It was forty-five years ago, and the sensations of the time are vivid to this day; and it doesn't even matter that the offender was not a rattler, but only an honest, little, cold-footed tree-toad, trying to get warmed up. But he frightened me as badly as the biggest rattler on the St. Mary's could, and I helped him to make a hop that beat the record of Mark Twain's jumping-frog in his best days.
But life on the plains was not a continued succession of discomforts. The dyspeptic could well afford to make such a journey to gain the appetite and the good digestion. The absence of annoying insect life during the night, and the pure, invigorating air, makes sleep refreshing and health-giving. For a month at a time we have lain down to sleep, looking up at the stars, without the fear of catching cold, or feeling a drop of dew. There are long dreary reaches of plains to pass that are wearisome to the eye and the body, but the mountain scenery is nowhere more picturesquely beautiful.
At that time the sportsman could have a surfeit in all kinds of game, by branching off from the lines of travel and taking the chances of losing his scalp. Herds of antelope were seen every day feeding in the valleys, while farther away there were buffalo by the hundred thousand. The great butchery of these noble animals had then but fairly begun. To-day, there still live but three small herds. Our company did not call it sport to kill buffalo for amusement. It was not sport, but butchery. A man could ride up by the side of his victim and kill him with a pistol.
It was among our rules to allow no team animal to be used in the chase. But I forgot myself once and violated the rule. We were resting that day in camp. In the distance I saw two hunters after a huge buffalo bull, coming toward our camp. I saw by the direction that one could ride around the spur of a high hill about a mile distant and intercept him. We had as a saddle horse of one team an old clay-bank, which was one of the most solemn horses I have ever seen. His beauty was in his great strength and his long mane and tail. But he carried his head on a straight level with his back and never was known to put on any airs. He stood picketed handy, and seizing a bridle and my gun I mounted without a saddle and urged the old horse into a lope.
As I turned the spur of the hill, the bull came meeting me fifty yards away. He was a monster; his tongue protruded, and he was frothing at the mouth from his long run. He showed no signs of turning from his road because of my appearance. Just then, when not more than thirty yards away, my old horse saw him and turned so quickly as to nearly unseat me. He threw up his head until that great mane of his enveloped me; and he broke for the camp at a gait no one ever dreamed he possessed. I did no shooting, but I did the fastest riding I ever indulged in before or since. It is a fact, that a mad buffalo, plunging toward you is only pleasant when you can get out of his way.
The slaughter and annihilation of the buffalo is the most atrocious act ever classed under the head of sport. A few years ago, while traveling over the Great Northern Railway, I saw at different stations ricks of bones from a quarter to a third of a mile long, piled up as high as the tops of the cars, awaiting shipment. I asked one of the experienced and reliable railway officials of the traffic, and he informed me that "Not less than 26,000 car loads of buffalo bones had been shipped over the Great Northern Railroad to the bone factories; and not one in a thousand of the remains had ever been touched." The weight of a full-sized buffalo's bones is about sixty pounds. The traffic is still enormous along these northern lines. If the Indian had any sentiment it would likely be called out as he wanders over the plains and gathers up the dry bones of these well-nigh extinct wild herds, that fed and clothed his tribe through so many generations.
I have seen beautiful horses, but never saw any half so handsome as the wild horses upon the plains. The tame horse, however well groomed, is despoiled of his grandeur. He compares with his wild brother as the plebeian compares with royalty. I saw a beautiful race between two Greasers who were chasing a herd of wild horses. They were running parallel with the road I was traveling, and I spurred up and ran by their side some four hundred yards distant, and had a chance to study them for many miles.
I afterward saw a handsome stallion that had just been caught. He was tied and in a corral, but if one approached he would jump at him and strike and kick as savagely as possible. His back showed saddle marks, which proved that he had not always been the wild savage he had then become. The mountains and hills where the wild horses were then most numerous were covered with wild oats, which gave the country the appearance of large cultivation.
Among the interesting facts which the traveler on the great plains learns, and often to his discomfort, is the deception as to distance. He sees something of interest and resolves "it is but two miles away," but the chances are that it will prove to be eight or ten miles. The country is made up of great waves. Looking off you see the top of a wave, and when you get there a valley that you did not see, stretches away for miles.
We always tried to treat our Indian guests courteously, but they were often voted a nuisance. While cooking our supper they would often form a circle, twenty or thirty of them sitting on the ground, and they looked so longingly at the bread and ham and coffee, that it almost took one's appetite away. We could only afford to give the squaws what was left. To fill up such a crowd would have soon ended our stock of supplies.