"Shall we fire, and kill one?" asked Francois.

"No," said Lucien, "it is not right to deprive the poor creatures of life. If you wish to get a nearer view of them, have patience, and your wish may be gratified without the expenditure of powder and lead."

What Lucien said proved correct. At the end of half an hour or so, the birds appeared to have eaten as much as they could get into their stomachs; and commenced stalking over the ground with a heavy sluggish gait. The boys, who had waited patiently, now ran forward; and, finding that the vultures were unable to rise into the air, after a chase—in which Marengo took a prominent part—secured them both.

But they did not hold them long; for the moment that Francois, who was the most eager to seize them, laid his hands upon one, he let it go again with an exclamation of disgust; and ran faster from the vulture, than the latter could run from him!

The fetid odour of the creatures—which was quite as strong as that of the carrion itself—was too much for the olfactory nerves of our heroes; and they were all three glad enough to let the king-vultures off without a second encounter.

As they returned to their horses, they observed that the buzzards and black vultures were once more collecting about the remains of the big-horn. They had been joined by several prairie-wolves; and these were snarling and snapping—now driving off the birds, and now receiving a blow from the long wings of the latter, that caused them to growl more fiercely than ever. Our adventurers did not wait for the finale of this hideous scene; but remounting, once more headed their horses to the prairie.



CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

MORE TALK ABOUT THE VULTURES.

They conversed about the vultures, as they rode away from the butte. The naturalist of the party had much to say of these picturesque birds; and the curiosity of Basil and Francois had been excited by the appearance of a species new to them—the king himself.

"With regard to the vultures," observed Lucien, "the study of their natural history has been considerably impeded by the closet-naturalists, and particularly by the Frenchmen—who are fonder than all others of making a parade of science, by the absurd multiplication of genera and species. This, in the absence of any real knowledge of the habits of the animals, gives them an opportunity of adding something to what has been already said; and leaves the reader under the impression that these learned anatomists know all about the thing; and that is what such gentlemen desire, and nothing more.

"There are not over two dozen species of vultures in the world; and yet the French naturalists make almost as many genera of them, multiplying high-sounding names to such an extent, that the mind of the student is quite bewildered with what would otherwise prove a most simple study.

"All the vultures are so similar in their physiognomy and habits, that they might be treated as one genus. Indeed, it would not lead to great confusion in ornithological science, if they were generically classed with the eagles—as both kinds have many points of similitude. The vultures often kill their prey as eagles do; and it is certain that they do not prefer it in a putrid state. The eagles do not always kill their prey, and many of them eat carrion. Some of the vultures—such as the lammergeyer—have almost all the habits of the eagle. The lammergeyer always kills what he eats, unless when pressed by hunger; and there is a singular fact in relation to the food of this bird,—he prefers certain parts of the bones of animals to their flesh!"

It is somewhat strange that the boy hunter, Lucien, should have known this "fact," as I believe it is not in possession of the naturalists. I, myself, was made acquainted with it by one of the "feeders" of the superb collection in Regent's Park—who had observed this propensity for bone-eating in a young African lammergeyer. He had observed also that the bird was always healthier, and in better spirits, on the days when he was indulged in his favourite osseous diet. These men usually know more of natural history than the catalogue-makers and teeth-measurers of the museum and the closet.

"Perhaps," continued Lucien, "one of the most essential points of difference between the vulture and eagle lies in the claws. The claws of the vultures are less developed, and their limbs want the muscular power that those of eagles possess. Hence the former are less able to kill a living animal, or tear the carcass of a dead one. They are unable, also, to raise a large prey in their claws; and the stories of vultures carrying off deer, and full-grown sheep, are mere fables. Even the condor—the largest of the species known—cannot lift into the air a weight of more than ten pounds. A deer of that weight would be rather a small one, I fancy. Most of the wonderful stories about the condor were propagated by the discoverers and conquerors of Spanish America; who, if they were great conquerors, were also the greatest braggarts the world ever saw. The books they have left behind them fully prove my assertion; and I believe that their accounts of the Mexican and Peruvian nations, whom they subdued, are not a whit less exaggerated than their stories about the condor. Three centuries could not have so completely swept away the vestiges of such a civilisation as they describe—leaving scarcely a trace of it to attest the truth of their assertions. It is true, that in these countries are to be found monuments of a high state of civilisation; but these were in ruins long previous to the discovery of the Spaniards; and the feeble races who submitted so easily to the latter, knew no more about the builders of these monuments than we do. The same vestiges of a civilised people are found in the deserts of North America; and yet the Spanish writers can tell nothing of them, farther than that they existed at the period of the discovery just as they are now."

"How many kinds of vultures are there in America?" inquired Francois, whose mind ran more upon the present than the past; and who, as we have already hinted, was a great boy for birds.

"There are five species well-known," replied Lucien; "and these are so different from each other that there is no difficulty in distinguishing them. These species form two genera—Sarco ramphus and Cathartes. The Sarcoramphs have a fleshy protuberance over the beak—hence the generic name, which is a compound of two Greek words, signifying flesh, and beak or bill. The Cathartes, or 'purging-vultures,' derive their name from a singular habit—that of throwing up their food again, not only when feeding their young, but also when providing for one another during the period of incubation.

"The condor is a true Sarcoramph—in fact, one of the most marked features of this bird is the fleshy cartilaginous crest that surmounts his head and part of his beak. This, however, is only found upon the males, as the female birds are not crested in a similar manner. The condor, when in full plumage, might be called a black-and-white bird. His body underneath, his tail, shoulders, and the butts as well as the outer margins of his wings, are all of a dark, nearly black, colour; but his wings, when closed, give him a large space of greyish white from the back to the tail. The downy ruff around the breast and neck is milk-white, and the naked wrinkled skin of the neck and head is of a blackish red or claret colour, while the legs are ashy blue. It is only when full-grown—nearly three years old—that the condor obtains these colours; and up to that time he is without the white collar around his neck. The young birds, for many months after they are hatched, have no feathers, but a soft thick down, like young goslings or cygnets; and even at two years of age their colour is not black and white, but a dirty, brownish black.

"The full-grown condor usually measures about eight feet from tip to tip of his wings; but there can be no question that specimens exist, and have been seen by truthful travellers, that measured fourteen feet and some inches!

