Supping upon a Skeleton.
Our young travellers had now arrived upon the great buffalo-path. Without halting, they turned their horses to the right, and followed the trail. It led directly towards the north, and they had no difficulty in following it, as the prairie, for a tract of miles in width, was cut up by the hoofs of the animals; and, in some parts, where the ground was softer and more loamy, the surface presented the appearance of having been turned up by the plough! At other places the hard green turf had resisted the hoof, but even there the grass was so beaten down, that the trail was a perfectly plain one. Without troubling themselves about the direction, therefore, the little party rode briskly forward, full of hope that they would soon overtake the buffaloes. But their hopes were not so soon to be realised. These animals had gone upon their annual migration to the north; and as they were keeping almost continually upon the run—scarcely stopping to rest or pasture themselves—it would be no easy matter to come up with them. At night our travellers were obliged to diverge from the trail, in order to get grass for their horses; for, upon a belt of at least four miles in width which the buffaloes had passed over, not a blade of grass was left standing.
But another want now began to be felt by the party—one that filled them with serious apprehensions. At the end of the second day their stock of dried bear’s meat gave out—not an ounce of it was left—and they lay down upon the prairie supperless and hungry. What rendered the prospect still more disheartening, they were passing through a region entirely destitute of game—where no animal is ever seen except the buffaloes themselves, an occasional antelope, or the ever-present prairie-wolf. It was a region essentially desert in its character; although the dry plains were covered with a sward of the famous “buffalo-grass” (Sesleria dactyloides), which forms the favourite pasture of these wild cattle. As for the antelopes, they love these desert solitudes; as their free open range affords them an opportunity, from their superior fleetness, of escaping from every enemy. But in these parts they are more than usually shy; and although several of them were seen on the way, our hunters vainly endeavoured to approach within shooting distance of them. Wolves they could have shot; but they were not as yet prepared to satisfy their hunger upon the flesh of these filthy, fox-like, creatures. That large troops of wolves had gone forward, hanging after the great herd, was evident. Every now and then our hunters saw proof of this, in the clean-picked skeletons of buffaloes that lay along the path. These they knew were such as had got disabled and separated from the drove; for numerous accidents of this kind—owing to the bulls goring one another, or being enfeebled by age and disease—take place during the migration of the vast herds. Were it not so, the wolves would never think of following them as they do; for a buffalo in good health can scatter a whole pack of these cowardly, skulking jackals. But the average accidents which occur when such numbers of buffaloes are together—the prospect of old ones, weak and weary, being separated from their companions—of numbers getting mired upon the banks of some muddy river, or drowned in crossing it—of cows heavy with calf falling behind, or with calves already on the hoof, loitering for the purpose of suckling them—the prospect of these chances, combined with the still more enticing hope that the buffaloes will be attacked by a party of Indian hunters, often carries a pack of wolves for hundreds of miles across the prairie on the heels of a great herd. In fact, some of these wolves, both of the white and prairie species, seem to have no fixed place of abode; but hang upon the skirts of the buffalo “gangs” throughout all their extended migrations.
I have said that, upon the second night after leaving the butte, our travellers went to sleep supperless. On the third day, they began to feel the cravings of hunger in good earnest. Neither beast nor bird appeared in sight upon the wild desert plains that stretched inimitably around them. About noon, as they were riding through a thicket of the wild sage (Artemisia tridentata), a brace of those singular birds, sage-cocks or prairie-grouse (Tetrao urophasianus), the largest of all the grouse family, whirred up before the heads of their horses. François, with his ever-ready gun, fired at them, but they were too distant for the shot; and the next moment both disappeared over the swells of the prairie. The sight only tantalised the unsuccessful hunters, and added to the hungry craving of appetites already sharp almost beyond endurance. They felt that there was no chance of getting anything to eat, before they should come up with the buffaloes. That was their only hope; and they spurred their horses afresh, and rode on as fast as the animals could travel.
Towards night their hunger had increased to a painful degree; and the eyes of all wandered occasionally upon Jeanette and the dog Marengo. They began to contemplate the necessity of sacrificing one or other of these animals. It would be a sad alternative—as both the mule and the dog were looked upon more in the light of companions than slaves. Both had done good service during the expedition. But for Marengo, François might never have been found; and Jeanette, in addition to having satisfactorily accomplished the duty assigned to her, had saved them from an encounter with one of the cougars. But all these services must now be forgotten, when starvation was the alternative; and our adventurers began to talk seriously about which of these two faithful servants should be made the first victim. Neither was fat. Jeanette had never been so in all her life—at least so long as her present owners had been acquainted with her—and Marengo had grown gaunt and bony upon this lengthened expedition. Jeanette could not be otherwise than tough, and Marengo looked anything but tender. So far as that was concerned, it might be a toss-up which of them was first “put to the knife.”
But other considerations had their weight with the boys. Basil disliked parting with his hound, that for many years had been a great favourite, and the dog was endeared to all from late circumstances. His conduct at the time when François was lost—his usefulness as a sentinel at many a lonely camp-fire—and his valuable services rendered upon other occasions, had fixed him firmly in the affections of his young masters; and they would have endured hunger to the utmost extremity rather than sacrifice him. Jeanette, on the other hand, was but a mule—a selfish, wicked, kicking mule. This was true; but to them she had been a useful animal, and would not have kicked any one of them, although she would have kicked all the world besides. Still the feeling with which Jeanette was regarded was more a feeling of gratitude than of love. It was far different from the sentiment held towards Marengo.
With these considerations passing through the minds of our hungry hunters, it is easy to guess the result of their deliberations. The sentence was at length pronounced—a unanimous one—Jeanette must die!
Poor old Jeanette! She little knew what they were talking about. She little thought that her days were about being numbered—that the time was nigh when she should carry a pack no more. She little expected that she was about to kick up her heels upon the prairie for the last time—that in a few hours her life-blood would be let forth—and her old ribs be roasting and sputtering over a camp-fire!
Yes, it was decreed that Jeanette should die! but when and where this terrible tragedy was to take place, was not yet determined upon. At their first halting-place, of course; but where was that to be? for, after having resolved upon the death of Jeanette, they travelled on for miles without arriving at any place where it would be possible to halt for the night! No water appeared, and without water they could not with safety encamp. Early in the afternoon they had entered upon a strange tract, over which the road of the buffaloes led them. It was a part of the prairie—a series of low hills composed of pure gypsum. These extended around them, as far as our travellers could see, presenting on all sides a picture of alabaster whiteness. Neither plant, nor tree, nor any sign of vegetable life relieved the monotonous uniformity of the landscape. Turn to what side they might, their eyes were met by the lime-like surface of hill and dale, dazzling the sight with its milky whiteness............