The Last of the Plainsmen
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Zane Grey >> The Last of the Plainsmen
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At dark the storm which had threatened for days, broke in a fury
of rain, sleet and hail. The hunters stretched a piece of canvas
over the wheels of the north side of the wagon, and wet and
shivering, crawled under it to their blankets. During the night
the storm raged with unabated strength.
Dawn, forbidding and raw, lightened to the whistle of the sleety
gusts. Fire was out of the question. Chary of weight, the hunters
had carried no wood, and the buffalo chips they used for fuel
were lumps of ice. Grumbling, Adams and Rude ate a cold
breakfast, while Jones, munching a biscuit, faced the biting
blast from the crest of the ridge. The middle of the plain below
held a ragged, circular mass, as still as stone. It was the
buffalo herd, with every shaggy head to the storm. So they would
stand, never budging from their tracks, till the blizzard of
sleet was over.
Jones, though eager and impatient, restrained himself, for it was
unwise to begin operations in the storm. There was nothing to do
but wait. Ill fared the hunters that day. Food had to be eaten
uncooked. The long hours dragged by with the little group huddled
under icy blankets. When darkness fell, the sleet changed to
drizzling rain. This blew over at midnight, and a colder wind,
penetrating to the very marrow of the sleepless men, made their
condition worse. In the after part of the night, the wolves
howled mournfully.
With a gray, misty light appearing in the east, Jones threw off
his stiff, ice-incased blanket, and crawled out. A gaunt gray
wolf, the color of the day and the sand and the lake, sneaked
away, looking back. While moving and threshing about to warm his
frozen blood, Jones munched another biscuit. Five men crawled
from under the wagon, and made an unfruitful search for the
whisky. Fearing it, Jones had thrown the bottle away. The men
cursed. The patient horses drooped sadly, and shivered in the lee
of the improvised tent. Jones kicked the inch-thick casing of ice
from his saddle. Kentuck, his racer, had been spared on the whole
trip for this day's work. The thoroughbred was cold, but as Jones
threw the saddle over him, he showed that he knew the chase
ahead, and was eager to be off. At last, after repeated efforts
with his benumbed fingers, Jones got the girths tight. He tied a
bunch of soft cords to the saddle and mounted.
"Follow as fast as you can," he called to his surly men. "The
buffs will run north against the wind. This is the right
direction for us; we'll soon leave the sand. Stick to my trail
and come a-humming."
From the ridge he met the red sun, rising bright, and a keen
northeasterly wind that lashed like a whip. As he had
anticipated, his quarry had moved northward. Kentuck let out into
a swinging stride, which in an hour had the loping herd in sight.
Every jump now took him upon higher ground, where the sand
failed, and the grass grew thicker and began to bend under the
wind.
In the teeth of the nipping gale Jones slipped close upon the
herd without alarming even a cow. More than a hundred little
reddish-black calves leisurely loped in the rear. Kentuck, keen
to his work, crept on like a wolf, and the hunter's great fist
clenched the coiled lasso. Before him expanded a boundless plain.
A situation long cherished and dreamed of had become a reality.
Kentuck, fresh and strong, was good for all day. Jones gloated
over the little red bulls and heifers, as a miser gloats over
gold and jewels. Never before had he caught more than two in one
day, and often it had taken days to capture one. This was the
last herd, this the last opportunity toward perpetuating a grand
race of beasts. And with born instinct he saw ahead the day of
his life.
At a touch, Kentuck closed in, and the buffalo, seeing him,
stampeded into the heaving roll so well known to the hunter.
Racing on the right flank of the herd, Jones selected a tawny
heifer and shot the lariat after her. It fell true, but being
stiff and kinky from the sleet, failed to tighten, and the quick
calf leaped through the loop to freedom.
Undismayed the pursuer quickly recovered his rope. Again he
whirled and sent the loop. Again it circled true, and failed to
close; again the agile heifer bounded through it. Jones whipped
the air with the stubborn rope. To lose a chance like that was
worse than boy's work.
The third whirl, running a smaller loop, tightened the coil round
the frightened calf just back of its ears. A pull on the bridle
brought Kentuck to a halt in his tracks, and the baby buffalo
rolled over and over in the grass. Jones bounced from his seat
and jerked loose a couple of the soft cords. In a twinkling; his
big knee crushed down on the calf, and his big hands bound it
helpless.
Kentuck neighed. Jones saw his black ears go up. Danger
threatened. For a moment the hunter's blood turned chill, not
from fear, for he never felt fear, but because he thought the
Indians were returning to ruin his work. His eye swept the plain.
