“Yes, papa. Send Basil, and Lucien, and myself. We’ll find you a white buffalo, I warrant you.”
“Hurrah, François!” cried Basil; “you’re right, brother. I was going to propose the same myself.”
“No, no, my lads; you’ve heard what Monsieur Choteau says. You need not think of such a thing. It cannot be had. And I have written to the Prince, too. I have as good as promised him!”
As the old Colonel uttered these words, his countenance and gestures expressed disappointment and chagrin.
Lucien, who had observed this with a feeling of pain, now interposed.
“Papa,” he said, “it is true that Monsieur Choteau has great experience in the fur-trade; but the facts do not correspond with what he has stated,”—(Lucien, you will observe, was a keen reasoner). “Hugot has seen two or three of these skins in Saint Louis. Some one must have found the animals to which these belonged. Moreover, I have heard, as Monsieur Choteau asserts, that they are highly prized by the Indian chiefs, who wear them as robes; and that they are often seen among the tribes. This, then, proves that there are white buffaloes upon the prairies; and why should we not happen upon them as well as others? I say with François and Basil, let us go in search of them.”
“Come in, my lads; come in!” said their father, evidently pleased, and to some extent comforted, with the proposal of his boys. “Come in to the house—we can talk over it better when we have had our suppers.”
And so saying, the old Colonel hobbled back into the house followed by his three boys; while Hugot, looking very jaded and feeling very hungry, brought up the rear.
During the supper, and after it, the subject was discussed in all its bearings. The father was more than half inclined to consent to the proposal of his sons from the first; while they, but particularly Basil and François, were enthusiastic in proving its practicability. I need hardly tell you the result. The Colonel at length gave his consent—the expedition was agreed upon.
The naturalist was greatly influenced by the desire he felt to gratify his friend the Prince. He was influenced, too, by another feeling. He felt secretly pleased at the bold and enterprising character thus exhibited in his children, and he was not the man to throw cold water upon any enterprise they might design. Indeed, he often boasted to his neighbours and friends how he had trained them up to be men, calling them his “boy-men,” and his “jeunes chasseurs.” And truly had he trained them to a complete self-reliance, as far as lay in his power. He had taught them to ride, to swim, to dive deep rivers, to fling the lasso, to climb tall trees, and scale steep cliffs, to bring down birds upon the wing, or beasts upon the run, with the arrow and the unerring rifle. He had trained them to sleep in the open air—in the dark forest—on the unsheltered prairie—along the white snow-wreath—anywhere—with but a blanket or a buffalo-robe for their beds. He had taught them to live upon the simplest food; and the knowledge of practical botany which he had imparted to them—more particularly to Lucien—would enable them, in case of need, to draw sustenance from plants and trees, from roots and fruits—to find resources where ignorant men might starve. They knew how to kindle a fire without either flint, steel, or detonating powder. They could discover their direction without a compass—from the rocks, and the trees, and the signs of the heavens; and, in addition to all, they had been taught, as far as was then known, the geography of that vast wilderness that stretched from their own home to the far shores of the Pacific Ocean.