Читать книгу Adventures of Big-Foot Wallace: The Texas Ranger and Hunter (Illustrated) - John Crittenden Duval - Страница 10
ОглавлениеBUFFALO—FINE GROVE OF PECAN-TREES—THE FIRST BUFFALO—BIT BY A RATTLESNAKE—THE TARANTULA—TRAVELLING UNDER DIFFICULTIES—A FREE SERENADE.
October 21st.—We left camp after breakfast, taking what was left of our bear-meat along with us, and steered our usual course, due north, and about twelve o’clock we struck the Leon River, opposite the mouth of Armstrong’s Creek. The country passed over to-day was very broken, and but little land on our route is fit for cultivation. We saw a small drove of buffalo, but our hunters did not get a shot at them, and the country where we found them was so broken we could not chase them on horseback. One of our men, who had stopped behind awhile for some purpose, when he came up, reported that he had seen an Indian following on our trail; but he was a “scary” sort of fellow, and we thought his story very doubtful.
We passed a singular chain of high bald hills to-day. Looking at them from a distance, we almost fancied we were approaching a considerable city, so much did they resemble houses, steeples, etc. They were entirely destitute of timber.
The Leon River, where we struck it, is a small, rapid stream, shut in on both sides by high, rocky hills. We crossed over to the northern side, and “nooned” in a grove of pecans. These trees are full of the finest nuts we had ever seen—very large, and their hulls so thin we could easily crack them with our fingers. Before we left, we gathered a wallet-full of them, and strapped it on one of our pack-mules.
In the evening, we continued our route up Armstrong’s Creek, and struck camp a little after sundown near one of its head-springs. The valley along the creek is very beautiful, and the soil rich. Our hunter, to-day, killed a fat buffalo-cow on the way, and we butchered her, and packed the meat into camp. That was the first buffalo-meat I ever tasted, and I thought it better even than bear-meat. The flesh of an old bull, however, I have found out since, is coarse, tough, and stringy, but the “hump” is always good, and so are the “marrow-bones” and tongue.
Just after we had encamped, one of our men, named Thompson, while staking out his horse, was bitten on the hand by a rattlesnake. It was a small one, however, and he suffered but little from the effects of the bite. We scarified the wound with a penknife, and applied some soda to it, and the next morning he was well enough to travel. I do not think the bite of the rattlesnake is as often fatal as people generally suppose. I have seen several men and a great many animals bitten by them, and have never known death to ensue, except on one or two occasions. Still, I have no doubt there is great danger, whenever the fangs of the snake strike a large vein or artery. I believe the bite of the tarantula1 is much more fatal. I have seen two or three persons bitten by them in Mexico, neither of whom recovered, although many remedies were used. The Mexicans say they will kill a horse in ten minutes.
Night clear and cool—cool enough to make it very pleasant to sleep by our fires. Toward midnight we had an alarm that roused all hands very suddenly. The sentry on post fired his gun off accidentally, and we supposed, of course, that the Indians were upon as. We were all up and ready with our guns by the time the sentinel came in and told us it was a false alarm. I was so completely roused up by the excitement and bustle that I did not get to sleep for more than an hour afterward. The little breeze, that rustled among the leaves and dead grass the early part of the night, had died away, and a dead silence had settled over all. Not a sound could be heard, except the howling of a solitary “cayote” far off among the hills, and the nipping of our animals as they cropped the rank grass that grew around us. The silence was oppressive, and when one of the men muttered in his sleep, or one of our animals coughed or snorted, it was actually a relief. I have frequently observed since, when camping out alone in the wilderness, the dead silence that sometimes prevails on a calm night. It is not so in the “settlements;” for there is almost always some sound to break in upon it—the lowing of cattle, the tinkling of cow-bells, or the barking of a dog.
October 22d.—After an early breakfast, we saddled up, and travelled as fast as the broken and rocky state of the ground would permit. We intended to make a “forced march” to-day, as we expected by night to reach the locality where we were to commence our operations. Our horses had fared sumptuously the last two nights, and were in a condition to do a good day’s work, but the farther we went the rougher and more difficult the way became. Every now and then we would come to a space covered with “honey-comb rock,” where we were compelled to travel our horses at the slowest gait. Dense chaparrals, too, frequently obstructed the way, and we either had to turn off and avoid them altogether, or else hunt out a route through them along dim and crooked trails. These causes delayed us so much that by noon we supposed we had only made about fifteen miles. We halted for half an hour at a pool of brackish water, to breathe our horses. We then continued on through the same sort of country, only more rugged still, if possible, and at sundown we found ourselves still half a day’s journey from the Palo Pinto, where we expect to begin our work. Luckily, we found a pool of muddy water, on the edge of a small prairie in which there was excellent grass for our animals, where we unpacked and pitched camp for the night. If the night before had been unusually still and quiet, this one was just the opposite. If two or three “menageries” had been turned loose in the vicinity just before we came, monkeys and all, there could not have been a greater variety of sounds. First, a gang of wolves would serenade us for a minute or two, and then a catamount would come in on a high key, and, before he had fairly finished, a panther or a “lobo” would join in the chorus; and so they kept it up until the broad daylight.
1. A species of spider.