Only the gray forms of wolves flitted through the grass, here,
there, all about him. Wolves! They were as fatal to his
enterprise as savages. A trooping pack of prairie wolves had
fallen in with the herd and hung close on the trail, trying to
cut a calf away from its mother. The gray brutes boldly trotted
to within a few yards of him, and slyly looked at him, with pale,
fiery eyes. They had already scented his captive. Precious time
flew by; the situation, critical and baffling, had never before
been met by him. There lay his little calf tied fast, and to the
north ran many others, some of which he must--he would have. To
think quickly had meant the solving of many a plainsman's
problem. Should he stay with his prize to save it, or leave it to
be devoured?
"Ha! you old gray devils!" he yelled, shaking his fist at the
wolves. "I know a trick or two." Slipping his hat between the
legs of the calf, he fastened it securely. This done, he vaulted
on Kentuck, and was off with never a backward glance. Certain it
was that the wolves would not touch anything, alive or dead, that
bore the scent of a human being.
The bison scoured away a long half-mile in the lead, sailing
northward like a cloud-shadow over the plain. Kentuck,
mettlesome, over-eager, would have run himself out in short
order, but the wary hunter, strong to restrain as well as impel,
with the long day in his mind, kept the steed in his easy stride,
which, springy and stretching, overhauled the herd in the course
of several miles.
A dash, a swirl, a shock, a leap, horse and hunter working in
perfect accord, and a fine big calf, bellowing lustily, struggled
desperately for freedom under the remorseless knee. The big hands
toyed with him; and then, secure in the double knots, the calf
lay still, sticking out his tongue and rolling his eyes, with the
coat of the hunter tucked under his bonds to keep away the
wolves.
The race had but begun; the horse had but warmed to his work; the
hunter had but tasted of sweet triumph. Another hopeful of a
buffalo mother, negligent in danger, truant from his brothers,
stumbled and fell in the enmeshing loop. The hunter's vest,
slipped over the calf's neck, served as danger signal to the
wolves. Before the lumbering buffalo missed their loss, another
red and black baby kicked helplessly on the grass and sent up
vain, weak calls, and at last lay still, with the hunter's boot
tied to his cords.
Four! Jones counted them aloud, add in his mind, and kept on.
Fast, hard work, covering upward of fifteen miles, had begun to
tell on herd, horse and man, and all slowed down to the call for
strength. The fifth time Jones closed in on his game, he
encountered different circumstances such as called forth his
cunning.
The herd had opened up; the mothers had fallen back to the rear;
the calves hung almost out of sight under the shaggy sides of
protectors. To try them out Jones darted close and threw his
lasso. It struck a cow. With activity incredible in such a huge
beast, she lunged at him. Kentuck, expecting just such a move,
wheeled to safety. This duel, ineffectual on both sides, kept up
for a while, and all the time, man and herd were jogging rapidly
to the north.
Jones could not let well enough alone; he acknowledged this even
as he swore he must have five. Emboldened by his marvelous luck,
and yielding headlong to the passion within, he threw caution to
the winds. A lame old cow with a red calf caught his eye; in he
spurred his willing horse and slung his rope. It stung the haunch
of the mother. The mad grunt she vented was no quicker than the
velocity with which she plunged and reared. Jones had but time to
swing his leg over the saddle when the hoofs beat down. Kentuck
rolled on the plain, flinging his rider from him. The infuriated
buffalo lowered her head for the fatal charge on the horse, when
the plainsman, jerking out his heavy Colts, shot her dead in her
tracks.
Kentuck got to his feet unhurt, and stood his ground, quivering
but ready, showing his steadfast courage. He showed more, for his
ears lay back, and his eyes had the gleam of the animal that
strikes back.
The calf ran round its mother. Jones lassoed it, and tied it
down, being compelled to cut a piece from his lasso, as the cords
on the saddle had given out. He left his other boot with baby
number five. The still heaving, smoking body of the victim called
forth the stern, intrepid hunter's pity for a moment. Spill of
blood he had not wanted. But he had not been able to avoid it;
and mounting again with close-shut jaw and smoldering eye, he
galloped to the north.
Kentuck snorted; the pursuing wolves shied off in the grass; the
pale sun began to slant westward. The cold iron stirrups froze
and cut the hunter's bootless feet.
When once more he came hounding the buffalo, they were
considerably winded. Short-tufted tails, raised stiffly, gave
warning. Snorts, like puffs of escaping steam, and deep grunts
from cavernous chests evinced anger and impatience that might, at
any moment, bring the herd to a defiant stand.