"The condor, like other vultures, feeds principally upon carrion; but, when pressed with hunger, he will kill sheep, lambs, vicunas, young lamas, deer, and other animals. The larger kinds he can master, by attacking their eyes with his powerful beak—which is his principal weapon. That he can kill boys of sixteen years old, as Garcilaso de la Vega asserts, is, like many other statements of that celebrated author, simply untrue; but that he frequently attacks, and, according to the Indians, sometimes puts to death little children, is probable enough. If he can kill full-grown sheep or vicunas, there is nothing remarkable about his doing the same for a child five or six years of age; and, indeed, it is certain that such instances have occurred.

"Almost any eagles can do as much, and would, provided they were hungry, and children were left exposed in the neighbourhood of their haunts. The condor, however, is one of the most ravenous of his species. One in a state of captivity has been known to eat eighteen pounds of flesh in a single day! But that this bird can raise into the air with his claws, and carry off large animals, such as deer and sheep, as asserted by Acosta, Desmarchais, and other French and Spanish writers, is altogether fabulous.

"The condor, unlike the vultures of most countries, is not under the protection of the law. His destructive habits among the lambs, and young lamas and alpacas, render him an object to be persecuted rather than protected. He is, therefore, either killed or captured, whenever an opportunity offers. There can be but little use made either of his flesh or his feathers; but as he is an object of curiosity, he is often kept as a pet about the houses of the Chilians and Peruvians. Live ones are frequently to be seen in the markets of Valparaiso, and other South American cities.

"The natives who hunt the condor have various ways of capturing him. Sometimes they lie in wait near a carcass, and shoot the bird when it alights; but it is very difficult to kill them in this way, on account of their strong thick feathers, as well as the tenacity of life which they possess: it can only be done when the shot takes effect in a vital part. This method, therefore, is not much practised. A second plan is, to wait until the condor has gorged himself to repletion, when, like most other vultures, he is unable to fly for some time after. The hunters then gallop up, and lasso him from their horses; or impede his flight by flinging the 'bolas' around his legs. The 'bolas' are thongs of leather, with leaden balls at each end; and these, when adroitly thrown, twine themselves round the shanks of the condor, and prevent his escape. A third mode is still a surer one. The hunters build a large penn, in which they place a quantity of carrion. The palisades that inclose this penn are made so high, that, when the bird has gorged himself, he is unable either to rise into the air or get out of the enclosure in any way; and he is then overtaken and captured, or beaten to death with clubs.

"The Indians kill the condor by stones, projected from slings to a great distance—a species of weapon which these people use with much dexterity.

"Condors are taken alive in traps and snares; but there is an excellent and somewhat curious method of capturing them alive, sometimes employed by the Indians of the Sierras. It is this:—The hunter provides himself with the skin of some animal, such as an ox or horse, freshly taken off, and with a piece of the flesh adhering to it. With this he proceeds to some open place, where the condors, wheeling high in the air above, may readily see him. Having chosen a spot, he crouches down upon the ground, and draws the skin over him, with the fleshy side turned upward. In this situation he remains; but not long, until some one of the condors, with his far-piercing glance, espies the ensanguined object, and comes swooping downward. The bird, having no suspicion, hops boldly upon the hide; and commences tearing at the piece of flesh. The hunter, underneath, now cautiously feels for one of its legs; and having assured himself of this, grasps it firmly, folding the foot of the bird in the soft loose flaps of the hide. Having already provided himself with a long rope, he adroitly nooses it around the ankle; and, taking the other end in his hand, he now appears from under the skin, and shows himself to his astonished captive. Of course, during the operation of 'tethering,' the condor flaps and struggles with all his might; and were it not for the hide which protects the hunter, the latter would be very apt to come off with the loss of an eye, or be otherwise dreadfully torn by the powerful beak of the bird. When the hunter has fairly secured his prize, he passes a leathern thong through its nostrils, and knotting it firmly, leads the condor off in triumph. In this same manner the bird is kept chained, so long as he is wanted. With the string through his nostrils, and fastened by the other end to a picket-pin in the ground, the captive can walk about freely within the area of a circle. Sometimes forgetting that he is chained, he attempts to fly off; but, on reaching the end of his string, the sudden jerk brings him to the ground again; and he invariably falls upon his head!"

"But how is it," inquired Francois, "since the condors are hunted in this way, and so easily captured, that they are not long since exterminated? They are so large, that any one can see them at a great distance; and they can be easily approached, I believe; yet there are still great flocks of them—are there not?"

"You are quite right," answered Lucien; "they are still numerous, both in the Andes of Chili and Peru. I think I can explain this. It is because they have a safe place, not only to breed but to retire to, whenever they feel inclined. Numerous peaks of the Andes, where these birds dwell, shoot up far above the line of perpetual snow. Away up on these summits the condor breeds, among naked rocks where there is no vegetation. No one ever thinks of ascending them; and, indeed, many of these summits are inaccessible to the human foot. Not even animals of any species are found there, nor birds—except the condor himself. He is the sole lord of that region. Therefore, unlike most other creatures, these birds have a retreat where no enemy can come near them, and where they may bring forth their young, and rear them in perfect security. Still more, they can go to rest at night without fear of being disturbed, unless by the crash of the falling avalanche, or the roar of the loud thunder that often reverberates through these Alpine regions. But the condor is not in the least afraid of these noises; and he heeds them not, but sleeps securely, even while the red lightning is playing around his eyrie.

"Now, it is very evident that birds, or any other wild animals, possessing a secure place, both to bring forth their young or escape to in time of danger, will not easily be extirpated. It is because their places of breeding and retreat are accessible—not only to man but to hosts of other enemies—that such creatures as eagles and the like are so scarce. Not so with the condor. His race can never become extinct so long as the Andes exist; and that is likely to be for a good long period, I fancy."

"What sort of nests do they build?" inquired Francois.

"They do not build nests," replied Lucien, "they choose a cavity in the rocks, or in the soil around them, where they lay two large white oval eggs, and hatch them just as other vultures do. Strange to say, very little is known of their mode of life in their elevated haunts; but this is because the natives of the Sierras rarely venture up to the high regions where the condors dwell. All they know of them is what they see, when these great birds descend upon the plateaux, or inhabited mountain-valleys, in search of food—which they do only in the mornings and evenings. During mid-day the condor usually perches upon some high rock, and there goes to sleep. When pressed by hunger, they sometimes extend their range down to the hot coast lands of the Pacific Ocean; but they are evidently birds that can bear cold much better than heat.

