SPORT ON THE PLAINS.

Poverty Bay Standard, Volume XI, Issue 1260, 27 January 1883, Page 1 (Supplement)

SPORT ON THE PLAINS.

AN EXCITING INDIAN BUFFALO HUNT. WILD MEN, WILD HORSES AND WILD BUFFALOES IN A GREAT RUSHING MASS —DANGERS OF THE CHASE. News had been received that a herd of buffaloes were coming from the north, and in an hour the hunting bucks of the Assiniboin tribe were ready. Stripped to the breech clout, painted picturesquely and horribly for the hunt, mounted an travelling cayuses and leading buffalo ponies, the bucks took up a line of march along the west bank of Wolf Creek, and then turning to the north-west, plunged across the prairie at a smart lope, with the intention of getting in the rear of the game. From Yellow Butte the buffaloes were first sighted, moving in six or eight parallel lines, and so rapidly as to indicate the existence of an enemy in the north. “ Must be Blackfeet or half-breeds ! ” muttered Tom Henderson, the agent, who accompanied the hunters to see and share the fun. “If we all fall in together somehody’ll get hurt.” The course was now due west, the Indians silent, and the only noise the beating of hoofs and the heavy breathing of horses. The dip into the valley took the party out of sight of the chase for an hour, but as they rounded through :• ilver Creek Pass the vast herd was again in view, and the terrible race began. The cayuses were set at liberty and left to follow the buffalo ponies, which were now pressed into the service. No bridles, and not much saddle, only a little beaded pad, with short leathers and stirrups that just admitted the toes. Trained to the business, each pony knew what was expected of him, and burst out upon the prairie at a hot run, encouraged by the voice and hand of his rider. “ Press your knees close, and he’ll take care of himself and you too 1” shouted Tom Henderson, and then a new life commenced. The plain flew backward under the ponies’ hoofs like the belt on a driving wheel. The sky turned red, and the wind cut like needlepoints. Down Upon the flank of the herd poured the yelling savages, wheeling around into the rear and closing up between the long lines of the flying, roaring game. Whether the Blackfoot or half-breed had started the train there was no inquiry now. Neither had appeared in sight, and blood, muscle and spirit had never been wrapped up in the horseflesh that could overtake that screaming complication of Indians, buffaloes and ponies as they swept down toward the Missouri. Henderson tried to say something, but his voice was diowned in the frightful noise, and the next instant he plunged into the whirlwind of dust that turned the aspect into smoke. Each Indian seemed to swell into a giant as the glories of the hunt unfolded to him. His eyeballs turned red and gleamed with fearful ferocity. Swaying on his horse, he turned from one side to the other and sent unerring bullet or certain arrow to a vital point, and with a shriek of victory drove his heel into the ribs of his horse and pressed upon the plunging foe in front. Down through the darkness of the dust the sun was pouring its splendour. The air was suffocating. Along the plain huge buffaloes rolled under the death shot, tongue rolling, mouth frothing, and eye spitting blood. Loudly above the

