BY J. M. LEGARE.
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In October of forty-six, while on a visit to St. Louis, I met a college-mate, Charles G., who, after a two years’ ramble toward the South, was now about to lace on his moccasin again, from a pure love of adventure, and distaste for the so-called comforts of life in the States. He had once before traversed the prairies skirting the Mississippi, and even passed a winter among the Chippeways on the frozen lakes, but his present design was to build a lodge somewhere in the neighborhood of the head-waters of the Missouri, and run the risk of losing his scalp, for the sake of the abundance of game of all sorts, and freedom from the trammels of civilization, to be found on the farther side of the Yellow-Stone river. As I had abundance of leisure, and not a little fancy for stirring adventure myself, he readily made me a convert to his way of thinking, and in three days we were steaming up the Missouri for Fort Leavenworth, where we designed taking a canoe and paddling the rest of the voyage. This outpost is fully six hundred miles from St. Louis; but as these sketches are such as one would scrawl off, lying full-length on the grass, with rifle within reach, and a blazing fire in front, drawing savory steams from a haunch of antelope or deer, or buffaloe-hump, I will describe nothing so commonplace as a voyage in the high-pressure steamer which landed us in company with half a regiment of raw dragroons en route for New Mexico.
We were all anxiety to begin our expedition in earnest, and the same day purchased a dug-out of sufficient capacity from a couple of traders on their way down stream, in which we embarked the next morning by daylight, with a cargo consisting of a keg or two of powder, pig-lead, Mackinaw blankets, biscuits, coffee, and liquor enough to take the clayey taste out of a few gallons of the river-water. Our party consisted of four, Charlie G., myself, a Canadian trapper, named Jean le Louche, from an outrageous squint in one eye, whom Charlie had hunted with formerly, and hailed as an old acquaintance, and now hired to add to the physical strength of the future little garrison, and lastly, a woolly-headed servitor of mine, (Jock,) more honest than brilliant, (I mean intellectually—for his face shone,) who had begged hard to accompany me, in place of being sent back to Carolina. The true banks of the Missouri are from two to twenty miles apart, and two or three hundred feet in perpendicular height, sometimes rising in pinnacles and terraces studded with glittering fragments of gypsum, making a splendid show in the full blaze of the sun, and variegated with broad parallel stripes of red, yellow, and gray, where the stratas of different soils appear in their natural position laid bare by the heavy rains. The space between is occupied by a rich plain, deposited by the river during its frequent overflowings; and through this beautiful meadow, shaded as it is here and there by forests and groves of cotton-wood, beech, sycamore, and oak, the current flows, winding, from bank to bank, with an average rate of speed of four or five miles. From the summit of the cliffs stretches a vast level prairie quite to the falls of the Missouri, a distance of perhaps 2,500 miles; but of this great pasture for game I will say nothing for the present, but return to the region of the river, which abounds with antelopes, deer, bears, and big-horns—the former trooping down the grassy slopes in herds of from fifty to a hundred, stamping their little feet and stretching out their necks, in their impatience to learn the errand of the voyageurs, and the last-mentioned making their appearance on the most inaccessible heights, often standing motionless between the looker and the blue sky above, like images carved out of the chalk which capped many of the peaks. These wild sheep or goats, (for they resemble both,) I observed frequently perched on the precipitous banks within reach, or very nearly, of a good rifle from the shore, but on pointing this out to Jean, the Voyageur, he only laughed, saying, “Sacré! monsieur, dat vere true—a’most, tourjours a’most—but nevare anyting else. Monsieur bighorn a bien de connaissance—all de Injens call him ‘med’cine’—ha! Him stan’ vere quite—him not move an pouce. Mais, tenez, him eye fix on you steady, not so much as make vink. Ven you come assez close, you raise your fusil—oh, vere softly—den you quite sure ob him rib for supper. Mais—dans l’instant—sacré!—where him jomp? You look leetle more high up de cliff, and dare him stan’ a’most in de—de—how you call? Ah, in de shot-rifle. Nevare mind, you say, I not so slow anoder time. Den you climb up leetle vay and take de aim agen. Mais, come autrefois, him no longer dere—mais a’most—ah, diable! toujours a’most!”
We laughed at Jean’s odd description of the habits of these wonderful mountain-sheep, which he rendered more forcible by his extravagant gestures, sometimes rising suddenly in our narrow canoe, at the risk of turning it bottom upward.
“But,” said I, “what if one were to drive one of your ‘medicine’ goats where he would have no higher place to leap to, and only a sheer precipice before him?”
“Oh ho, monsieur, you tink you got him vere safe now—mais, monsieur, med’cine not tink so—him laugh, oh vere much in him sleeve—diable! in him hide! Eh bien, you much fatigué—you say to yourself, now or nevare! Den you raise your rifle for de last time—your finger feel for de trigger—n’est-ce pas?—Hola! sacré, diable, ventrebleu—were him? You rub your eye, you open him wide—so wide. Presently you look more closer—you not see no terrace, noting but deep prec’pice—ha! Den you smile vid yourself, you quite sure him break de neck at de bottom. You creep down, creep down vere slow, dat your neck might not brake aussi. Mais, ven you reach de bottom, you not see him novere!”
“How—you don’t mean to say that this devil of a goat can fall a hundred feet or more without breaking every bone in his body?”
“Précisement, monsieur, précisement. Vhen him jump down, him fall on him big horn—him not broke noting at all. Den à l’instant him on him four foot—him cut caper—him say, bec—bah! And dat is de last you shall see of monsieur vid de grandes hornes—eh bien!”
This was all very fine, but I credited about one-half of Jean’s assertions, and determined to embrace the first opportunity of trying a shot on my own account. Accordingly while the others were constructing our usual night-camp one afternoon, I slipped quietly away, and after a half hour’s prying about, discovered a big-horn, and crept cautiously under the cliff upon which he was perched, but the animal discovered me before I could get within long-shot. I followed, however, and to do so, was obliged to begin the ascent, which was toilsome and sometimes dangerous, from the narrowness of the ledges affording foot-hold. Several times my eye glanced along the rifle-barrel, but before I could draw trigger, a sudden leap would again place him out of reach; and in this manner I persisted in creeping and clambering higher and higher, until I found myself near the edge of the prairie above, and the big-horn some distance below, with only a sloping ledge intervening between us. I saw in a moment that he could not escape me this time, unless he threw himself over the brink of the precipice, as Jean related—a feat I placed no faith in.