"The King-vulture," continued Lucien, "is the next species that claims our attention. He is also a Sarcoramph (Sarcoramphus Papa), and the only one of that genus besides the condor. He is unlike the condor in many respects. He is not much of a mountain bird, but prefers the low savannas and open plains. He prefers heat to cold, and he is rarely met with outside the tropics, although he makes occasional visits to the peninsula of Florida and the northern plains of Mexico; but in these places he is only a rare and migratory bird. He feeds principally upon carrion, and dead fish that have been left by the drying-up of ponds and lakes; but he will also kill and eat serpents, lizards, and small mammiferous animals. Bartram states that in Florida he only appears after the savannas have been on fire, when he is seen to pass over the ground amidst the black ashes, hunting for and devouring the snakes and lizards that have been killed by the fire. Bartram, therefore, infers that his food must consist altogether of roasted reptiles; but as it would be sometimes difficult for him to procure a supply of these ready-cooked, I think we may safely conclude that he does not object to eating them raw. The fanciful ideas of these old naturalists are sometimes very amusing from their very absurdity.

"The king-vultures live in pairs as eagles do—though they are often seen in flocks, when a carcass or some other object has brought them together.

"This bird has been called the 'painted' vulture on account of the brilliant colours upon his head and neck, which do, in fact, present the appearance of the most vivid painting. He derives his name of a 'King-vulture,' not from the possession of any noble qualities, but from the manner in which he tyrannises over the common vultures (aura and atratus), keeping them from their food until he has gorged himself with the choicest morsels. In this sense the name is most appropriate; as such conduct presents a striking analogy to that of most human kings, towards the common people.

"Next to the condor in size," continued the naturalist, "and, perhaps, quite equal to him, is the great Californian vulture—the 'condor of the north.' He is classed among the purging-vultures (Cathartes Californianus). This bird may be called black, as he is nearly of that hue all over the body; although some of the secondary wing feathers are white at the tips, and the coverts are brown. Black, however, is the prevailing colour of the bird. His naked head and neck is reddish; but he wants the crest or comb, which the condors and king-vultures have. On the posterior part of his neck, long lance-shaped feathers form a sort of ruff or collar, as in other birds of this kind.

"The Californian vulture derives his name from the country which he inhabits—the great chain of the Californian mountains—the Sierra Nevada—which extends almost without interruption through twenty degrees of latitude. That he sometimes visits the Rocky Mountains, and their kindred the Cordilleras of the Sierra Madre in Mexico, there can be little doubt. A large bird occasionally seen among these mountains, and pronounced to be the condor, is far more likely to have been the Californian vulture. As far as size is concerned, this mistake might easily be made, for the latter bird is nearly, if not quite, as large as the former. A specimen of the Californian vulture has been measured, which proved to be four feet eight inches in length, and nine feet eight inches between the tips of the wings! Now, this is actually larger than the average size of the condors; and it is not improbable, therefore, that individuals of the Californian species may yet be found quite equal to the largest of the South American birds.

"The Californian vulture has been seen as far north as the thirty-ninth parallel of latitude. He is common in some parts of Oregon, where he makes his nest in the tops of the tallest trees, constructing it of coarse thorny twigs and brambles, somewhat after the manner of eagles. As many of the great spruce and pine-trees of Oregon and California are three hundred feet in height, and twenty feet thick at the base, this vulture is almost as secure among their tops as the condor on his mountain summit; but to render himself doubly safe, he always selects such trees as overhang inaccessible cliffs or rapid rivers. The female lays only two eggs, which are nearly jet-black, and as large as those of a goose; and the young, like those of the condor, are for many weeks covered with down instead of feathers. Like other vultures, the food of this species is carrion or dead fish; but he will follow after wounded deer and other animals, and commence devouring them as soon as they have dropped; and a score of these birds will devour the carcass of a deer, or even of a horse or mule, in about one hour's time, leaving nothing but a well-cleaned skeleton! While eating, they are strong enough and bold enough to keep at a distance wolves, dogs, and all such animals as may attempt to share with them.

"Perhaps no bird of the vulture species is so shy and wary as this one. Except when he is gorged with eating, he will never allow the hunter to approach within shot; and even then, his thick heavy plumage renders him most difficult to be killed. His wings are full and long, and his flight is most graceful and easy, not unlike that of his congener the turkey-buzzard.

"I have said," continued Lucien, "that naturalists make out five species of American vultures. The remaining two, the turkey-buzzard and black vulture, or, as he is sometimes called, the 'carrion-crow,' we have already had before us; but, I believe, there are more than five species on the continent of America. There is a bird in Guayana called the 'gavilucho,' which I believe to be a vulture differing from all these; and, moreover, I do not think that the 'red-headed gallinazo' of South America is the same as the turkey-buzzard of the north. He is, more probably, a distinct species of cathartes; for, although he resembles the turkey-buzzard in shape and size, his plumage appears to me of a purer black, and the skin of his head, neck, and legs, of a much more vivid red—having an appearance as if these parts had been painted. I think naturalists will yet discover, that besides the great Californian vulture, there are three if not four species of the smaller cathartes."

So much for the vultures of America.



CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

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. Francois, 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, Francois 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 Francois 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. The sun, reflected upward, pierced their bodies, and parched them with thirst. They breathed a hot atmosphere filled with gypsum dust, that by the trampling of the buffalo herd had been reduced to an impalpable powder, and floated about suspended in the air. This added to the agony of their thirst; and it was difficult for them to tell whether they suffered most from the want of food, or the want of water!

How far might this singular tract extend? They could form no conjecture as to the distance. Lucien had heard that such formations sometimes stretched for many miles. If so, they might never be able to cross it— thirsty and exhausted as both they and the animals were—for, eager to come up with the buffalo, they had rested but very little during the previous days. They began to labour under serious apprehensions. The appetite of thirst became stronger than that of hunger—its cravings more difficult to be endured.

Guided by the buffalo-tracks, they rode gloomily on, in the midst of a white cloud that enveloped them throughout all that fearful journey. They had no difficulty in following the trail. The heavy dust showed where the drove had passed; and every here and there great circular hollows showed where the buffaloes had "wallowed." The hope that these animals, guided by their usual instincts, had gone in the direction of water, to some degree sustained our travellers in their onward struggle.

