Wild Sports in the Far West

by Friedrich Gerstäcker

Meantime, the Indians had been digging a grave with their tomahawks. Wrapping the body in a blanket, they laid him in it, and covered him with earth and heavy stones. Conwell cut down some young stems, and made a fence round the solitary grave. I could not avoid a shudder at the quiet coolness of the whole proceeding, as the thought struck me, that the same persons, under the same circumstances, would have treated me in the same cool way, had I fallen instead of Erskine. Like me, he was a lonely stranger in a foreign land, having left England some years before, and his friends and relations will probably never know what has become of him. Thousands perish in this way in America, of whom nothing more is heard, and perhaps in a few months the remembrance of them has entirely passed away.

After the dead was quietly laid in the grave, Wachiga came with an elderly Indian to look at my arm. Wachiga moved it, while the other looked steadfastly in my face: the pain was enough to drive me mad, but I would not utter a sound. Next the old Indian took hold of my arm, laying his left hand on my shoulder, and while Wachiga suddenly seized me round the body from behind, the other pulled with all his force. The pain at first was so great that I almost fainted; but it gradually diminished; in spite of my resolve to show no signs of it, I could not suppress a shriek. Conwell soon after asked if I could ride. On my answering “yes,” he helped me on a horse; then throwing the bear’s skin and some of the meat on his own, we moved slowly homewards. My sufferings on the way were very great, but I uttered no murmur. I only longed for repose. At nightfall we had still four miles to go. He asked me if I could support the pain and fatigue, or if we should camp where we were, as there was plenty of wood and water. I would rather have ridden forty miles, let alone four, with the hope of rest at the end of them. We arrived in about an hour. I was so stiff that I could hardly get off the horse. On entering the room I threw myself on a bed, and had a violent fever during the night, and talked wildly—fortunately in German. Towards morning I began to feel better, had a quiet sleep, and woke up about noon much refreshed. Meantime, old Conwell had related all that had occurred, and they attended me like a son. It took two more days before I could move out of bed and was able to stand.

I was hardly so far recovered as to be able to crawl about, when Conwell proposed another hunt, and although I had suffered so much, I could not say “No.” On the 6th February we rode out again, but there was no longer any life in the thing; we found the same Indians, hunted with them a few days, shot a few deer, some turkeys, and a young bear, returning on the 12th, Conwell with two deer-skins and some haunches, I with a turkey.

By this time my arm was quite healed. Nevertheless, I had made up my mind to leave the mountains and go southwards, partly from a returning fit of my old love of change, partly because I longed for news from home, not having received any letters for several months, and partly also because game had become so scarce through the number of hunters, that there was hardly enough to subsist on. We heard that a party of twelve men had been along the Richland and killed or driven away every thing, and that during the last three days not a turkey was to be seen. The news of game from other quarters was no better; in short there was nothing for it but off! off! When I was once more surrounded by my old friend’s amiable family, and passed another evening amongst them, my resolution was indeed shaken; however, during the night I gave it mature consideration, and in the morning I told them that I should that day take my departure. Attempts were immediately made to dissuade me from it, and old Conwell asked in downright earnest if I could not stay with them always, and take the school. The present schoolmaster was ignorant and a drunkard, and they would have been glad to be rid of him. For a moment, indeed, but only for a moment, my fancy depicted the delights of a home amongst the mountains, then the image of my old village schoolmaster flashed across my mind, with his threadbare black coat, false collars, and shirt-front, and his frame as thin as a skeleton. I shook my head mournfully. He changed his plan, and proposed that I should take a farm. But that I had also reflected on: I was too poor, and although the kind people would have done every thing in their power to help me, I should have been too dependent; for although much is not required to set up farming in America, still there must be something, and it does not look well for the beginner to be always borrowing horse or plow, axe, spade, saw—in short, every farming and household utensil, until at last the most patient man would be worn out, and everybody would be alarmed the moment they saw the borrower coming. I was once witness of such a beginning: a family that came to the forest without any means, were at first most liberally assisted by their neighbors; they helped them with their fences, in building their house, in clearing and ploughing the land, and lent them every thing, even to flour and pork; but how could people who began thus ever become independent? It took years before they could procure the most necessary articles for themselves.

My old friend acknowledged the truth of the picture, and my journey was settled for the morrow.

My store of bears’ fat and skins was not so large but that I could pack it on one horse, for the greater part of the skins, which had been exposed to the wet weather, were spoiled. The skins were made up into two bundles, one on each side of the horse, while a deer-skin sack, containing about eight gallons of bears’ fat, lay across the pommel. One of Conwell’s sons, who had his father’s booty to dispose of, accompanied me, and thus on the following morning we set off for the little town of Ozark on the Arkansas.

I was very sorrowful on leaving this place, where the kind treatment of these good people had so completely gained my affections, and I was obliged to cut short my leave-taking to hide my emotions.

Another grief that weighed heavily on my heart was parting with my faithful dog. Intending to give up shooting, and to proceed to New Orleans, and uncertain under what circumstances I might arrive there, I would not willingly expose the noble creature, who promised to turn out remarkably well, to become a mere mud-scraper in the streets. Moreover, my old comrade had become attached to him, and requested to have him, while my fair friends promised to take good care of him. So they tied him up, and as I was about to ride off, and he found he was not to go with me, he looked so entreating and affectionate with his intelligent eyes, that I was obliged to turn away to hide my tears.

My companion exerted himself to chase away my mournful thoughts, telling all sorts of droll stories as we rode through the forest; and at length I made an attempt at least to appear cheerful.

In the afternoon we reached a tavern, which was also a store, not far from the town. Here we disposed of our goods, though to no great advantage, and, according to the custom, as whiskey was not sold by the glass, we ordered a quart, and sat down in a corner to discuss a portion of it. We found here two other men, dressed as hunters, who were playing cards before the door, sitting on the trunk of a tree; a third leaning against the house, was fast asleep; his features seemed familiar to me, but I could not recollect where I had seen him, till one of the card-players caught my eye, and held out his hand, asking if I did not remember Bahren’s wretched steel mill at which we had been grinding together. This recalled the whole scene to my memory, as well as the sleeper—I had left him sleeping, and he was still asleep.