“Look yonder!” cried François, who still watched the retreating antelopes; “look at the wolves! Away they go after.”
“Ha!” exclaimed Lucien, “you have wounded the buck, brother, else the wolves would never follow. See! they are running upon his track like hounds!”
Lucien was right. The animal was hit, or the wolves would not have embarked in a chase so hopeless as the pursuit of a prong-horn; for, strange to say, these cunning creatures can tell when game has been wounded better than the hunters themselves, and very often pursue and run it down, when the latter believes it to have escaped! It was evident, therefore, that Basil had hit the animal—though not in a deadly part—and the wolves were now following with the hope of hunting it down.
A new idea came into Basil’s mind. He thought he might yet be in at the death; and with this idea he ran up to his horse, drew the picket-pin, and leaping upon his bare back, directed him after the chase. He was soon in full gallop over the prairie, keeping the wolves in sight as he went. He could see the antelope, he had fired at, some distance ahead of the wolves, but far behind the rest of the herd, and evidently running heavily and with pain.
It cost the young hunter a five-mile gallop; and, at the end of that, while he was yet half-a-mile in the rear, he saw the wolves come up with the wounded antelope, and drag it down upon the prairie. He made all the haste he could—putting Black Hawk to the top of his speed. In a few minutes he was upon the ground, and scattered the wolves as he galloped among them; but once more he had arrived too late. The body of the antelope was torn to pieces, and more than half devoured; while only half-picked bones and pieces of skin remained to reward him for his long ride!
With an ejaculation, which came very near being a French oath, the disappointed hunter turned his horse, and rode slowly back—wishing the wolves far enough as he went.
When he returned, François assisted him in his maledictions; for François was tired of the bear-meat, and was vexed at being thus a second time cheated out of something fresh for supper.
Lucien, however, assured them both that the flesh of the antelope, as he had heard, was “no great eating,” after all; and this, in some degree, pacified them—so that, with a stew of the jerked bear and parsnips, and some piñon bread, which Lucien had prepared according to the Indian fashion, all three made a supper that was not to be sneered at under any circumstances. When it was eaten, they brought their horses closer to the camp—so as to have them near in case of necessity—and, having wrapped themselves in their blankets, they once more sought the refreshment of sleep.