The shades of evening were closing over the earth, and the alabaster hills were assuming an ashy blue colour, when the little cavalcade emerged from the dusty ravines of gypsum, and once more trod the green prairie. The country before them was still rolling, but they kept on along the well marked trail—their animals stepping more freely, as if inspired with new hope at the change which had taken place upon the surface. There was something in the appearance of the landscape ahead that led to the belief that water was not far distant; and, sure enough, it was not; for, on mounting the crest of a prairie-swell, over which ran the buffalo-trail, a small rivulet was espied in the glen below. At the sight, Jeanette, as well as the three horses, pricked up their ears; and, making an effort to trot, were soon at the bottom of the hill, and up to their knees in the water.

It was fortunate for them that it proved a freshwater stream. Had it been a salt one—and such are very common in the neighbourhood of these gypsum formations—they could never have gone farther. They would all have perished upon its banks.

But it was fresh water—cool and fresh—and our travellers first drank of it, and then bathed themselves in its flood, until they had washed their bodies free from the annoying gypsum dust. After this they set about making some arrangements for their night bivouac.

The copious draughts of water, which all of them had taken, in some measure relieved them from the painful sensations of hunger they had experienced; and they began to consider whether they might not be able to give Jeanette a respite—at least until the morning. While deliberating upon this, they noticed that Marengo had strayed away from them. They looked around, wondering what had become of him, or where he could have gone. They espied the hound at some distance up the stream, and apparently engaged with some object upon the bank. They all ran towards him. On arriving near the spot, they perceived that it was the skeleton of a large buffalo with which the dog was engaged. The poor brute, hungry as he was, could do but little else than lick it; for the wolves had not left as much meat upon it as would have filled the smallest of his teeth! Even the pieces of torn skin that lay around had been chewed dry by these ravenous animals; and the bones appeared as free from flesh as if they had been scraped by a knife. Had an anatomist been ordered to prepare the skeleton for a museum, he could not have cleaned it more effectually.

It was not very cheering to contemplate this useless skeleton; and the boys were about returning to their camping-place, when the idea occurred to Lucien that the bones might, at least, yield a soup. He, of course, communicated this idea to the others, and it was at once agreed that they should boil them and try. It was quite a happy thought. No doubt the bones, which were fresh, and not yet dry, would make an excellent soup; and all three at once set about preparing to cook it. Francois gathered sage-bushes to kindle a fire with, while Basil got hold of Lucien's little hatchet, and set to work to separate the ribs and joints of the skeleton. Lucien, seeing that there were several kinds of plants growing on the margin of the rivulet, went down to examine them—in hopes that he might find the wild onion or the prairie-turnip among them, or perhaps some other root or vegetable that might help to enrich their pottage.

While all three were engaged in their separate duties, a loud exclamation from Basil drew the attention of his brothers. It was a shout of joy, followed by a wild laugh, like the laugh of a maniac!

Francois and Lucien looked up in affright—thinking that something disagreeable had happened—for they could not understand why Basil should be laughing so loudly at such a time, and under such gloomy circumstances.

As they looked at him he still continued to laugh, waving the hatchet around his head as if in triumph.

"Come here, brothers!" shouted he; "come here! Ha! ha! ha! Here's a supper for three hungry individuals! Ha! ha! ha! What shallow fellows we are, to be sure! Why, we are as stupid as the donkey that preferred eating the hay with the bread and butter beside him. Look here! and here! and there! There's a supper for you. Ha! ha! ha!"

Lucien and Francois had now arrived upon the ground; and seeing Basil point to the great joints of the buffalo, and turn them over and over, at once understood the cause of his mirth. These joints were full of marrow!

"Pounds of it," continued Basil; "the very tit-bits of the buffalo— enough to make suppers for a dozen of us; and yet we were going to sleep supperless, or the next thing to it—going to starve in the midst of plenty! And we have been travelling among such treasures for three days past! Why, we deserve to starve for being so simple. But come, brothers! help me to carry these great joints to the fire—I'll show you how to cook a supper."

There are eight marrow-bones in the buffalo, containing several pounds of this substance. As Basil had heard from the old hunters, it is esteemed the most delicious part of the animal; and is rarely left behind when a buffalo has been killed. The best method of preparing it is by simply roasting it in the bone; although the Indians and trappers often eat it raw. The stomachs of our young hunters were not strong enough for this; and a couple of the shank-bones were thrown into the fire, and covered over with red cinders.

In due time the marrow was supposed to be sufficiently baked; and the bones having been cracked by Lucien's hatchet, yielded up their savoury store—which all three ate with a great relish. A cup of cool water washed it down; and around the camp-fire of the boy hunters thirst and hunger were now contemplated only as things of the past. Jeanette was respited, without one dissentient voice.

Our adventurers were surrounded once more with the cheerful atmosphere of hope. There was still enough of marrow in the remaining bones to last them for two days at the least; for this marrow is a most nourishing food. Moreover, by following the buffalo-trail, they would be likely to fall in with other skeletons of these animals; and all apprehensions on the score of food now vanished from their minds. Another fact, which the skeleton of the buffalo revealed to them, added to their joyful anticipations. They had observed on first going up to it—that the bones were still fresh! The wolves had not been long gone from it. It could not have been a long time killed. All this showed, that the buffaloes themselves had but very recently passed over the ground, and could not be far distant. These were cheering thoughts; and for a while the young hunters sat around the sage-fire, revolving them in their minds, and conversing upon them. Then, having offered thanks to that Being who had so many times miraculously preserved them, they rolled themselves in their blankets, and, notwithstanding a heavy shower of rain that fell, once more found the solace of a good night's sleep.



CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR.

THE BATTLE OF THE BULLS.

Next morning the boy hunters were up and stirring at the "peep of day." They felt refreshed and cheerful. So did their animals, for the grass was good. Jeanette was frisking about on her trail-rope and endeavouring to reach "Le Chat," whom she would have kicked and bitten to a certainty, but that the lasso-tether restrained her. Jeanette little dreamt how near she had been to her last kick. Had she known that, it is probable she would have carried herself with more sobriety, not knowing but that a similar necessity might occur again. But Jeanette knew nothing of it; and, having eaten well and drunk plentifully, she was as frisky as a kitten.

A fire was kindled, and a fresh "marrow-bone" steamed and sputtered among the blazing branches of the sage. This was soon drawn forth again, cracked, and its rich contents rifled and eaten. The remaining joints were packed upon Jeanette; the horses were saddled, the hunters leaped into their seats, and rode joyfully off upon the trail.