He whizzed the shortened noose over the head of a calf that was
laboring painfully to keep up, and had slipped down, when a
mighty grunt told him of peril. Never looking to see whence it
came, he sprang into the saddle. Fiery Kentuck jumped into
action, then hauled up with a shock that almost threw himself and
rider. The lasso, fast to the horse, and its loop end round the
calf, had caused the sudden check.
A maddened cow bore down on Kentuck. The gallant horse
straightened in a jump, but dragging the calf pulled him in a
circle, and in another moment he was running round and round the
howling, kicking pivot. Then ensued a terrible race, with horse
and bison describing a twenty-foot circle. Bang! Bang! The hunter
fired two shots, and heard the spats of the bullets. But they
only augmented the frenzy of the beast. Faster Kentuck flew,
snorting in terror; closer drew the dusty, bouncing pursuer; the
calf spun like a top; the lasso strung tighter than wire. Jones
strained to loosen the fastening, but in vain. He swore at his
carelessness in dropping his knife by the last calf he had tied.
He thought of shooting the rope, yet dared not risk the shot. A
hollow sound turned him again, with the Colts leveled. Bang! Dust
flew from the ground beyond the bison.
The two charges left in the gun were all that stood between him
and eternity. With a desperate display of strength Jones threw
his weight in a backward pull, and hauled Kentuck up. Then he
leaned far back in the saddle, and shoved the Colts out beyond
the horse's flank. Down went the broad head, with its black,
glistening horns. Bang! She slid forward with a crash, plowing
the ground with hoofs and nose--spouted blood, uttered a hoarse
cry, kicked and died.
Kentuck, for once completely terrorized, reared and plunged from
the cow, dragging the calf. Stern command and iron arm forced him
to a standstill. The calf, nearly strangled, recovered when the
noose was slipped, and moaned a feeble protest against life and
captivity. The remainder of Jones's lasso went to bind number
six, and one of his socks went to serve as reminder to the
persistent wolves.
"Six! On! On! Kentuck! On!" Weakening, but unconscious of it,
with bloody hands and feet, without lasso, and with only one
charge in his revolver, hatless, coatless, vestless, bootless,
the wild hunter urged on the noble horse. The herd had gained
miles in the interval of the fight. Game to the backbone, Kentuck
lengthened out to overhaul it, and slowly the rolling gap
lessened and lessened. A long hour thumped away, with the rumble
growing nearer.
Once again the lagging calves dotted the grassy plain before the
hunter. He dashed beside a burly calf, grasped its tail, stopped
his horse, and jumped. The calf went down with him, and did not
come up. The knotted, blood-stained hands, like claws of steel,
bound the hind legs close and fast with a leathern belt, and left
between them a torn and bloody sock.
"Seven! On! Old Faithfull! We MUST have another! the last! This
is your day."
The blood that flecked the hunter was not all his own.
The sun slanted westwardly toward the purpling horizon; the
grassy plain gleamed like a ruffled sea of glass; the gray wolves
loped on.
When next the hunter came within sight of the herd, over a wavy
ridge, changes in its shape and movement met his gaze. The calves
were almost done; they could run no more; their mothers faced the
south, and trotted slowly to and fro; the bulls were grunting,
herding, piling close. It looked as if the herd meant to stand
and fight.
This mattered little to the hunter who had captured seven calves
since dawn. The first limping calf he reached tried to elude the
grasping hand and failed. Kentuck had been trained to wheel to
the right or left, in whichever way his rider leaned; and as
Jones bent over and caught an upraised tail, the horse turned to
strike the calf with both front hoofs. The calf rolled; the horse
plunged down; the rider sped beyond to the dust. Though the calf
was tired, he still could bellow, and he filled the air with
robust bawls.
Jones all at once saw twenty or more buffalo dash in at him with
fast, twinkling, short legs. With the thought of it, he was in
the air to the saddle. As the black, round mounds charged from
every direction, Kentuck let out with all there was left in him.
He leaped and whirled, pitched and swerved, in a roaring,
clashing, dusty melee. Beating hoofs threw the turf, flying tails
whipped the air, and everywhere were dusky, sharp-pointed heads,
tossing low. Kentuck squeezed out unscathed. The mob of bison,
bristling, turned to lumber after the main herd. Jones seized his
opportunity and rode after them, yelling with all his might. He
drove them so hard that soon the little fellows lagged paces
behind. Only one or two old cows straggled with the calves.
Then wheeling Kentuck, he cut between the herd and a calf, and
rode it down. Bewildered, the tously little bull bellowed in
great affright. The hunter seized the stiff tail, and calling to
his horse, leaped off. But his strength was far spent and the
buffalo, larger than his fellows, threshed about and jerked in
terror. Jones threw it again and again. But it struggled up,
never once ceasing its loud demands for help. Finally the hunter
tripped it up and fell upon it with his knees.
