to me. I noticed that several people, especially those who were studying language themselves, watched us and because the Russian lady spoke quite fluently and because they thought I was Czech they seemed amazed at our rapid conversation. When the lecture began, of course, we quieted down—but when it was over, an elderly white haired German lady edged up to me and very haltingly said: “Mademoiselle, you spik English very well. You have a beau-ti-ful accent!” She sighed.—“Madame,” I replied, “I’m an American!” And she actually looked disappointed.
THE STORY OF JOS. FRANCL.
Translated by Fred Francl.
IV.
Buffalo Creek, a small stream, flows through a long, low, level valley covered with luxuriant grass. It is a trysting place for buffalo, antelope and other wild animals. Buffalo are very numerous here. When we arrived, the first thing we saw were two buffalo about a mile away from the road. We stopped, saddled our horses and everyone who could find something to shoot with prepared for the hunt. I had a double-barrelled gun and went too. Now we see the half-breed Indian interpreter we took along chasing a buffalo. We see him in the distance, riding his horse and pursuing the animal. He is close to it and when about two yards away, fires four shots. Suddenly the buffalo turns toward him and the half-breed starts off on a swift gallop, away from the animal. The buffalo stops. Now the rider has again advanced and caught up with him and is driving him in our direction. His horse is beginning to grow faint, he has been driven for an hour and a half. “Boys, be ready, the buffalo is now a mile and a half ahead!” A fresh horse is procured and the chase continues. It is now seen that the second horse is exhausted. The buffalo is now headed toward the stream about half a mile away. Another party of hunters awaits him there, with revolvers. Here he is! In the tall weeds! We come closer, we fire. I took two shots at him, he stands still and allows us to shoot. We had no other guns, only revolvers. Before we could get another fresh horse, he was six miles up the stream, hidden in the tall grass and weeds. It was nearly five o’clock before we got him out of the weeds, out on the prairie and pursued him until by a lucky shot in the leg we stopped him and about ten paces away from him shot him. Both his eyes were shot out and he was bleeding from his mouth and sides. We shot him in the head and brought him down on his knees, we cut the cords in his legs and then, as he lay there half-dead, he kicked out his hind leg and broke the stock off my gun, close by the hammers. We jumped on him, danced around him, cut up capers and shouted with delight.
He was a large, well-fattened buffalo, larger than any ox I ever saw. Every buffalo has a bushy head and shoulders. The latter are overgrown with long, thick, coarse, matted hair, something like a lion’s mane. The hair on his hind quarters is thin and smooth, like that of a horse. A buffalo cow gives better meat and is more preferable. We guessed this buffalo’s weight to be from 2,000 to 2,300 pounds. Some of the boys ran to get the team and wagon and we busied ourselves in skinning and cutting the animal. The same day, or rather late at night, the third hunting party brought in the meat from another buffalo.
We spent five days here, hunting, cooking, roasting and feasting. We had buffalo steak and roasted meat in many ways. What was left we salted down and some we dried with smoke and heat and hung it up under the covers of our wagons to dry out thoroughly in the sun’s heat. Every evening large heards of buffalo came near us to the stream, to drink. We paid no attention to them and let them pass unmolested. The next day, while traveling along over a stretch of level land, the captain of the train gave orders to stop. There was a number of wagons 1,000 feet in the lead. The train was cut in two, leaving a wide, open space. On the south side of the road was a small valley and many buffalo were grazing there. Something must have frightened them, for a great herd, we counted 2600, same running toward us on a half-trot. They passed through the open space between our wagons without injury to themselves or us. Buffalo are easily counted. They follow each other closely in rotation, in a half-trot gait.
On the following day we saw a more wonderful sight. If anyone had told me before I saw these buffalo that there were so many in existence, I would not have believed him. On the other side of the river, to the left, was a long, wide stretch of level prairie. This was covered with buffalo. In the distance, as far as we could see, nothing but buffalo. Beyond, on the horizon, were thick clouds of dust in the air, where they were running or horning themselves. All this belongs to the Indian, this is his wealth. The calves are kept in the center of the herd, one can see the old buffalo crowding together to protect them. This buffalo country or range, where they are so numerous, extends for 130 miles.
I shall stop here with my story of wild life and shall write only of things that befell us on the way to Fort Laramie. On a stream called Rattlesnake Gulch we made camp. In the night, at about ten o’clock, we were routed out by rattlesnakes. We had to pull up and move to a safer place. There were so many rattlesnakes that we killed fourteen under our wagon wheels in a short time and they were large, 4 and 5 feet long and 114 to 2 inches thick. These are the most venomous and dangerous snakes, a browninsh mottled color on the upper part of the body and yellowish underneath.
Seventy miles this side of Fort Laramie we see a party of Sioux Indians coming toward us. They are all on horseback and well armed. They came up to us, unsaddled their horses and all sat down on the ground in a circle. The chief steps forth and begins to speak. He wants us to give him some tobacco, sugar, tea and bread. These things are given him (they are of about $30.00 value). There are twenty-eight Indians, excepting the children and women. They have been at war with the Pawnees, are returning from battle. My companion, Mr. Merman, draws my attention to a sack an Indian is carrying and from it blood is dropping. After considerable sign language we made the Indian understand what we wanted—to see what he had in the sack. He opened it and with a great deal of shouting “hi-hi-hi” spread out twenty-one Indian scalps on the grass. A chill of horror comes over us at the sight. He now began to dry them. Every Indian knows well the scalp that is his, the one he tore from his victim’s head and takes great delight in turning it over in his hands and examining it. It is noon now and the trumpet is calling us to dinner. The Indians are leaving us with loud shouts and “hi-hi-hi.”