The country over which they now travelled was what is termed a "rolling prairie"—that is, a country without trees, but nevertheless, far from being level. The prairie is not always a level plain, as some people imagine. On the contrary, it is often of very uneven surface, containing high hills and deep valleys. The word "prairie" means properly an open level country, though it is not necessary that it should be a dead horizontal level, to entitle it to the name. It may contain hills, valleys, and long ridges. It is not necessary either that it should be entirely destitute of trees; for there are the "timber prairies," where trees grow in "mottes" or groves, sometimes termed islands—from their resemblance to wooded islands in the sea. The "prairie" is a term used to distinguish those vast meadow-like tracts of the earth's surface from the forest, the mountain, and the ocean. The prairies themselves are distinguished by specific names, according to what covers their surface. We have seen that there are "timber prairies" and "flower-prairies." The latter are usually denominated "weed prairies" by the rude hunters who roam over them. The vast green meadows covered with "buffalo" grass, or "gramma," or "mezquite" grass, are termed "grass prairies." The tracts of salt efflorescence—often fifty miles long and nearly as wide—are called "salt prairies;" and a somewhat similar land, where soda covers the surface, are named "soda prairies." There are vast desert plains where no vegetation appears, save the wild sage-bushes (artemisia). These are the "sage prairies," hundreds of miles of which exist in the central parts of the North American continent. There are prairies of sand, and "rock prairies," where the "cut-rock" and pebble deposits cover the arid plains; and still another variety, called the "hog-wallow prairies," where the surface for miles exhibits a rough appearance, as if it had been at some remote period turned over or "rooted" by hogs.

Most of these names have been given by the trappers—the true pioneers of this wild region. Who have an equal right to bestow them? Scientific men may explore it—topographical officers may travel over it in safety with a troop at their heels—they may proclaim themselves the discoverers of the passes and the plains, the mountains and the rivers, the fauna and the flora—on their maps they may give them the names, first of themselves, then of their patrons, then of their friends, and, lastly, of their favourite dogs and horses. They may call stupendous mountains and grand rivers by the names of Smith and Jones, of Fremont and Stansbury; but men who think justly, and even the rude but wronged trappers themselves, will laugh to scorn such scientific coxcombry.

I honour the names which the trappers have given to the features of that far land; many of which, like the Indian nomenclature, are the expressions of nature itself; and not a few of them have been baptised by the blood of these brave pioneers.

We have said that our adventurers now travelled upon a "rolling prairie." The surface exhibited vast ridges with hollows between. Did you ever see the ocean after a storm? Do you know what a "ground-swell" is?—when the sea is heaving up in great smooth ridges without crest or foam, and deep troughs between—when the tempest has ceased to howl and the winds to blow, yet still so uneven remains the surface of the mighty deep, still so dangerous are these smooth waves, that ships rock and tumble about, and sometimes lose their masts, or are flung upon their beam ends! That is what the sailors call a "swell." Now, if you could imagine one of these billowy seas to be suddenly arrested in its motion, and the water transformed to solid earth, and covered with a green sward, you would have something not unlike a "rolling prairie." Some think that, when these prairies were formed, some such rolling motion actually existed, by means of an earthquake, and that all at once the ground ceased its undulations, and stood still! It is an interesting speculation for the learned geologist.

The ridges of the prairie, upon which our adventurers were journeying, extended from east to west, and, of course, the valleys trended in the same direction. The route was northward; the path, therefore, which the travellers pursued was a continued succession of ups and downs.

Eagerly looking before them, anxiously scanning the valleys or troughs of the prairie as they surmounted each new swell, they rode onward full of hope that they would soon come in sight of the buffaloes. But they were not prepared for the sight was so soon to greet their eyes—a sight which one would have supposed would have filled them with joy, but which, on the contrary, had the effect of inspiring them with a feeling akin to terror.

They had just climbed one of the ridges that gave them a view of the valley beyond. It was a small deep valley, of nearly a circular form, and covered with a green turf. Near one side of it was a spring—the waters of which issuing forth ran nearly around the circumference of the valley, and then escaped through one of the troughs of the prairie. The course of this rivulet could be traced by the low trees—cotton-woods and willows—that fringed its banks; so that the central part of the valley presented the appearance of a small circular meadow almost surrounded by a grove.

It was in this meadow that a spectacle was offered to the eyes of our adventurers, which caused them to rein suddenly up, and sit gazing down upon it with singular emotions. The spectacle was that of a number of animals engaged in what appeared to be a mixed and terrible combat! There was not over a dozen of them in all, but they were large animals, of fierce aspect and furious bearing; and so desperately were they assailing one another, that the green turf around them was torn and furrowed by their hoofs. It was in the middle of the meadow that this indiscriminate contest was carried on—in the open ground—and a finer spot for such an exhibition they could hardly have chosen, had they wished to accommodate a large number of spectators. The valley itself, with the ridges that encircled it, was not unlike one of the great Spanish amphitheatres, where bull-fights are carried on; while the smooth, level surface of the meadow represented the arena. The combatants, however, were engaged in no mock encounter to gratify the curiosity of an idle crowd; nor did they apprehend that there were spectators present.

The contest in which they were engaged was a real fight; and their angry roars, their hurried rushing backwards and forwards, and the loud cracking of their skulls as they came together, proved them to be in earnest.

That the animals were buffaloes was apparent at first sight. Their great bulk, the lion-like form of their bodies, but, above all, their bellowing, that resembled the "routing" of enraged bulls, convinced our young hunters that they could be no other than buffaloes—and buffaloes they were—a "gang" of old buffalo bulls engaged in one of their terrible tournaments.

I have said that our hunters, on first seeing them, were influenced by feelings of terror. But why so? What was there in the appearance of a herd of buffaloes to frighten them, since that was the very thing they had so long been in search of? Was it the angry attitudes of the animals, or their loud roaring? Nothing of the sort? No. That was not what had inspired them with fear, or, as I should rather term it, with awe. No. The reason was very different indeed. It was not because they were buffaloes, or because they were engaged in a fierce battle,— it was because they were white buffaloes!

You will again ask, why this should have been a cause of terror. Was a white buffalo not the very object of the expedition? Should the sight of one not have produced joy rather than fear? So the sight of one would; but it was the sight of so many—the mysterious spectacle of nearly a dozen of these animals together—a thing unparalleled, unheard of—it was this that inspired our adventurers with awe.

