Part 15

Scouts went out at dawn, and were back again before the camp had finished breakfasting. Their report made the hunters hasten preparations. Already the question as to which ones of the Brabant-Perier party should take part in the hunt had been settled. Only two horses were available. Louis’ new one had gone lame, and one of Neil’s was not a good buffalo pony, being gun shy and easily frightened. Neither Mr. Perier nor Walter had ever hunted buffalo, while Louis and Neil were skilled in the sport. So it was right that the latter two should go. Walter was disappointed of course. He would have liked to take part in the hunt. But he comforted himself with the thought that there would be other opportunities.

The caravan was just south of the Turtle River, a tributary of the Red, and a number of miles west of the latter stream, in slightly rolling, though open country. A low, irregular ridge shut off the view to the south and hid the buffalo. After the hunters got away, the women, children, and few men who had remained behind, started on, with the carts. They wanted to be in readiness to collect the meat before the hot sun spoiled it, and they were eager to watch the sport. This time the carts did not move single file, but jounced over the prairie in any order their drivers saw fit.

Walter and Raoul were as anxious as anyone for a view of the hunt. They hitched up Neil’s pony and got away as quickly as possible, leaving Mr. Perier and Mrs. Brabant to follow slowly with the other cart and lame horse. Elise, Marie, and Max went with the two boys, while Jeanne remained with her mother.

The boys’ cart was among the first to top the rise. The sight revealed almost took Walter’s breath away. The prairie beyond the ridge was covered with buffalo in a dense, dark mass. They were feeding peacefully, moving slowly along towards the southeast.

“Where are the hunters?” asked Walter.

Raoul pointed to the southwest. “Behind those little hills,” he said confidently. “The wind is east. They have gone around to approach from that way, so the beasts will not get their scent. There they come!”

Figures of horsemen were appearing over the top of one of the low hills. On they came, a long, irregular line, riding easily down hill at a lope. As they reached level ground they broke into a gallop. The buffalo nearest the hunters were taking alarm. They were crowding forward, the bulls on the outskirts of the herd pawing the ground and tossing their great heads. The horsemen broke into a run. They charged recklessly across the prairie, regardless of gopher holes. Those _bois brulés_ could certainly ride, thought Walter in admiration. He wondered whether Louis and Neil were among the foremost. At that distance he could not tell.

Suddenly the buffalo everywhere took fright. At a clumsy, galloping gait they were away. They crowded, wheeled, milled, stampeded, hoofs flying, shaggy heads tossing. In a few moments the foremost of the hunters were among them, shouting, yelling, firing, horses plunging and shying. The whole mass was in wild commotion, sweeping on towards the low ridge where the carts waited and the excited spectators looked on. With the thundering of hoofs, the bellowing of the beasts, the shouts and yells of the hunters, the continuous popping of guns, the clouds of smoke and dust lit up by the flashes of firing, the prairie had become pandemonium.

Never had Walter dreamed of such a sight. His blood was tingling. He breathed fast and excitedly. Elise stood beside him, her hands clasped tightly together, frightened yet fascinated. Marie and Raoul danced up and down, and little Max sat on the edge of the cart and shrieked at the top of his voice in his excitement.

The great band was breaking up into smaller droves and groups. In every direction they wheeled and fled. The hunters, riding recklessly, swaying in their saddles, loading and firing at full speed, pursued them.

One group of six or eight frightened beasts was close by, just at the foot of the low ridge. A horseman dashed towards them. Walter had just time to recognize that blue-bonneted red head, and then, as Neil fired, the little band broke and scattered. One big bull was pounding up the slope, straight towards the cart.

Walter was standing on one side, Raoul on the other of the nervous, excited pony, which was pawing, snorting, twisting about in the shafts, alarmed and uneasy at the sight below. It had not occurred to either boy that he would have a chance to do any shooting. Both of the guns were in the cart.

When the buffalo charged up the slope, Walter sprang back. As he seized his gun, the panic-stricken pony jumped to one side, sending Raoul sprawling, wheeled, overturned the cart, and was off. Walter saw Max hurtle through the air, and land right in the path of the oncoming buffalo. As the child struck the ground, Elise darted towards him.

