“Certainly it would if we had any horses, which we haven’t,” said Mr Rawlings with a smile; “and mules—which are the only quadrupeds which we possess—are not exactly fitted for hunting purposes—at least I wouldn’t like to try them. Besides, Seth, if I remember rightly, you do not shine quite so well on horseback as you do on a ship’s quarter-deck, eh, old man? ha, ha, ha!”
And Mr Rawlings’s smile expanded into a laugh at the reminiscence of one of the ex-mate’s performances en cavalier soon after they came to Minturne Creek, causing Master Jasper to guffaw in sympathy with a heartiness that Seth did not at all relish, especially after Mr Rawlings’s allusion to a matter which was rather a tender subject with him.
“You jest stow that, old ebony face,” he said angrily to the negro, in a manner which proved that his equanimity was considerably disturbed. “You jest stow that, and hold your rampagious cacklin’, or I’ll soon make you rattle your ivories to another toon, I reckon, you ugly cuss!”
However, his passion had spent itself by the time he got out these words, for he said to Mr Rawlings a moment afterwards, allowing a smile to extend over his grim features to show that he was himself again, the usual easy-going Seth, and that his natural good temper had now quite got the better of its temporary attack of spleen,—“But I guess you’re jist about right, Rawlings. I arn’t quite fit fur to go saddlewise on them outlandish brutes; I ain’t bred up to it like as I am hitched to the sea! When I spoke of riding, howsomedever, I warn’t thinkin’ o’ myself, though, giniral, mind that; I thought as how you and our noo fren’ here could kinder ride the deer down better if you wer mounted, that’s all, I reckon.”
“Very thoughtful of you,” said Ernest Wilton drily; “but you see, old man, elk and wapiti—which are the only species of deer we are likely to meet with here, I think—can be better stalked than run down, as you suggest. However, the mules may come in handy for you, Mr Seth, to run down the buffalo, when they arrive from the southern plains here, as they’ll probably do now in a week or two as the spring progresses. Look, Mr Rawlings,” he added, “that buffalo grass, as it is called, there in front of you, is growing rapidly and will soon be breast high, don’t you see?”
“That’s right enough,” said he. “But your remark reminds me of the old proverb about ‘live horse and you’ll get oats.’ I wish we could get something now to go along with until the buffalo do come northwards. I’m sure I am more sick than ever of that monotonous salt pork, after that taste of mountain mutton we had the other day.”
“You bet,” said Seth laconically, with much emphasis.
And then the party resumed their trudge over the billowy surface of the prairie, directing their quest towards a clump of trees they could perceive in the distance, at a place where the ground shelved downwards into a hollow, the certain sign of the near vicinity of some tributary of the Missouri coursing its way eastwards, amidst the recesses of whose wooded banks it was possible that traces of game might be found—that game which they were already well-nigh weary of seeking. To tell the truth, however, their want of success was not at all surprising, as the experience of the hunting party was extremely limited.
The Indian half-breed and Noah Webster, the two who were the most practically versed in the secrets of woodcraft, and thoroughly acquainted with all the various hunting dodges practised out on the prairie, had been left behind in camp, especially at Seth Allport’s request, that amiable worthy wishing to distinguish himself by bringing home a deer “on his own hook,” as he expressed it; although, as regards his shooting powers, he was far more dangerous to his friends than any object he might aim at, being likely rather to hit those behind or on either side of him than the animal at which he pointed his weapon in front; while, as for his skill in the stealthy approach of his prey in the fashion adopted by skilled deer-stalkers, it may be mentioned that he strode through the tall prairie-grass and brushwood as incontinently as if he were marching up and down the poop of the Susan Jane in a gale of wind, alarming every winged and four-footed creature for miles round!
Touching the others, Mr Rawlings and Ernest Wilton were both good shots, although not very familiar with “the noble arte of venerie,” as hunting the deer was styled in the days of Shakespeare, who is reported, by the way, to have been an adept in the pursuit: while, of course, Sailor Bill and Jasper were “out of the hunt” in the literal sense of the phrase.