It was some time before any of the three could find words to express their astonishment. They sat in silence, gazing down into the valley. They could hardly believe the evidence of their eyes. With the palms of their hands they shaded them from the sun, and gazed still a longer while. They saw, at length, there could be no deception. Buffaloes the animals were, and white ones too!

They were not all of an uniform white, though most of them were. A few were darker about the heads and legs, with broad white flakes upon their sides, giving them a mottled appearance. The general colour, however, was whitish; and, strange to say, there was not a black or brown one in the herd!—not one of the well-known colour that buffaloes usually are! It was this that rendered them such a mysterious band in the eyes of our adventurers.

The latter, however, soon got over their surprise. There could be no doubt that they had fallen in with a herd of white buffaloes. Perhaps, thought they, there is, after all, nothing so strange in such a number of them being together. Perhaps the individuals of that colour, so rarely met with, usually associate together in this way, and keep apart from the black ones. What better fortune could have happened for them then? If they could only succeed in killing one of these creatures, it would be all that they could wish for, and all they wanted. The object of their expedition would then be accomplished; and nothing would remain but to turn their horses' heads, and take the shortest route homeward. With these ideas passing through their minds, they at once set about considering how they might kill or capture one or more of the herd.

They were not slow to decide upon a plan. The buffaloes, still continuing their angry conflict, had not noticed them as yet, nor were they likely to do so. The hunters resolved, therefore, that two of them should remain on horseback—so as to take the animals upon the "run"— while the third was to endeavour to "approach" them on foot, and get a sure shot before they should start off, taking his chance of joining in the chase afterwards. The latter duty was assigned to Basil; who, after dismounting from his horse, and looking to his trusty rifle, commenced creeping down into the valley. Lucien and Francois—still in their saddles—remained upon the ridge.

Basil reached the grove of willows without being observed; and, stealing silently through, found himself within less than fifty paces of several of the herd. They were still rushing to and fro, raising the dust in clouds, roaring furiously, parting from each other, and then meeting head to head with such force that each time their skulls cracked as though both had been broken by the terrible concussion. The hunter waited until one of the largest, and apparently the whitest of them, came very near; and then, taking aim behind the fore-shoulder, fired. The huge animal was seen to tumble over; while the others, hearing the shot, or scenting the presence of an enemy, immediately left off their contest; and, breaking through the willows, scrambled up the ridge toward the open prairie.

Without waiting to look after the one that he had fired at, Basil ran toward his horse—which, at his call, was already galloping to meet him. Francois and Lucien were now in pursuit of the flying herd; and Basil, hastily mounting, followed after. In a few minutes the three were side by side with the buffaloes; and then could be heard the cracking of guns and pistols until the weapons of all were empty; but, although not a shot had missed hitting the animals, the latter continued to gallop on, as though none of them had been hurt! Before the hunters could reload, they had the mortification to see the whole band far off upon the prairie, and running as briskly as ever!

Seeing that there would be no chance to come up with them again, they all turned their horses, and commenced riding back to make sure of the one which Basil had knocked over by his first shot. He was still in the valley they knew, and as they had all seen him lying prostrate, they felt certain they had secured one at least, and that was all they wanted.

On reaching the ridge that overlooked the valley, what was their surprise to see the buffalo once more upon his feet, and surrounded by a score of snapping, snarling wolves! These were rushing upon him from all sides at once; while the wounded bull was turning briskly about, and endeavouring to keep them at bay with his horns. Some of the wolves were seen stretched out on the ground—to all appearance dead—while their companions kept up the attack with unrelenting fury. The eyes of the buffalo flashed fire, as, wheeling round and round, he endeavoured to keep his assailants in front of him.

It was evident, however, that the wolves were gaining upon him; and, had they been left to themselves, would soon have brought him down. Our hunters at first thought of allowing them to accomplish this feat; when all at once it occurred to them that, if they did so, the skin might be spoiled! The wolves with their fierce teeth would tear it to pieces. This thought decided them upon a different plan; and all three galloped down the ridge and out into the meadow—surrounding the buffalo as they came up. The wolves scattered in every direction; and the great bull, now perceiving his new enemies, commenced rushing from one to the other, endeavouring to carry their horses upon his horns. It was with great difficulty that they could keep out of his reach; but at length another well-directed shot from Basil's rifle entered the heart of the animal; and, after balancing himself upon his spread limbs, and rocking awhile from side to side, the huge creature fell forward upon his knees and lay motionless, with a stream of blood pouring from his lips. In a few moments he was dead!

Having made sure of this, our hunters flung themselves from their horses, drew their skinning-knives, and made up to the noble quarry. You may fancy their astonishment as well as chagrin, when, upon getting close to the animal, they discovered that what they had taken for a white buffalo was no white buffalo after all, but a black one painted white! Neither more nor less. The thing was too plain. The lime-like coating which covered the huge animal all over was now apparent; and as they passed their hands through the long hair, a white substance resembling pulverised chalk came off upon their fingers!

What could have caused the strange phenomenon, they asked one another. But the explanation was soon found. They remembered the gypsum hills over which they had ridden on the preceding day. They remembered, too, that it had rained in the night. The buffaloes had been among these hills; and, according to their usual habit, had rolled and wallowed about in the wetted dust-heaps. The white, alabaster-like mud had adhered to their skins—thus giving them the colour which had so much deceived and mystified our hunters!

"Well," exclaimed Basil, giving a kick to the body of the dead bull, "even black buffalo is not so bad after all. At the worst we shall have fresh meat for dinner; and with that let us console ourselves for the disappointment."

So saying, Basil made signs to his brothers to assist; and all three set about preparing to skin the animal.



CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.

THE MYSTERIOUS WALLET.

That day our hunters dined, for the first time, on fresh buffalo-beef. After dinner they were not idle, but spent the remainder of the evening in drying a portion of the meat over a fire. They had resolved to encamp on the spot for the night, and follow up the trail in the morning. They therefore busied themselves, until a late hour, in preparing as much broiled buffalo-meat as would last them for several days.

It was near midnight before they thought of retiring to rest. As they had done upon like occasions before, it was agreed that one should keep watch—so as to keep off the wolves from the meat—while the other two slept.

