “But where are the other Indians?” asked Bart.

  “Cutting up the buffler we killed,” replied Joses.

  “Faraway?”

  “Oh, no; mile or so. We’ve done pretty well, my lad, for the first day, only we want such a lot to fill so many mouths.”

  A suitable place was selected for the camp, down in a well-sheltered hollow, where a fire was lit, and some bison-meat placed upon sticks to roast. The missing Indians seemed to be attracted by the odour, for just as it was done they all came straight up to camp ready to make a hearty meal, in which their white companions were in no wise behind hand.

  “Not bad stuff,” said Joses, after a long space, during which he had been too busy to speak.

  “I never ate anythi
ng so delicious,” replied Bart, who, upon his side, was beginning to feel as if he had had enough.

  “Ah, there’s worse things than roast buffler hump,” said Joses; “and now, my lad, if I was you I’d take as big and as long a sleep as I could, for we must be off again before daylight after the herd.”

  “Shall we catch up to them again, Joses?” asked Bart.

  “Catch up to ’em? why, of course, they haven’t gone far.”

  A quarter of an hour later Bart was fast asleep, dreaming that he was hunting a bull bison ten times as big as the one he had that afternoon shot, and that after hunting it for hours it suddenly turned round and began to hunt him, till he became so tired that he lay down and went off fast asleep, when, to his great disgust, when he was so weary, Joses came and began to shake him by the shoulder, saying:

  “Come, Master Bart, lad, wake up. The buffer’s been coming close in to camp during the night.”

  * * *

  Chapter Twenty Seven.

  More Food for the Camp.

  For it was nearly day, and Bart jumped up, astonished that he could have slept so long—that is to say, nearly since sundown on the previous evening.

  A good fire was burning, and buffalo steaks were sizzling and spurting ready for their repast, while the horses were all standing together beneath a little bold bluff of land left sharp and clear by the action of a stream that doubtless flowed swiftly enough in flood time, but was now merely a thread of water.

  The party were settling down to their meal, for which, in spite of the previous evening’s performance, Bart felt quite ready, when the horses suddenly began to snort and show a disposition to make a stampede, for there was a rushing noise as of thunder somewhere on ahead, and as the Indians rushed to their horses’ heads, and he made for Black Boy, thinking that there must be a flood rolling down from the hills, he caught a glimpse of what was amiss.

  For, as Bart stood up, he could see over the edge of the scarped bank beneath which they had made their fire, that the plain was literally alive with bison, which, in some mad insensate fit of dread, were in headlong flight, and their course would bring them right over the spot where the party was encamped.

  The Beaver saw it, and, prompt in action, he made his plans:— Signing to several to come to his side, while the rest held the horses, he leaped upon the edge of the stream bed just as the bison were within a hundred yards, and Bart and Joses followed him. Then altogether, as the huge herd was about to sweep over them, they uttered a tremendous shout, and all fired together right in the centre of the charging herd.

  Bart set his teeth, feeling sure that he would be run down and trampled to death; but the effect of the sudden and bold attack was to make the herd separate. It was but a mere trifle, for the bison were so packed together that their movements were to a great extent governed by those behind; but still they did deviate a little, those of the front rank swerving in two bodies to right and left, and that saved the little party.

  Bart had a sort of confused idea of being almost crushed by shaggy quarters, of being in the midst of a sea of tossing horns and dark hair, with lurid eyes glaring at him; then the drove was sweeping on—some leaping down into the stream bed and climbing up the opposite side, others literally tumbling down headlong, to be trampled upon by those which followed; and then the rushing noise began to die away, for the herd had swept on, and the traces they had left were the trampled ground and a couple of their number shot dead by the discharge of rifles, and lying in the river bed, while another had fallen a few hundred yards farther on in the track of the flight.

  Fortunately the horses had been held so closely up to the bluff that they had escaped, though several of the bison had been forced by their companions to the edge, and had taken the leap, some ten feet, into the river bed below.

  It had been a hard task, though, to hold the horses—the poor creatures shivering with dread, and fighting hard to get free. The worst part of the adventure revealed itself to Bart a few moments later when he turned to look for Joses, whom he found rubbing his head woefully beside the traces of their fire, over which the bison had gone in enormous numbers, with the result that the embers had been scattered, and every scrap of the delicious, freshly-roasted, well-browned meat trampled into the sand.

  “Never mind, Joses,” cried Bart, bursting out laughing; “there’s plenty more meat cut up.”

  “Plenty more,” growled Joses; “and that all so nicely done. Oh, the wilful, wasteful beasts! As if there wasn’t room enough anywhere else on the plain without their coming right over us!”

  “What does the Beaver mean?” said Bart just then.