Above the rumble of retreating hoofs, Jones heard the familiar
short, quick, jarring pound on the turf. Kentuck neighed his
alarm and raced to the right. Bearing down on the hunter,
hurtling through the air, was a giant furry mass, instinct with
fierce life and power--a buffalo cow robbed of her young.
With his senses almost numb, barely able to pull and raise the
Colt, the plainsman willed to live, and to keep his captive. His
leveled arm wavered like a leaf in a storm.
Bang! Fire, smoke, a shock, a jarring crash, and silence!
The calf stirred beneath him. He put out a hand to touch a warm,
furry coat. The mother had fallen beside him. Lifting a heavy
hoof, he laid it over the neck of the calf to serve as additional
weight. He lay still and listened. The rumble of the herd died
away in the distance.
The evening waned. Still the hunter lay quiet. From time to time
the calf struggled and bellowed. Lank, gray wolves appeared on
all sides; they prowled about with hungry howls, and shoved
black-tipped noses through the grass. The sun sank, and the sky
paled to opal blue. A star shone out, then another, and another.
Over the prairie slanted the first dark shadow of night.
Suddenly the hunter laid his ear to the ground, and listened.
Faint beats, like throbs of a pulsing heart, shuddered from the
soft turf. Stronger they grew, till the hunter raised his head.
Dark forms approached; voices broke the silence; the creaking of
a wagon scared away the wolves.
"This way!" shouted the hunter weakly.
"Ha! here he is. Hurt?" cried Rude, vaulting the wheel.
"Tie up this calf. How many--did you find?" The voice grew
fainter.
"Seven--alive, and in good shape, and all your clothes."
But the last words fell on unconscious ears.
CHAPTER 4. THE TRAIL
"Frank, what'll we do about horses?" asked Jones. "Jim'll want
the bay, and of course you'll want to ride Spot. The rest of our
nags will only do to pack the outfit."
"I've been thinkin'," replied the foreman. "You sure will need
good mounts. Now it happens that a friend of mine is just at this
time at House Rock Valley, an outlyin' post of one of the big
Utah ranches. He is gettin' in the horses off the range, an' he
has some crackin' good ones. Let's ooze over there--it's only
thirty miles--an' get some horses from him."
We were all eager to act upon Frank's suggestion. So plans were
made for three of us to ride over and select our mounts. Frank
and Jim would follow with the pack train, and if all went well,
on the following evening we would camp under the shadow of
Buckskin.
Early next morning we were on our way. I tried to find a soft
place on Old Baldy, one of Frank's pack horses. He was a horse
that would not have raised up at the trumpet of doom. Nothing
under the sun, Frank said, bothered Old Baldy but the operation
of shoeing. We made the distance to the outpost by noon, and
found Frank's friend a genial and obliging cowboy, who said we
could have all the horses we wanted.
While Jones and Wallace strutted round the big corral, which was
full of vicious, dusty, shaggy horses and mustangs, I sat high on
the fence. I heard them talking about points and girth and
stride, and a lot of terms that I could not understand. Wallace
selected a heavy sorrel, and Jones a big bay; very like Jim's. I
had observed, way over in the corner of the corral, a bunch of
cayuses, and among them a clean-limbed black horse. Edging round
on the fence I got a closer view, and then cried out that I had
found my horse. I jumped down and caught him, much to my
surprise, for the other horses were wild, and had kicked
viciously. The black was beautifully built, wide-chested and
powerful, but not heavy. His coat glistened like sheeny black
satin, and he had a white face and white feet and a long mane.
"I don't know about giving you Satan--that's his name," said the
cowboy. "The foreman rides him often. He's the fastest, the best
climber, and the best dispositioned horse on the range.
"But I guess I can let you have him," he continued, when he saw
my disappointed face.
"By George!" exclaimed Jones. "You've got it on us this time."
"Would you like to trade?" asked Wallace, as his sorrel tried to
bite him. "That black looks sort of fierce."
I led my prize out of the corral, up to the little cabin nearby,
where I tied him, and proceeded to get acquainted after a fashion
of my own. Though not versed in horse-lore, I knew that half the
battle was to win his confidence. I smoothed his silky coat, and
patted him, and then surreptitiously slipped a lump of sugar from
my pocket. This sugar, which I had purloined in Flagstaff, and
carried all the way across the desert, was somewhat disreputably
soiled, and Satan sniffed at it disdainfully. Evidently he had
never smelled or tasted sugar. I pressed it into his mouth. He
munched it, and then looked me over with some interest. I handed
him another lump. He took it and rubbed his nose against me.
