The Life and Adventures of Kit Carson, the Nestor of the Rocky Mountains, from Facts Narrated by HimselfPeters, De Witt C. (De Witt Clinton)
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The Life and Adventures of Kit Carson, the Nestor of the Rocky Mountains, from Facts Narrated by Himself
Peters, De Witt C. (De Witt Clinton)
Carson Kit, 1809-1868; Frontier and pioneer life -- West (U.S.)
"_July 1._--As we were riding quietly along the bank, a grand herd of
buffalo, some seven or eight hundred in number, came crowding up from
the river, where they had been to drink, and commenced crossing
the plain slowly, eating as they went. The wind was favorable; the
coolness of the morning invited to exercise; the ground was apparently
good, and the distance across the prairie (two or three miles) gave
us a fine opportunity to charge them before they could get among the
river hills. It was too fine a prospect for a chase to be lost; and,
halting for a few moments, the hunters were brought up and saddled,
and Kit Carson, Maxwell and I started together. They were now somewhat
less than half a mile distant, and we rode easily along until within
about three hundred yards, when a sudden agitation, a wavering in the
band, and a galloping to and fro of some which were scattered along
the skirts, gave us the intimation that we were discovered. We started
together at a hand gallop, riding steadily abreast of each other, and
here the interest of the chase became so engrossingly intense, that we
were sensible to nothing else. We were now closing upon them rapidly,
and the front of the mass was already in rapid motion for the hills,
and in a few seconds the movement had communicated itself to the whole
herd.
"A crowd of bulls, as usual, brought up the rear, and every now and
then some of them faced about, and then dashed on after the band a
short distance, and turned and looked again, as if more than half
inclined to stand and fight. In a few moments, however, during which
we had been quickening our pace, the rout was universal, and we were
going over the ground like a hurricane. When at about thirty yards,
we gave the usual shout (the hunter's battle cry) and broke into the
herd. We entered on the side, the mass giving way in every direction
in their heedless course. Many of the bulls, less active and less
fleet than the cows, paying no attention to the ground, and occupied
solely with the hunter were precipitated to the earth with great
force, rolling over and over with the violence of the shock, and
hardly distinguishable in the dust. We separated on entering, each
singling out his game.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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