  “Mean? Yes; I might have known as much. He thinks there’s Injun somewhere; that they have been hunting the buffler and made ’em stampede. We shall have to be off, my lad. No breakfast this morning.”

  It was as Joses said. The Beaver was of opinion that enemies must be near at hand, so he sent out scouts to feel for the danger, and no fire could be lighted lest it should betray their whereabouts to a watchful foe.

  A long period of crouching down in the stream bed ensued, and as Bart waited he could not help thinking that their hiding-place in the plain was, as it were, a beginning of a canyon like that by the mountain, and might, in the course of thousands of years, be cut down by the action of flowing water till it was as wide and deep.

  At last first one and then another scout came in, unable to find a trace of enemies; and thus encouraged, a fire was once more made and meat cooked, while the three bison slain that morning were skinned and their better portions cut away.

  The sun was streaming down with all its might as they once more went off over the plain in search of the herd; and this search was soon rewarded, the party separating, leaving Bart, and Joses together to ride after a smaller herd about a mile to their left.

  As they rode nearer, to Bart’s great surprise, the herd did not take flight, but huddled together, with a number of bulls facing outwards, presenting their horns to their enemies, tossing and shaking their shaggy heads, and pawing up the ground.

  “Why don’t they rush off, Joses?” asked Bart.

  “Got cows and calves inside there, my boy,” replied the frontiersman. “They can’t go fast, so the bulls have stopped to take care of them.”

  “Then it would be a shame to shoot them,” cried Bart. “Why, they are braver than I thought for.”

  “Not they,” laughed Joses. “Not much pluck in a bison, my lad, that I ever see. Why, you might walk straight up to them if you liked, and they’d never charge you.”

  “I shouldn’t like to try them,” said Bart, laughing.

  “Why not, my lad?”

  “Why not? Do you suppose I want to be trampled down and tossed?”

  “Look here, Master Bart. You’ll trust me, won’t you?”

  “Yes, Joses.”

  “You know I wouldn’t send you into danger, don’t you?”

  “Of course, Joses.”

  “Then look here, my lad. I’m going to give you a lesson, if you’ll learn it.”

  “A lesson in what?” asked Bart.

  “In buffler, my lad.”

  “Very well, go on; I’m listening. I want to learn all I can about them,” replied Bart, as he kept on closely watching the great, fierce, fiery-eyed bison bulls, as they stamped and snorted and pawed the ground, and kept making feints of dashing at their approaching enemies, who rode towards them at a good pace.

  “I don’t want you to listen, my lad,” said Joses; “I want you to get down and walk right up to the buffler bulls there, and try and lay hold of their horns.”

  “Walk up to them?” cried Bart. “Why, I was just thinking that if we don’t turn and gallop off, they’ll trample us down.”

  “Not they, my lad,” replied Joses. “I know ’em better than that.”

  “Why, they rushed right over us at the camp.”

  “Yes, because they were on the stampede, and couldn’t stop themselves. If they had seen us sooner
they’d have gone off to the right, or left. As for those in front, if they charge, it will be away from where they can see a man.”

  “But if I got down and walked towards them, the bulls would come at me,” cried Bart.

  “Not they, I tell you, my lad; and I should like to see you show your pluck by getting down and walking up to them. It would be about the best lesson in buffler you ever had.”

  “But they might charge me, Joses,” said Bart, uneasily.

  “Did I tell you right about ’em before,” said Joses, “or did I tell you wrong, my lad?”

  “You told me right; but you might be wrong about them here.”

  “You let me alone for that,” replied Joses, gruffly. “I know what I’m saying. Now, then, will you get down and walk up to ’em, or must I?”

  “If you’ll tell me that I may do such a thing, I’ll go up to them,” said Bart, slowly.

  “Then I do tell you, my lad, and wouldn’t send you if it wasn’t safe. You ought to know that. Now, then, will you go?”

  For answer Bart slipped off his horse and cocked his rifle.

  “Don’t shoot till they’re turning round, my lad,” said Joses; “and then give it to that big young bull in the middle there. He’s a fine one, and we must have meat for the camp.”

  “But it seems a pity; he looks such a brave fellow,” said Bart.

  “Never mind; shoot him. All the other bulls will be precious glad, for he’s the tyrant of the herd, and leads them a pretty life. Now then, on you go.”

  They were now some sixty yards from the herd, and no sooner did Bart take a step forward than Joses leaped lightly from his horse, and rested his rifle over the saddle ready for a sure shot when he should see his chance.

  Bart tried to put on a bold front, but he felt very nervous, and walked cautiously towards the herd, where ten or a dozen bulls faced him, and now seemed to be furious, snorting and stamping with rage.

  But he walked on, gaining courage as he went, but ere he had gone half-a-dozen steps six of the bulls made a headlong charge at him, and Bart stood still, ready to fire.