The Last Herd

: The Last Of The Plainsmen

Over gray No-Man's-Land stole down the shadows of night. The undulating

prairie shaded dark to the western horizon, rimmed with a fading streak

of light. Tall figures, silhouetted sharply against the last golden

glow of sunset, marked the rounded crest of a grassy knoll.



"Wild hunter!" cried a voice in sullen rage, "buffalo or no, we halt

here. Did Adams and I hire to cross the Staked Plains? Two weeks in

No-Man's-Land, and now we're facing the sand! We've one keg of water,

yet you want to keep on. Why, man, you're crazy! You didn't tell us you

wanted buffalo alive. And here you've got us looking death in the eye!"



In the grim silence that ensued the two men unhitched the team from the

long, light wagon, while the buffalo hunter staked out his wiry,

lithe-limbed racehorses. Soon a fluttering blaze threw a circle of

light, which shone on the agitated face of Rude and Adams, and the

cold, iron-set visage of their brawny leader.



"It's this way," began Jones, in slow, cool voice; "I engaged you

fellows, and you promised to stick by me. We've had no luck. But I've

finally found sign--old sign, I'll admit the buffalo I'm looking

for--the last herd on the plains. For two years I've been hunting this

herd. So have other hunters. Millions of buffalo have been killed and

left to rot. Soon this herd will be gone, and then the only buffalo in

the world will be those I have given ten years of the hardest work in

capturing. This is the last herd, I say, and my last chance to capture

a calf or two. Do you imagine I'd quit? You fellows go back if you

want, but I keep on."



"We can't go back. We're lost. We'll have to go with you. But, man,

thirst is not the only risk we run. This is Comanche country. And if

that herd is in here the Indians have it spotted."



"That worries me some," replied the plainsman, "but we'll keep on it."



They slept. The night wind swished the grasses; dark storm clouds

blotted out the northern stars; the prairie wolves mourned dismally.



Day broke cold, wan, threatening, under a leaden sky. The hunters

traveled thirty miles by noon, and halted in a hollow where a stream

flowed in wet season. Cottonwood trees were bursting into green;

thickets of prickly thorn, dense and matted, showed bright spring buds.



"What is it?" suddenly whispered Rude.



The plainsman lay in strained posture, his ear against the ground.



"Hide the wagon and horses in the clump of cottonwoods," he ordered,

tersely. Springing to his feet, he ran to the top of the knoll above

the hollow, where he again placed his ear to the ground.



Jones's practiced ear had detected the quavering rumble of far-away,

thundering hoofs. He searched the wide waste of plain with his powerful

glass. To the southwest, miles distant, a cloud of dust mushroomed

skyward. "Not buffalo," he muttered, "maybe wild horses." He watched

and waited. The yellow cloud rolled forward, enlarging, spreading out,

and drove before it a darkly indistinct, moving mass. As soon as he had

one good look at this he ran back to his comrades.



"Stampede! Wild horses! Indians! Look to your rifles and hide!"



Wordless and pale, the men examined their Sharps, and made ready to

follow Jones. He slipped into the thorny brake and, flat on his

stomach, wormed his way like a snake far into the thickly interlaced

web of branches. Rude and Adams crawled after him. Words were

superfluous. Quiet, breathless, with beating hearts, the hunters

pressed close to the dry grass. A long, low, steady rumble filled the

air, and increased in volume till it became a roar. Moments, endless

moments, passed. The roar filled out like a flood slowly released from

its confines to sweep down with the sound of doom. The ground began to

tremble and quake: the light faded; the smell of dust pervaded the

thicket, then a continuous streaming roar, deafening as persistent roll

of thunder, pervaded the hiding place. The stampeding horses had split

round the hollow. The roar lessened. Swiftly as a departing snow-squall

rushing on through the pines, the thunderous thud and tramp of hoofs

died away.



The trained horses hidden in the cottonwoods never stirred. "Lie low!

lie low!" breathed the plainsman to his companions.



Throb of hoofs again became audible, not loud and madly pounding as

those that had passed, but low, muffled, rhythmic. Jones's sharp eye,

through a peephole in the thicket, saw a cream-colored mustang bob over

the knoll, carrying an Indian. Another and another, then a swiftly

following, close-packed throng appeared. Bright red feathers and white

gleamed; weapons glinted; gaunt, bronzed savage leaned forward on racy,

slender mustangs.



