A Buffalo Hunt

The herds of buffalo so frequently seen during my sojourn in “prairie land” always held for me a special interest. I saw them from near and from afar; across the rolling country as they grazed n the foothills -- herded on tile open prairie -- coming to water at the streams -- all though that interesting territory fresh herds were to be seen. As we traveled up the Missouri on a stern-wheel steamboat we had several close views of them.

Those old river boats were true floating palaces in the early days of the western country; as they plied back and forth they made many stops of indefinite length. It was quite a usual experience to feel the throb of the engines cease and the boat slow up at a great pile of wood on the river bank. This indicated that some industrious squatter had a supply of fuel for boats in need, and was willing to dispose of it to the first comer.

A stop to “wood up” often lasted several hours, and it gave opportunity for an informal call, if a fort or a ranch happened to be within walking distance. At any rate, we rarely lost the chance to take a walk while “roustabouts” put the fuel aboard.

I recall with great pleasure the long river voyages, and when the engines stopped it was interesting to watch them “bury the dead man,” as the process of anchorage then followed was called. My first experience was to play the role of “tenderfoot” and look for a real corpse. Instead, a great log was embedded in a trench, and by a stout rope passed under it the boat was held to the shore. I doubt if anyone ever escaped getting laughed at for their first morbid interest in seeing the “dead man” buried.

The country in its superb distances was very deceptive.I remember starting more than once with a party for a supposed half-mile walk to the foothills and always compelled to turn back after an hour’s tramp with the hills still elusively near -- yet apparently just as far as when we left the boat. Watching for game was one of the pastimes. Sometimes a clump of objects would attract our attention and start a merry discussion as to what they were. Some would loudly assert that they were buffalo; others would declare them to be stones or bushes. If field glasses proved them to be grazing undisturbed, miles away, it was more of a disappointment than a satisfaction even to those of the “buffalo faction,” for everyone wanted to go hunting.

At last one day as we slowly crawled along against the current of the Missouri the opportunity came to “bag” some of the animals at close range, and it was seized with great delight. We were approaching a shallow that was evidently a customary watering place, and when the captain called attention to a herd that was already partly in the water, guns and ammunition appeared as if by magic. The animals must have regarded the boat as a monster aquatic foe, for on its approach its decks spat fire at them as many stinging bullets made a way through their tough sides. Although several shots must have taken effect, all animals but one struggled toward the land. That unfortunate one staggered just as it tried to clamber out, and after a dizzy effort succumbed and toppled over.

It was a fine young cow that had been brought down, and, loath to lose her the successful sportsman insisted that an be made to recover the carcass, and all the passengers added their appeal, for it meant fresh meat in the larder -- a matter of more importance than can easily be understood by those never distant from the market. After some interesting maneuvering on the part of the boat-hands a rope was fastened to the fallen buffalo, by means of which she was towed in and dragged on board. That evening for the first time in two weeks we had fresh buffalo steak for supper. All this is somewhat of a digression but I like to ramble about with the memories of those glorious old army days and their joys. After the experience just related I was more anxious than ever to take active part in the sport of a buffalo hunt.

I had to wait a good long time, though, for it was not until the autumn of the following year, while we were stationed at Terry’s Landing, Montana, near the Yellowstone River, that my oft-repeated wish was gratified. Buffalo had been seen with promising frequency by parties riding about the country, and at times tray animals appeared within sight of the cantonment itself. So one day my husband told me that we could go out on the following morning, if we could be sure that the horse I had been riding was perfectly fit and safe for a hard cross-country run.

The mount I used was a large bay, in fact, the largest horse in the corral; not a bit good-looking, but gentle and apparently sure-footed. In taking a long ride such as we anticipated, we would have more or less rough country to traverse, many coulees to cross, and lots of prairie-dog holes to avoid. These coulees or fissures in the ground, frequently filled by running streams, appeared at times rather unexpectedly, and unless a horse were accustomed to jumping and were not easily frightened, the crossing might prove a serious matter, and to avoid prairie-dog holes required the quickest sort of dodging by the most experienced equines.

That afternoon my husband, to guard against mishap, took me out to one of the fenced-in garrison gardens from which the crops had been gathered, and, putting me on the horse, sent him high over the rails of the fence again and again. First a foot high, then two, and finally, after the animal was quite sure and I was accustomed to his rise as he topped out the bars, we practiced jumping rails three or four feet high. It was excellent training both for me and the horse, and when it was over I was reasonably sure of perfect safety in crossing coulees or any other low or high obstacle that might arise in the morrow’s path, and I had ridden him over prairie-dog villages many times.

Our early morning start brought us to the ford of the Yellowstone river just after the sun peeped over the hills. The water was cold, and the streams had all been more or less swollen recently, but, nothing daunted, the men without hesitancy started for the river. The clear water was deceptive, and before they knew it the man riding ahead was in up to his horse’s shoulders. At first, fearing he might be caught in a quick sand, one of the great dangers of the country, we called loud warnings to him when we saw him dismount and keeping hold of his horses tail, urge the animal to swim. As the other riders gained the middle of the stream they also, with their short ponies, were compelled to follow his example, on account of the unusual depth of the water. The sight of the swimming men and horses did not inspire me with levity, even when I saw there was practically no danger, for I knew that my road lay the same way if I were to have my buffalo hunt. My husband reassured me, however, saying that my horse, the tallest of the party, would be able to avoid swimming, and that the thought I could manage to remain on his back. With assistance I pulled my feet up and crossed them on the rear of the saddle. Thus kneeling, my hands clutching the horse’s mane, I started across. The steady fellow splashed slowly into the deeper water, while I anxiously watched it rise. Just when I though the saddle was about to be flooded my horse made an extra effort, brining me to a higher level that gradually rose to the opposite bank, in safety and quite dry.