With shaking fingers Walter slipped a charge of powder and ball into the muzzle of his gun and primed it. His whole body was trembling. He must not miss. A story Lajimonière had told of a fight with an infuriated buffalo flashed through his mind. “I aimed behind the ear,” the Canadian had said. Where was the ear in that shaggy mass of hair?

The bull, at the crest of the ridge, paused for an instant to paw the ground, shake its huge, ugly head, and bellow defiance at the little group in its pathway. Forcing himself to be steady, deliberate, Walter pulled the trigger. It pulled hard. The flint struck the steel. Sparks flew in every direction. There was a flash, a roar, a bellow. The buffalo plunged forward, and went down.

When Walter recovered from the shock of firing—his primitive, flintlock musket kicked like a mule—the great, dark, hairy bulk lay almost at his feet. Had he hit behind the ear? He would take no chances. The muscles of the big body were twitching. Hurriedly reloading, he fired again, the gun muzzle almost against the buffalo’s head. An instant later there came another report. Raoul had picked himself up, seized his gun, that had been thrown out of the cart, and fired at the fallen beast. He missed it in his excitement, by a wider margin than he missed Walter.

Walter took no heed of the wild shot. His only thought was of Elise and Max. He turned to find Elise stooped over her little brother, her arms around him. When she realized that the danger was over, she sank down in a heap in the grass. Max wriggled from her arms and sat up.

“Elise,” cried Walter, “what were you trying to do?”

“Drag Max out of the way,” she answered simply. “Didn’t you see? That terrible beast was coming straight towards him!”

“And straight towards you, too. Didn’t you think of that?”

“She is the bravest girl I ever saw,” exclaimed Marie Brabant. Marie, who had been on the other side of Raoul, had fled to safety, and had not returned until the danger was over.

“No, no,” Elise protested. “I was terribly frightened when I saw that huge, ugly beast coming up the hill. But when Max fell out of the cart, I thought he was going to be killed. I have looked after him ever since Mother died you know, Walter,” she added, as if in excuse for her own bravery.

“You are the bravest girl I ever knew,” Marie repeated emphatically, “even if you are afraid of snakes.”

But Elise had turned to her little brother. “You aren’t hurt, are you, Max?” she asked anxiously.

“Just my shoulder where I fell on it,” the lad replied bravely. “I think——”

He was interrupted by Neil’s shout. Unnoticed by the others, the Scotch boy had ridden up the hill. He dismounted beside the dead buffalo.

“It was all my fault,” he said contritely. “I ought not to have driven the beasts this way. I saw you, but I was after a cow and didn’t notice that bull turning towards you. I never thought of his charging up hill. I didn’t know you were in any danger, till I heard the shot and looked up here. You’ve made a good kill, Walter. He’s a big fellow. And you certainly kept your head. I’m not sure I wouldn’t have lost mine, if I had been in your place.” This was a generous admission from anyone as proud of his courage and prowess as Neil MacKay was. At that moment, however, Neil was not in the least proud of himself. His carelessness had brought peril to his friends.

XXXII TO THE SHEYENNE RIVER

When Neil went in pursuit of the frightened pony, he found it feeding on the prairie grass on the other side of the ridge. Hindered by the cart, it had not run far. He had righted the badly wrecked vehicle, and was examining the breaks, when the rest of his party, with the other cart and the lame pony, came up. Mr. Perier was appalled when he heard of his children’s peril, and Mrs. Brabant was warm in her praise of the courage and coolness of Elise and Walter.

The hunt had swept away towards the Red River, leaving the trampled prairie dotted with the dark bodies of the fallen buffalo. Here and there a wounded beast struggled to its feet and made off painfully. The sight of the injured and slain was not a pleasant one for the tender-hearted Elise, and she turned her back upon it.

“I wish,” she confided to Mrs. Brabant, “people didn’t have to kill things for food. I hate buffalo. They are ugly beasts. But I don’t like to see them killed, except the one that would have killed Max. Of course Walter had to shoot that one.”