Their camp was in the open ground, near the spot where the buffalo had been skinned. At a little distance off their animals were browsing upon the grass. The wolves were in great force—both prairie-wolves, and those of the large grey species. The scent of the broiling meat had attracted them from afar; and throughout the night they kept up a continuous howling, trotting all over the meadow around the camp.

Francois kept the first watch, and Lucien the second; Basil's turn came next, and it was to extend till daybreak, when all were to be aroused— so that they might pack up at a very early hour, and continue the journey. They did not wish to lose a moment more than was necessary—as they knew that every hour the migrating herd would be gaining upon them, and thus prolong the pursuit.

Basil's watch was a long one; and, having sat up so late, he felt sleepy. He was, therefore, in no very friendly humour with the wolves— upon whose account he was thus compelled to keep awake. Every now and then, as he saw them sneaking about in the darkness, he could not help muttering an angry ejaculation; and he had made up his mind, as soon as morning came, to empty his gun at one of the pack, by way of satisfying his feelings.

After a spell of watching, that lasted nearly three hours, he perceived the first streaks of dawn in the east.

"By the time we get breakfast cooked," thought Basil, "there will be light enough to follow the trail; so I'll rouse Frank and Luce; and, by way of a change, I'll give them a reveille with my rifle. Let me pick out the largest of these sneaking wolves; I'll put one of them at least from keeping anybody awake hereafter, I guess."

Basil, as he reflected thus, raised himself upon his knees, and looked around to select a victim. Strange to say, the wolves, as if they had guessed his intention, had scattered away from the neighbourhood of the fire, though several could still be seen stealing along the edge of the willows. Basil chose one of these which appeared in the dim light to be a large grey one; and, levelling his piece, fired at it. As he was not very anxious whether he killed the animal or not, he fired carelessly.

Following the shot there was heard a loud scream, that was answered by fifty others, from all sides of the valley. It awoke the sleeping hunters; who, along with Basil, sprang to their feet. It was not the scream of wolves they had heard, but a cry of far different import. It was the yell of human voices—the war-cry of Indians!

All three stood speechless with terror; but, even could they have spoken, there was scarcely time allowed them to have uttered a word; for, almost simultaneous with the yells, there was a rushing forward of dark forms; and the next moment fifty tall savages were around them. Basil, who had been farthest out from the fire, was knocked senseless by a blow; while Lucien and Francois, who did not think of using their guns, were seized by the brawny arms of the Indians and held fast. It was fortunate for them that they did not make any resistance, else the savages would have killed all three upon the spot. As it was, even, they seemed for a while undetermined whether to do so or not—as it was one of their number that Basil had mistaken for a wolf, and the shot had wounded the Indian, which, of course, exasperated them greatly. Perceiving, however, the small force of the party, and that the boys made no farther resistance, they gave up the idea of killing them on the spot, but bound the arms of all three behind their backs; and then, after having mounted them on their horses, and gathered up their guns and blankets, led them out of the valley. At a short distance off, the Indians reached a spot where their own horses were tied. Here they halted for a moment—until each had got into his saddle—and then the whole party, prisoners and all, set off at a brisk trot over the prairie.

In about an hour they arrived at a large encampment upon the bank of a broad shallow river. There were nearly an hundred lodges standing upon the plain; and the ground was littered with buffalo-horns and hides, while vast quantities of the flesh of these animals were hanging from poles in front of every lodge. There were fires, and camp-kettles, and dogs, and Indian ponies, and women, and children—all mixed up together, or moving to and fro among the tents.

In front of the encampment, and near the bank of the stream, the prisoners were thrown upon the ground. Their captors left them; but they were at once surrounded by a crowd of yelling squaws and children. These at first regarded them only with curiosity; but as soon as they heard that one of the Indians had been wounded, they uttered the most hideous and piercing cries, and approached their captives with threatening looks and gestures. They commenced their cowardly torture by pulling the ears and hair of the boys, and sticking arrow-points into their arms and shoulders; and then, by way of having a little fun, several of the squaws seized hold of, and dragged the three prisoners out into the middle of the stream. Here they ducked them, keeping their heads for a long time under water, all the while yelling and laughing like so many demons. The poor captives for a while believed that these women were about to drown them, and, tied as they were, they could make no effort to save themselves. This, however, was not the intention of the squaws; they were only disposed to have as much fun out of them as possible. After they had got tired of this amusement, they dragged the boys back again to the bank, and flung them dripping upon the grass.

But what was Basil doing all this time? Did he not possess a charm about him, that would have put an end to all this torturing treatment, and have made the Indians friends instead of such cruel enemies? Ah! poor Basil! he had suffered worse than any of the three. I shall tell you how it was with him.

At their capture Basil had been stunned by the blow of a tomahawk. He had been knocked quite senseless; and although he recovered himself so far as to be able to ride to the Indian camp, it was not until after the ducking he received in the cold river that he fairly came to himself. As soon as he did so, he bethought himself of that which he carried under the breast of his hunting-shirt. In fact, his brothers had been reminding him of it every moment, anxiously entreating him to make use of a secret of which neither of them fully understood the nature. But, up to this time, Basil, bewildered by the blow, was scarcely conscious of what he did. He had now recovered himself, and was making every effort to get at the string, and draw the embroidered pouch from his breast; but his hands were tied behind him, and he could not use them! He essayed to reach it with his mouth, but all his efforts were in vain. He then turned towards his brothers, so that they might stretch forward and draw out the string with their teeth. They were no longer near him! The squaws had dragged them to some distance off; and, like himself, their ankles were tied together, and they could not move from the spot where they had been placed.

Basil saw all this with a feeling of consternation; for, judging from the cruel treatment to which they had been submitted, and from the excited and exasperated manner of the Indians, he began to fear the worst, and to doubt whether the charm he carried might, after all, avail them. He used every effort to give it a trial. Failing to reach it, he made signs to the squaws around him, nodding with his head, and casting his eyes downward towards his breast. These, however, did not understand his meaning; and only laughed at what appeared to them a somewhat comic pantomime.

During the continuance of this scene, the Indian men stood apart, conversing together, and evidently deliberating what they should do with their prisoners. The manner of some of them was angry and excited. They talked loudly, and gesticulated with violence, occasionally pointing to a spot of level ground in front of the camp. The captives could see that among these loud talkers was the man whom Basil had wounded, as he carried his arm in a bandage. He was an ill-favoured, ferocious-looking savage; and the boys, although they knew not a word that was uttered, could tell by his manner that he was speaking against them. To their consternation, they at length saw that he and his party had carried their point, and all the others appeared to acquiesce. What could their decision have been? Were they going to murder them? Agonised with these terrible apprehensions, the boys watched every action of the Indians with the keenest solicitude.