Satan was mine!
Frank and Jim came along early in the afternoon. What with
packing, changing saddles and shoeing the horses, we were all
busy. Old Baldy would not be shod, so we let him off till a more
opportune time. By four o'clock we were riding toward the slopes
of Buckskin, now only a few miles away, standing up higher and
darker.
"What's that for?" inquired Wallace, pointing to a long, rusty,
wire-wrapped, double-barreled blunderbuss of a shotgun, stuck in
the holster of Jones's saddle.
The Colonel, who had been having a fine time with the impatient
and curious hounds, did not vouchsafe any information on that
score. But very shortly we were destined to learn the use of this
incongruous firearm. I was riding in advance of Wallace, and a
little behind Jones. The dogs--excepting Jude, who had been
kicked and lamed--were ranging along before their master.
Suddenly, right before me, I saw an immense jack-rabbit; and just
then Moze and Don caught sight of it. In fact, Moze bumped his
blunt nose into the rabbit. When it leaped into scared action,
Moze yelped, and Don followed suit. Then they were after it in
wild, clamoring pursuit. Jones let out the stentorian blast, now
becoming familiar, and spurred after them. He reached over,
pulled the shotgun out of the holster and fired both barrels at
the jumping dogs.
I expressed my amazement in strong language, and Wallace
whistled.
Don came sneaking back with his tail between his legs, and Moze,
who had cowered as if stung, circled round ahead of us. Jones
finally succeeded in gettin him back.
"Come in hyah! You measly rabbit dogs! What do you mean chasing
off that way? We're after lions. Lions! understand?"
Don looked thoroughly convinced of his error, but Moze, being
more thick-headed, appeared mystified rather than hurt or
frightened.
"What size shot do you use?" I asked.
"Number ten. They don't hurt much at seventy five yards," replied
our leader. "I use them as sort of a long arm. You see, the dogs
must be made to know what we're after. Ordinary means would never
do in a case like this. My idea is to break them of coyotes,
wolves and deer, and when we cross a lion trail, let them go.
I'll teach them sooner than you'd think. Only we must get where
we can see what they're trailing. Then I can tell whether to call
then back or not."
The sun was gilding the rim of the desert rampart when we began
the ascent of the foothills of Buckskin. A steep trail wound
zigzag up the mountain We led our horses, as it was a long, hard
climb. From time to time, as I stopped to catch my breath I gazed
away across the growing void to the gorgeous Pink Cliffs, far
above and beyond the red wall which had seemed so high, and then
out toward the desert. The irregular ragged crack in the plain,
apparently only a thread of broken ground, was the Grand Canyon.
How unutterably remote, wild, grand was that world of red and
brown, of purple pall, of vague outline!
Two thousand feet, probably, we mounted to what Frank called
Little Buckskin. In the west a copper glow, ridged with
lead-colored clouds, marked where the sun had set. The air was
very thin and icy cold. At the first clump of pinyon pines, we
made dry camp. When I sat down it was as if I had been anchored.
Frank solicitously remarked that I looked "sort of beat." Jim
built a roaring fire and began getting supper. A snow squall came
on the rushing wind. The air grew colder, and though I hugged the
fire, I could not get warm. When I had satisfied my hunger, I
rolled out my sleeping-bag and crept into it. I stretched my
aching limbs and did not move again. Once I awoke, drowsily
feeling the warmth of the fire, and I heard Frank say: "He's
asleep, dead to the world!"
"He's all in," said Jones. "Riding's what did it You know how a
horse tears a man to pieces."
"Will he be able to stand it?" asked Frank, with as much
solicitude as if he were my brother. "When you get out after
anythin'--well, you're hell. An' think of the country we're goin'
into. I know you've never seen the breaks of the Siwash, but I
have, an' it's the worst an' roughest country I ever saw. Breaks
after breaks, like the ridges on a washboard, headin' on the
south slope of Buckskin, an' runnin' down, side by side, miles
an' miles, deeper an' deeper, till they run into that awful hole.
It will be a killin' trip on men, horses an' dogs. Now, Mr.
Wallace, he's been campin' an' roughin' with the Navajos for
months; he's in some kind of shape, but--"
Frank concluded his remark with a doubtful pause.
"I'm some worried, too," replied Jones. "But he would come. He
stood the desert well enough; even the Mormons said that."
In the ensuing silence the fire sputtered, the glare fitfully
merged into dark shadows under the weird pinyons, and the wind
moaned through the short branches.
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