The plainsman shrank closer to the ground. "Apache!" he exclaimed to

himself, and gripped his rifle. The band galloped down to the hollow,

and slowing up, piled single file over the bank. The leader, a short,

squat chief, plunged into the brake not twenty yards from the hidden

men. Jones recognized the cream mustang; he knew the somber, sinister,

broad face. It belonged to the Red Chief of the Apaches.



"Geronimo!" murmured the plainsman through his teeth.



Well for the Apache that no falcon savage eye discovered aught strange

in the little hollow! One look at the sand of the stream bed would have

cost him his life. But the Indians crossed the thicket too far up; they

cantered up the slope and disappeared. The hoof-beats softened and

ceased.



"Gone?" whispered Rude.



"Gone. But wait," whispered Jones. He knew the savage nature, and he

knew how to wait. After a long time, he cautiously crawled out of the

thicket and searched the surroundings with a plainsman's eye. He

climbed the slope and saw the clouds of dust, the near one small, the

far one large, which told him all he needed to know.



"Comanches?" queried Adams, with a quaver in his voice. He was new to

the plains.



"Likely," said Jones, who thought it best not to tell all he knew. Then

he added to himself: "We've no time to lose. There's water back here

somewhere. The Indians have spotted the buffalo, and were running the

horses away from the water."



The three got under way again, proceeding carefully, so as not to raise

the dust, and headed due southwest. Scantier and scantier grew the

grass; the hollows were washes of sand; steely gray dunes, like long,

flat, ocean swells, ribbed the prairie. The gray day declined. Late

into the purple night they traveled, then camped without fire.



In the gray morning Jones climbed a high ride and scanned the

southwest. Low dun-colored sandhills waved from him down and down, in

slow, deceptive descent. A solitary and remote waste reached out into

gray infinitude. A pale lake, gray as the rest of that gray expanse,

glimmered in the distance.



"Mirage!" he muttered, focusing his glass, which only magnified all

under the dead gray, steely sky. "Water must be somewhere; but can that

be it? It's too pale and elusive to be real. No life--a blasted, staked

plain! Hello!"



A thin, black, wavering line of wild fowl, moving in beautiful, rapid

flight, crossed the line of his vision. "Geese flying north, and low.

There's water here," he said. He followed the flock with his glass, saw

them circle over the lake, and vanish in the gray sheen.



"It's water." He hurried back to camp. His haggard and worn companions

scorned his discovery. Adams siding with Rude, who knew the plains,

said: "Mirage! the lure of the desert!" Yet dominated by a force too

powerful for them to resist, they followed the buffalo-hunter. All day

the gleaming lake beckoned them onward, and seemed to recede. All day

the drab clouds scudded before the cold north wind. In the gray

twilight, the lake suddenly lay before them, as if it had opened at

their feet. The men rejoiced, the horses lifted their noses and sniffed

the damp air.



The whinnies of the horses, the clank of harness, and splash of water,

the whirl of ducks did not blur out of Jones's keen ear a sound that

made him jump. It was the thump of hoofs, in a familiar beat, beat,

beat. He saw a shadow moving up a ridge. Soon, outlined black against

the yet light sky, a lone buffalo cow stood like a statue. A moment she

held toward the lake, studying the danger, then went out of sight over

the ridge.



Jones spurred his horse up the ascent, which was rather long and steep,

but he mounted the summit in time to see the cow join eight huge,

shaggy buffalo. The hunter reined in his horse, and standing high in

his stirrups, held his hat at arms' length over his head. So he

thrilled to a moment he had sought for two years. The last herd of

American bison was near at hand. The cow would not venture far from the

main herd; the eight stragglers were the old broken-down bulls that had

been expelled, at this season, from the herd by younger and more

vigorous bulls. The old monarchs saw the hunter at the same time his

eyes were gladdened by sight of them, and lumbered away after the cow,

to disappear in the gathering darkness. Frightened buffalo always make

straight for their fellows; and this knowledge contented Jones to

return to the lake, well satisfied that the herd would not be far away

in the morning, within easy striking distance by daylight.



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.



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