Sport had been the final cause of my trip to America—sport and the love of adventure. As the bison—buffalo, as they are called—are now extinct, except in preserved districts, a few words about them as they then were may interest game hunters of the present day.

No description could convey an adequate conception of the numbers in which they congregated. The admirable illustrations in Catlin’s great work on the North American Indians, afford the best idea to those who have never seen the wonderful sight itself. The districts they frequented were vast sandy uplands sparsely covered with the tufty buffalo or gramma grass. These regions were always within reach of the water-courses; to which morning and evening the herds descended by paths, after the manner of sheep or cattle in a pasture. Never shall I forget the first time I witnessed the extraordinary event of the evening drink. Seeing the black masses galloping down towards the river, by the banks of which our party were travelling, we halted some hundred yards short of the tracks. To have been caught amongst the animals would have been destruction; for, do what they would to get out of one’s way, the weight of the thousands pushing on would have crushed anything that impeded them. On the occasion I refer to we approached to within safe distance, and fired into them till the ammunition in our pouches was expended.

As examples of our sporting exploits, three days taken almost at random will suffice. The season was so far advanced that, unless we were to winter at Fort Laramie, it was necessary to keep going. It was therefore agreed that whoever left the line of march—that is, the vicinity of the North Platte—for the purpose of hunting should take his chance of catching up the rest of the party, who were to push on as speedily as possible. On two of the days which I am about to record this rule nearly brought me into trouble. I quote from my journal:

‘Left camp to hunt by self. Got a shot at some deer lying in long grass on banks of a stream. While stalking, I could hardly see or breathe for mosquitos; they were in my eyes, nose, and mouth. Steady aim was impossible; and, to my disgust, I missed the easiest of shots. The neck and flanks of my little grey are as red as if painted. He is weak from loss of blood. Fred’s head is now so swollen he cannot wear his hard hat; his eyes are bunged up, and his face is comic to look at. Several deer and antelopes; but ground too level, and game too wild to let one near. Hardly caring what direction I took, followed outskirts of large wood, four or five miles away from the river. Saw a good many summer lodges; but knew, by the quantity of game, that the Indians had deserted them. In the afternoon came suddenly upon deer; and singling out one of the youngest fawns, tried to run it down. The country being very rough, I found it hard work to keep between it and the wood. First, my hat blew off; then a pistol jumped out of the holster; but I was too near to give up,—meaning to return for these things afterwards. Two or three times I ran right over the fawn, which bleated in the most piteous manner, but always escaped the death-blow from the grey’s hoofs. By degrees we edged nearer to the thicket, when the fawn darted down the side of a bluff, and was lost in the long grass and brushwood, I followed at full speed; but, unable to arrest the impetus of the horse, we dashed headlong into the thick scrub, and were both thrown with violence to the ground. I was none the worse; but the poor beast had badly hurt his shoulder, and for the time was dead lame.

‘For an hour at least I hunted, for my pistol. It was much more to me than my hat. It was a huge horse pistol, that threw an ounce ball of exactly the calibre of my double rifle. I had shot several buffaloes with it, by riding close to them in a chase; and when in danger of Indians I loaded it with slugs. At last I found it. It was getting late; and I didn’t rightly know where I was. I made for the low country. But as we camped last night at least two miles from the river, on account of the swamps, the difficulty was to find the tracks. The poor little grey and I hunted for it in vain. The wet ground was too wet, the dry ground too hard, to show the tracks in the now imperfect light.

‘The situation was a disagreeable one: it might be two or three days before I again fell in with my friends. I had not touched food since the early morning, and was rather done. To return to the high ground was to give up for the night; but that meant another day behind the cavalcade, with diminished chance of overtaking it. Through the dusk I saw what I fancied was something moving on a mound ahead of me which arose out of the surrounding swamp. I spurred on, but only to find the putrid carcase of a buffalo, with a wolf supping on it. The brute was gorged, and looked as sleek as “die schÖne Frau Giermund”; but, unlike Isegrim’s spouse, she was free to escape, for she wasn’t worth a bullet. I was so famished, that I examined the carcase with the hope of finding a cut that would last for a day or two; my nose wouldn’t have it. I plodded on, the water up to the saddle-girths. The mosquitos swarmed in millions, and the poor little grey could hardly get one leg before the other. I, too, was so feverish that, ignorant of bacteria, I filled my round hat with the filthy stagnant water, and drank it at a draught.

‘At last I made for higher ground. It was too dark to hunt for tracks, so I began to look out for a level bed. Suddenly my beast, who jogged along with his nose to the ground, gave a loud neigh. We had struck the trail. I threw the reins on his neck, and left matters to his superior instincts. In less than half an hour the joyful light of a camp fire gladdened my eyes. Fred told me he had halted as soon as he was able, not on my account only, but because he, too, had had a severe fall, and was suffering great pain from a bruised knee.’

Here is an ordinary example of buffalo shooting:

‘July 2nd.—Fresh meat much wanted. With Jim the half-breed to the hills. No sooner on high ground than we sighted game. As far as eye could reach, right away to the horizon, the plain was black with buffaloes, a truly astonishing sight. Jim was used to it. I stopped to spy them with amazement. The nearest were not more than half a mile off, so we picketed our horses under the sky line; and choosing the hollows, walked on till crawling became expedient. As is their wont, the outsiders were posted on bluffs or knolls in a commanding position; these were old bulls. To my inexperience, our chance of getting a shot seemed small; for we had to cross the dipping ground under the brow whereon the sentinels were lying. Three extra difficulties beset us—the prairie dogs (a marmot, so called from its dog-like bark when disturbed) were all round us, and bolted into their holes like rabbits directly they saw us coming; two big grey wolves, the regular camp followers of a herd, were prowling about in a direct line between us and the bulls; lastly, the cows, though up and feeding, were inconveniently out of reach. (The meat of the young cow is much preferred to that of the bull.) Jim, however, was confident. I followed my leader to a wink. The only instruction I didn’t like when we started crawling on the hot sand was “Look out for rattlesnakes.”

‘The wolves stopped, examined us suspiciously, then quietly trotted off. What with this and the alarm of the prairie dogs, an old bull, a patriarch of the tribe, jumped up and walked with majestic paces to the top of the knoll. We lay flat on our faces, till he, satisfied with the result of his scrutiny, resumed his recumbent posture; but with his head turned straight towards us. Jim, to my surprise, stealthily crawled on. In another minute or two we had gained a point whence we could see through the grass without being seen. Here we rested to recover breath. Meanwhile, three or four young cows fed to within sixty or seventy yards of us. Unluckily we both selected the same animal, and both fired at the same moment. Off went the lot helter skelter, all save the old bull, who roared out his rage and trotted up close to our hiding place.

‘“Look out for a bolt,” whispered Jim, “but don’t show yourself nohow till I tell you.”

‘For a minute or two the suspense was exciting. One hardly dared to breathe. But his majesty saw us not, and turned again to his wives. We instantly reloaded; and the startled herd, which had only moved a few yards, gave us the chance of a second shot. The first cow had fallen dead almost where she stood. The second we found at the foot of the hill, also with two bullet wounds behind the shoulder. The tongues, humps, and tender loins, with some other choice morsels, were soon cut off and packed, and we returned to camp with a grand supply of beef for Jacob’s larder.