crack of ride and whirr of au j.v rau t ic peat of voices and the jargon of howls, miugbd with the hammering ot hoofs. To the south, ten miles away, was a deep basin, and beyond it a butte. Would the chase plunge down that dip or go round it ? was a question that deeply interested one gentleman who was holding his horse by the mane, and speculating on the prospect of getting out whole. Straight for the basin the head of the column laid its course, pushed forward by the frightened rear guard, hunted on by the hunters, Svhose excitement had overflowed all bounds. There was no escape from the crush. The terror-stricken beasts behind, too frightened to turn, followed closely, goring the cayuses and struggling to regain their places in the bellowing lierd. The cries of the wounded horses rose above the roar of the hunt as they went down under the hoofs of their foes. Buffaloes were dropping thickly now. The plain was strewn with carcasses and desperately wounded bulls. As the route entered the defile that led to the basin, the lines of buffaloes on the sides were forced in upon the main body, and, jammed up together, men, horses, and humped brutes, in one huge, brown mass, swept on toward the danger ahead. The slaughter was sickening. The fight was at close quarters, and the knife played a gleaming part while the hot rifle was silent. Down toward the basin swept the dust, the noise and the struggling mass. Reckless of danger, the Indians lay along the sides of their horses, and arose from each thrust buried to the shoulder in blood. The defile was carpeted with the mangled bodies of buffaloes. It was no place to kill them. The hoofs of survivors tore all value out of the robes, but the spirit of killing had seized upon the souls of those savages, and the hunt had become a muck for the sake of producing death. At the brink of the basin the leading bulls paused. A shock and shudder went through the herd. At this point they fell by the hundred, and it was only when the panic-smitten main body fairly hurled the hesitating leaders down the bank that the pace was restored. There was no default among the Indians. Separated by the now raging buffaloes they tore down the incline, shooting, stabbing, and as wild as the quarry. The stay in the basin seemed scarcely a moment. Up the steep butte and out of the blood-stained pit flew brute and man, while down on the water-course at the bottom, pony buffalo and unhorsed Indian struggled for release from each other. On the wide hillside the herd spread and straggled, and momentarily the noise faded. It was the first and last breathing spell, a mutual truce, for the Indians were as busy seeking the plain beyond as the buffaloes in their» despairing search for some avenue of escape.* Then came the arrival at the apex, where a cool, soft wind blew across the ridge, sweeping away the dust, and opening the view of the field behind. Down in the basin and up through the defile the buffaloes lay in thousands, with here and there a slaughtered horse, relieved in spots by a stiff and limping Indian wondering how, when and where he concluded to foot it out. Across the ridge and down the hillside poured the hunt again, apparently fresh as at the first, and with undiminished excitement. The herd “ hugged” now for mutual protecion, and the Indians took advantage of it. Out on the level plain again the ‘horses warmmed to extraordinary speed, and|the buffaloes, parched with the hot dust, making a crow line for the Missouri and water. The tribe fanned out to inclose the rear and flanks, and once more the business of death went on. It was the last stretch, and the pace was killing. Pressed on the flanks, the buffaloes crowded together, and some of the Indians who had failed to bolt the ruck found hot work on their hands. There was no special effort to weed out bulls. Cows and calves were accepted as legacies, and lay in aH directions across the trail. No longer was there any science in the contest. The battle had become a rout, and the desire to slay obliterated all judgment of what was best to kill. And now shone the broad, yellow band of the Missouri, the southern boundary of the hunt. With the approach of the end the fun grew faster and more furious. Darting yellow spots flashed along the fringe of timber, where the frightened antelope turned to dodge the coming tornado. Scurrying specks along the plain testified that the deer in the woods felt that it was good to be elsewhere. Foxes fled from out their cover, and here and there a snarling cougar grinned defiance and sought some cleft in the rocks, while an occasional coyote, broken of his rest, licked, his chops as he reflected on what the night would bring forth. Prairie dogs looked from their villages on the whirlwind and perished by hundreds. Rabbits and rats flashed for a moment to the sight and faded in the distance. With a roar the herd crashed through the timber and burst into the river, drinking as they swam. The bank and current were dyed red as the panting braves tailed off the hunt, and when it was finished and silence fell, when the keen wind had rolled away the heavy cloud of dust, many a savage wiped away the blood of the buffaloes to find his own welling up, and wondering how it happened. Henderson came up, his face distorted with passion and a gleam’ of singular ferocity in his eyes, for more than a battle of men does a buffalo run develop the most savage of the instincts, and the quietest and steadiest nerved of the pale faces must yield his training to the influence of such a day. The tourist whose guide leads him up to a sick bull or a nursing cow thinks he has accomplished great excitement when the horns of his chase are packed away for him, but the real hunt, with all its emotions and desperate dangers, lies only within the reach of him who follows fast upon trail of an Indian tribe. It was moonlight that night, jind the journey back lay through groves of slaughtered game. Miles of the dead and dying lay silent or tossed restlessly, the wounded reaching hot, tired tongues for even the dew drops. It was a thirsty ride and feverish, but the escort seemed only intent on the fruits of the victory and conversed volubly on the wealth to be theirs when the hides were corded up outside the log store at the agency. “ Curious about these buffalo horses,” commented Mr. Henderson, dismounting at a hill and holding his pony by the mane. “ They are trained to get the buffalo and protect the rider too. You saw how they would edge up to a brute, keeping in a line parallel to him, turning when he turned, and creeping closer until a vital spot was exposed. They don’t stop when the buffalo falls, but press forward upon another, and so keep it up until the day is over and the gathering up begins.” And the buffalo pony is never employed for other purposes. Kept for the service, he is treated with even more consideration than the war horse, and put up to the bent of his powers only when the run is announced as in sight. Along the trail were moving shapes, prowling like shadows among the slain, and as the little party turned towards Wolf Creek and home a shot scattered a snarling group that fled. • “ It will be a bad season for coyotes as the tribe come back for the clean up,” observed Mr. Henderson. “A spoiled buffalo means widowhood for some sneaking wolf in her nest.” And Mr. Henderson lighted a peaceful pipe undisturbed by the growls and snappings that revealed the return of the pirates of the plains to their prey.— Sun.