The Canadian woman put an arm around her and comforted her. “It is necessary, my dear, for people to have meat to live, especially in this wild country where we raise so little from the ground. I have always told my boys not to be wasteful in their hunting, not to kill for the sake of killing. If no one killed more than could be eaten or kept for food, there would always be plenty of animals in the world.”

As the carts descended the slope to the hunting ground, the hunters began to straggle back from the chase. By the place where the animal lay, the spot where the bullet had entered, and sometimes by the bullet itself, they identified the game they had slain. Many of the hunters had marked their bullets so they would know them.

Neil had killed two buffalo and Louis four. Their party was well supplied with meat. The bull Walter had shot was too old and tough for food. At that season of the year the skin was not fit for a robe. The summer coat of hair was short, and in many places ragged and rubbed off. But Louis said that the tough hide was just the thing for new harness. With Walter’s permission the Canadian boy set to work. With sure and skilful strokes of his sharp knife, he marked out the harness on the body of the buffalo, and stripped off the pieces. When dry,—with a thong or two in place of buckles,—the harness would be ready for use.

One by one the carts returned to camp loaded with meat and hides. Though of no use for robes, the short haired summer skins were in the very best condition for tanning. Buffalo leather was used by the _bois brulés_ for tents, cart covers, and other purposes.

The choicest cuts were soon broiling over the coals. At the same time the rest of the meat was being prepared for pemmican making. It was cut into large lumps, then into thin slices, which were hung on lines in the hot sun or placed on scaffolds over slow fires. For the meat drying and pemmican making, the hunters prepared to remain in camp three days. It was a very busy time, yet a rest from traveling.

The Brabant family and Neil knew just how to go about the work, but the Periers and Walter, though willing and ready to help, had to be taught. After the buffalo strips were well dried, they were placed on hides and pounded with wooden flails or stones until the meat was a thick, flaky pulp. In the meantime the fat and suet were melting to liquid in huge kettles. Hide bags were half filled with the flaked meat, the melted fat poured in, the whole stirred with a long stick until thoroughly mixed, and the bags sewed up tight while still hot. So prepared, the pemmican would keep for months, even years, if not subjected to dampness or too high a temperature.

The skins selected for tanning were stretched and staked down, and the flesh scraped off with an iron scraper or a piece of sharp-edged bone. When the hides had been well cleaned and partially cured by the sun, they were folded and packed away in the carts to receive a final dressing later.

On the second day in camp a small body of Indians passed about a mile away in pursuit of a herd of buffalo. A half dozen of the hunters, who were out scouting, encountered some of the band. They reported that the Indians were Sioux, Yankton Dakota from farther west. They appeared friendly enough. The hunting party felt no concern about them, except as possible horse thieves. The men were especially careful that night to see that every pony was safe within the circle of carts. The camp guards were even more alert than usual.

There was feasting and jollity, as well as busy work, in the hunting camp. The _bois brulés_ always had time to fiddle and dance, to play games and race their ponies over the prairie. Their capacity for fresh meat was enormous. Walter marveled at the quantity of buffalo tongues, humps, and ribs consumed. From dawn to dark, it seemed to him, there was never a moment when cooking and eating were not going on somewhere in the camp. Even the lean dogs grew fat on what was thrown away and what they managed to steal. The wild creatures profited, too. The scene of the hunt beyond the low ridge was frequented, night and day, by birds of prey and wolves.

With high expectations of further sport, the hunters resumed their march to the south. They were not disappointed, for they were in true buffalo country. The first time Walter joined in the chase, he was so excited and confused by the wild ride across the prairie and the charge into the band of stampeding beasts, that he could do nothing but cling to his horse and try to avoid being thrown or trampled. It was not until the herd had scattered and the worst of the wild confusion was over, that he managed to get a shot at one of the animals, and missed it. Mortified by his failure, he tried a different plan next time. He kept to the outskirts of the herd, singled out a young bull, pursued it, and brought it down.