Our ride was now across country in what was called “Pease Bottom.” Up over the hills we picked our way, constantly on the lookout for buffalo. A ranch hove into sight some time after crossing the river, and, stopping beside the little low dwelling, we inquired if any buffalo had recently bee seen thereabouts.

Strangers were a source of interest in the Far West at that time, and a chance meeting was a pleasure to be made the most of. This lone ranchman seemed more than usually delighted at the sight of us, and though he could give us no information, he hospitably urged us to dismount and have some refreshment. He was standing in a watermelon patch, and as he voiced his invitation waved his hands in the direction of the ripe fruit.

“They’re good,” he said, with a genial smile. We dismounted, and that the ranchman was a good judge of watermelons we soon discovered for ourselves. Such luscious melons I had never eaten, and fear I shall never eat again. We sat on the ground amid the fruit, cutting our choice from the vines with our big hunting knives and eating the melon with only its rind for a dish. “Close to nature” it was, and leaves a joyous memory of frontier hospitality. The men dried their clothes at the house, and by 9 o’clock we had finished this second breakfast and were ready to remount and continue the quest of buffalo.

Over the hills, through the valleys, up and down the coulees, onward we rode, sweeping the horizon and straining our eyes for a moving patch on the landscape. Two or more fruitless hours we had spent in our saddles when I exclaimed, in Indian lingo, “I see ‘heap’ buffalo!”

“False alarm,” my husband warned, as he had caught no signs where I was locating the shaggy-haired animals. On my insistence the field glasses were brought into service, to prove my long sighted vision to be good, for, sure enough, there was a herd four or five miles away, disappearing up a ravine.

“They are just entering a coulee, very likely going to or from water. We can head them off before they reach the plateau if we hurry,” was Mr. H’s quick conception.

Off we started at a rapid pace as soon as the last of them left the level of the “bench” we were on and had disappeared into the trench-like formation that contained or led to the water supply. As we drew nearer we sighted the scrub brush that indicated the presence of water, and we struck out in a direction to meet the herd on its return to the upper level.

When we thought we were near, one of the men dismounted and crept to the edge of the coulee to reconnoiter. The buffalo were in sight, but would not be coming out for some time; so, while we waited, our knapsacks yielded up the luncheon we had provided. A lookout was kept, and just as we were finishing the repast an alarm of the approach of the herd got us quickly to our horses. Kneeling on the edge of the coulee, the solder waving his arms to us, who were back farther, indicating the direction of the herd’s advance. Quickly we rode to meet them, going slowly for fear our horse’s hoofs might attract their attention. On our way my husband, then a young lieutenant, and ambitious for me to kill some big game, was saying:

“Now, men, my wife espied this herd, and I want her to have the first shot.”

The five soldiers who had accompanied us willingly acquiesced, for our soldiers never lost an opportunity to be gallant. His word, however, filled me with stage fright, and as we drew near them I exclaimed, “Oh, I can never shoot one of those big beasts!”

The animals, now having gained the level, had greatly accelerated their pace to escape the danger sighted. We started our horses on a run after them, and away they raced for fields unknown, in their mad effort to escape. They scattered, the better time to make, and with their rolling, awkward movements loped away over the uneven ground with their great woolly heads so near the earth it seemed they must stumble. Our horses measured themselves along the ground in long strides, and seemed to enjoy the chase as much as their riders. It was a long hard chase, but we were continually gaining on upon the fleeing herd. As we finally came within range an opportunity presented itself. My husband urged me, saying:

“Shoot! You’ll never have such a chance again.”

he spoke more prophetically than the excitement of the moment allowed us to realize, for it was truly the “chance of my life.” The stimulus, at any rate, hastened my decision. I braced up, grasped the cavalry pistol hanging at my waist, aimed the best I could, riding as we were at a fast gallop, and fired twice. My living target lunged, stumbled, and in a few seconds was down. My husband was more delighted and jubilant at my success than I was, and, seeing that I had my trophy, called to the men, “Now, go ahead; every man for himself” -- forgetful of any wish personally to enter into the chase. At his word the solders scattered, riding at a dead run after the fleeing game, the reports of their rifles coming back to us like a scattered volley.

My husband paid no heed to anything but my skill, and, gleefully dismounting tossed me off my horse and carried me over to where the buffalo was rolling in his death agony. The monster plunged with his feat in mid-air, beat his head angrily on the ground, and rolled his big body clumsily from side to side. As we approached his motions became more and more feeble, and finally ceased.

Before I realized what was happening my husband lifted me up and stood me upon the shaggy side, near the animal’s shoulder, holding me there in triumph over the fallen beast. I was greatly frightened and nervously fearful of the consequence of such a daring deed. I strongly resented the action, and rebelled at being placed upon so uncertain a pedestal.

Surprised at my terror, he lifted me to the ground, and I retired precipitously from the close proximity of the expiring animal.

Mr. H. was extracting the fatal bullet from the buffalo’s neck when the soldiers returned, well satisfied with their sport. we all regretted, however, that it was out of the question to carry away with us the heads of the animals we had killed. The distance we were from home and the absolute lack of wheeled transportation made it impossible to preserve or use any more of the carcasses than we could pack on our horses.

The day, with its fifty miles in the saddle, was for me a thorough satisfaction, despite the fact that we had nothing to show for our outing but a little fresh meat and a battered horse-pistol bullet which I still retain in my collection of souvenirs as a mute reminder of my buffalo kill on the plains of Montana in the early days when the State was the red man’s hunting ground, and the only evidences of civilization were clustered around the widely separated Army stations.