All at once each one of the savages was seen to arm himself with a bow; while two of their number, carrying a large stake, proceeded out into the open ground, and planted it firmly in the earth. O God! the horrid truth now became clear. It was their intention to tie their prisoners to the stake, and use them as a target for their arrows! The boys had heard that this was a common custom among Indians with their captives; and each of them uttered a cry of terror, as they recognised the fearful preparations.

They had but little time to shout to each other; and what they said was drowned by the yells of the squaws and children, who leaped and danced over the ground, evidently delighted with the prospect of the horrid spectacle they were about to witness.

Fortunately Basil was selected as the first victim. His superior size and age, no doubt, obtained him that preference. He was rudely seized by a pair of Indians and dragged up to the stake, where the savages commenced stripping him—by way of making a better mark of his naked body!

As soon as they had loosened his arms and pulled off his hunting-shirt, the embroidered pouch attracted their attention. One of them seized it, and drew forth its contents—which proved to be a pipe-head of the red clay-stone—the celebrated steatite. As soon as the savage set his eyes upon it, he uttered a strange exclamation, and handed it to his companion. The latter took it into his hands, uttered a similar ejaculation, and carrying it with him, ran back to the crowd. These, as soon as it reached them, could be seen passing it from hand to hand, each examining it minutely, and making some remark; but one Indian, more than the rest, seemed to be excited upon beholding it; and this one, after he had gazed upon it for a moment, ran hurriedly towards Basil, followed by all the others!

This was the opportunity which Basil wished for; and as the Indian stood in front of him, and pointed to the pipe, as if waiting for an explanation, the boy, his hands being now free, deliberately and with coolness made several signs which had been taught him by his father. These signs were at once understood by the Indian, who sprang forward, pulled off the cords that bound Basil's ankles, raised him to his feet, embracing him as he did so with friendly exclamations! All the other Indians now pressed forward, and grasped him by the hand, while some ran to Lucien and Francois, who, in a few moments, were likewise set free!

All three were now carried to one of the tents; dry clothes were put upon them, and as soon as it could be got ready, a feast was set before them: so that their captors, who but the moment before were about to put them one by one to a most cruel death, now seemed to strive with each other which should honour them the most! The Indian, however, who had shown so much interest at seeing the mysterious pipe-head, was allowed to take precedence in waiting upon them; and it was into his tent that our adventurers had been carried.

You will by this time wonder what there could be in a simple pipe-head, to have caused all this sudden and mysterious effect. I will tell you in as few words as possible.

You have no doubt heard of the celebrated Shawano chief Tecumseh— perhaps the greatest Indian warrior that ever lived, as well as the most remarkable of Indian statesmen. You may have heard, too, that during the last war between England and the United States, Tecumseh, taking advantage of the difference between these nations, endeavoured to excite the Indians to a general rising, for the purpose of driving all white men from the soil of America. Tecumseh had a brother, Elswatawa, better known by the name of "the Prophet." This brother was to the full as enthusiastic as the chief himself in the wish to carry out their great design; and for this purpose he undertook a crusade to every tribe of Indians in the western parts of America. He was a man of great talents and eloquence, and was received with friendship wherever he went. The cause which he advocated was dear to all Indians; and of course he was listened to, and smoked the calumet with the men of every tribe. Now this very calumet, which had been used by the Prophet throughout all his wanderings, was the identical one which Basil carried, and which, by its strange carvings and hieroglyphics, was at once recognised by these Indians, who were of the Osage tribe,—one of those which the Prophet had visited.

But you will ask, how this calumet came into the possession of Basil's father, and why its possession insured such mysterious protection to our adventurers. That I can also explain. Tecumseh was killed in the war with the Americans; but the Prophet lived for many years afterwards. Shortly after having emigrated to America, during one of his excursions near Saint Louis, the Colonel—the father of our boy hunters—met with this strange Indian; and, through some circumstances which happened, the Frenchman and he became fast friends. Presents were exchanged between them, and that which was received by the latter was the red calumet. The Prophet, on giving it, told the Colonel, that if ever he should have occasion to wander among the Indian tribes, it might prove useful to him; and at the same time initiated him into certain signs which he was to make use of in such time of need. In these signs the Colonel had instructed Basil, and we have already witnessed their effect. The Indian who had best understood them, and in whom they had produced the strongest emotions, happened to be a Shawano himself—one of that very tribe to which both the Prophet and Tecumseh belonged; and which is now but a remnant—most of its warlike sons being either dead, or scattered among the nomad bands that roam over the great western prairies. Such, then, was the history of the red calumet, which had proved the protector of our adventurous hunters.

In a short time they were enabled to communicate with the Indians by signs; for no people can understand such language better than Indians. The boys informed the Shawano who they were, and for what purpose they had ventured upon the prairies. On learning the nature of their expedition, the Indians were filled with astonishment as well as admiration for the courage of these young hunters. They told the latter, in return, that they themselves were out hunting the buffaloes— that they were now on the skirts of the great herd, and they believed that one or two white buffaloes had been seen. Furthermore, they added, that if the boys would remain, and hunt for a few days in company with them, no pains should be spared to kill or capture one of these animals, which should be placed at the disposal of their young guests. Of course, this invitation was cheerfully accepted.

I might narrate many more adventures that befell our Boy Hunters; but I fear, young reader, you are already tired of the prairies. Suffice it, then, to say, that after some days spent in hunting with the Indians, a white buffalo was at length killed, his skin taken off in the proper manner, and, after being saturated with a preserving ointment, which Lucien had brought along with him, was carefully packed upon the back of the mule Jeanette. Our adventurers now bade farewell to their Indian friends, and set out on their return homewards. They were accompanied to the confines of Louisiana by the Shawano and several other Indians, who there took leave of them. In due time they safely reached the old house at Point Coupee; where I need not tell you they met with a joyous and affectionate welcome, both from their father and the ex-chasseur, Hugot. The old naturalist had gained what he wished for, and was as happy as man could be. He was prouder than ever of his boy-men—his "young Nimrods," as he now called them—and on many a winter's night by the cheerful log-fire, did he take pleasure in listening to the story of their adventures in search of a white buffalo.

THE END.