Though some of the hunters, like Louis, killed only what they could use and saved as much of the meat as possible, the majority of the _bois brulés_ were wasteful and improvident. They ran buffalo for the mere excitement of the chase, killed for sport, and frequently took nothing but the tongue, leaving the rest for the wolves and crows. Like white hunters of a later period, they believed the herds of buffalo inexhaustible. Yet it did not take many years of unwise slaughter almost to exterminate the animals that, during the first half of the nineteenth century, roamed the prairies in hundreds of thousands.

Sometimes the hunters had accidents. Men thrown from their horses suffered severe sprains and broken bones. Occasionally too heavy a charge of powder burst a gun. Raoul’s old musket was ruined in this manner. He carried his left hand bandaged for weeks, and was lucky to lose no more than the tip of his forefinger. There were many maimed hands among the hunters. Fortunately none of the injuries was fatal, though one man was so badly hurt when he was thrown and trampled that he would never hunt again. The _bois brulés_ were skilled in the rough and ready treatment of wounds, sprains, and broken bones, but not over particular about cleanliness. Their open air life, however, helped most of the hurts to heal rapidly.

Day after day the caravan made its slow and creaking way to the south. Now and then bands of Sioux, out on the summer hunt, were seen. Sometimes Indians visited the camp, with no apparent unfriendly intentions. The savage blood in the Pembina half-breeds was mostly Cree and Ojibwa. But the hunting party was too large and well armed to fear hostility from small, wandering bands of Sioux.

Nevertheless the Pembina men had no intention of penetrating too far into Sioux country. They did not wish to provoke the tribes to unite against them. When camp was made one night on the bank of the Sheyenne River, the chief of the hunt announced that they would go south no farther. July had come. They had been out nearly four weeks. The carts were well loaded with fresh and dried meat, fat, pemmican, and hides. On the morrow they would turn, circling to the west a little, and, hunting as they went, make their way back to Pembina. They should reach the settlement early in August.

This decision meant that if the Brabants and Periers were to go on to the St. Peter and Mississippi rivers, they must part company with the hunters. That night Mr. Perier and the boys consulted with Lajimonière, St. Antoine, and others who knew something of the country to the south and east. Lake Traverse, they were told, was only three or four days’ march away. At the lake were traders who would doubtless help them on their journey.

Some of the hunters shook their heads at the idea of such a small party traveling alone sixty or seventy miles across Dakota country. There would be grave danger in the attempt, they said, and advised against it. But Mr. Perier, Walter, and Louis had not come so far merely to turn back to Pembina. They were bound for the Mississippi and intended to reach it somehow. They might have hesitated to travel alone farther to the southwest, but everyone said that the route to the southeast was less dangerous. The Indians who visited Lake Traverse were in the habit of dealing with traders.

In truth the hunters had neither seen nor heard sign of trouble anywhere. The Indians they had encountered had seemed inoffensive enough. The boys had rather lost their awe of the dread Sioux. They were beginning to believe that the tales of the fierceness and cruelty of those savages were greatly exaggerated. As Neil expressed it, “Most of that sort of talk is just an excuse for Saulteur and half-breed cowardice. They have made bogies of the Sioux. I can’t see that they are different from any other Indians. I don’t believe they dare molest white men.”

The always hopeful Mr. Perier was quite sure there would be no difficulty in reaching Traverse. “We are not enemy Indians raiding the Sioux country,” he argued. “We are peaceable white settlers going about our own affairs. Probably we shall meet no Indians at all. If we do, we will treat them in a polite and friendly manner. They are reasonable human beings just like ourselves. They have no reason to harm us and I don’t believe they will try to.”

“We will take care to avoid them anyway,” added Louis, not quite so sure of Sioux reasonableness, but eager to go on.

Louis had hoped to persuade some of the hunters to go to Lake Traverse with the little party. In fact St. Antoine and another man had half promised. But both suddenly changed their minds. The boys could find no one else willing to leave the hunt for the trip to the trading post. There was nothing to do but go on alone. Before they rolled themselves in their blankets, they had decided to part with the hunters on the following day.

XXXIII A LONELY CAMP

The Sheyenne River, where the night’s camp was pitched, should not be confused with the Cheyenne, which is a tributary of the Missouri. Both were named after the same tribe of Indians, who once lived along their banks. To distinguish the two, different spellings of the name have been adopted. The Sheyenne is a much smaller stream than the Cheyenne, and one of the principal rivers that go to form the Red. After a general course to the east, the Sheyenne turns north, and runs almost parallel with the Red, to fall into it at last. The spot where the hunters were camped was only about ten miles from the Red, but another stream, the Wild Rice, lay between.

St. Antoine advised against going directly east. “If you go east,” he said, “you will reach the Rivière Rouge many miles below the Lac Traverse. It is more difficult to cross there. I cannot tell you whether there is a ford or not. But if you keep to the southeast, reaching the river where it is narrow and shallow, you can cross easily. There it is not called Rivière Rouge, but Bois des Sioux. A few miles above where the Bois des Sioux joins the Ottertail, which comes from the east to form the real Rivière Rouge, there is a good crossing place. When you are across, turn south and follow the river to the Lac Traverse.”

The caravan was slow in getting away that morning. The good-natured _bois brulés_ lingered to help the Brabant-Perier party across the Sheyenne. At some time hunters or traders had built a rude log bridge over the deep, muddy stream. Part of the old bridge had been carried away by flood waters, but skilled axmen soon repaired it, so that the two carts could be taken across.

By the time good-byes were said, last words of advice and warning spoken, the river crossed, and the steep bank climbed, the sun had passed its highest point. St. Antoine, Lajimonière, and several others rode with the little party through the thick woods that fringed the stream bank. The woods passed, St. Antoine carefully pointed out the route. The day was clear, and the travelers could see far across the flat, open country.

“You see that _île des bois_?” questioned St. Antoine, pointing to a tiny dark dot far away on the prairie. “That is the only _île des bois_ for many miles around. Make straight for it. You can camp there to-night. There is a spring, and wood to boil your kettle. To-morrow go on in the same direction, and you will come to the river the Sioux call _Pse_, the white men _Folle Avoine_, from the wild rice that grows in its marshes. If you keep a straight course you will reach that river near a fording place. From there the Bois des Sioux is less than a day’s journey. But do not try to take your carts across either river until you are sure that the water is not too deep or the current too strong. The Bois des Sioux is a small stream and has many shallow places. Go then, and the good God go with you.”

The hunters turned back, waved a last farewell, and disappeared among the trees. Louis set his face towards the dark dot far across the prairie. “_Marche donc!_” he cried, and slapped his pony’s flank, he was riding ahead as guide, while Neil and Walter walked beside the carts.

The stretch of flat prairie between the Sheyenne and the Wild Rice looked easy to cross. The party expected to make good time, but the very flatness of the land proved a hindrance. The poorly drained plain was marshy. The grass grew tall and coarse, the soil it sprang from was spongy and frequently soft and wet. Stretches of standing water or very soft ground, grown thick with marsh grass and cattails, had to be skirted. In spite of the travelers’ care in picking their way, the cart wheels often sank far into the mud and water, and the faithful ponies had to pull hard to haul them through. In such places Mrs. Brabant and the children got out and walked or rode the two saddle ponies. Most of the time Louis or Neil rode ahead to select the route.

The difficult going lengthened the ten or twelve miles to that dark spot of woods. Sunset found the party still a mile or more from the _île des bois_. It would be better to go on, they decided, than to camp on the wet, open ground, with no wood for a fire, and only stagnant marsh water to drink.

Louis and Mr. Perier, with Max in front of him on the saddle, were riding in advance. Then came the carts with Mrs. Brabant and the girls, Neil beside the first cart, Raoul accompanying the second. Walter plodded along in the rear. Turning to look back at the sunset sky, where the reds and golds were already fading away, he noticed several dark forms loping along the trail through the tall grass. They were prairie wolves.