The Boy Hunters by Mayne Reid (best love story novels in english TXT) 📕

Their route led them through one of those lovely landscapes which are met with only in this southern region—a flower-prairie. They travelled in the midst of flowers. Flowers were before them, behind, and on every side. Their shining corollas covered the prairie as far as the eye could see. There were golden sunflowers (helianthi), and red malvas, euphorbias, and purple lupins. There were the rose-coloured blossoms of the wild althea, and the brilliant orange of Californian poppies—glancing among the green leaves like so many balls of fire—while lower upon the surface grew the humble violas, sparkling like azure gems.

The glorious sun was shining over all; and the late rain that had washed them seemed to have added to the fragrance and brilliancy. Millions of butterflies flew over them, or rested in their soft cups, not less brilliant than the flowers themselves. Some of these were of vast dimensions, their downy wings speckled and striped with varied and gorgeous tints. There were other insects of gay colours and glancing wings. The giant spider-fly flew around, now poised on whirring wing, and now darting off like a thread of lightning to some other part of the boundless garden. There were bees, too; and bee-birds humming from flower to flower, and robbing their rich nectaries. Now and then partridges and ruffed grouse whirred up before the horses; and François succeeded in shooting a brace of the latter, and hanging them behind his saddle.

Through these great flower-beds our travellers rode on, crushing many a beautiful corolla under their horses’ hoofs. Sometimes the flowers grew upon tall stalks that stood thickly together, and reached up to the shoulders of the horses, completely hiding them from the view of one at a distance. Sometimes the travellers passed through beds of helianthi alone—whose large heads, brushing against their thighs, covered them with yellow pollen-dust.

It was, altogether, a rare and beautiful landscape; and the young hunters would have enjoyed it much, had they not been suffering from weariness and want of sleep. The fragrance of the flowers seemed at first to refresh them; but after a while they became sensible of a narcotic influence which it exercised over them, as they felt more sleepy than ever. They would have encamped among them, but there was no water; and without water they could not remain. There was no grass, either, for their animals; as, strange to say, upon these flower-prairies grass is seldom met with. The flower-stalks usurp the soil, and no turf is ever found about their roots. The travellers, therefore, were compelled to ride on, until they should reach some spot having grass and water—two of the necessary requisites of a “night-camp.”

After proceeding about ten miles the flowers began to appear more thinly scattered over the surface, and at length declined into the grass prairie. Two or three miles farther brought our adventurers to a small “spring branch” that ran through the open plain, with no timber upon its banks, except a few willows. Here they were glad to halt for the night, and they dismounted, and staked their animals upon the tempting sward.

All three were weary, and could have slept; but they were hungry as well, and must first eat—so they set about preparing supper. The willows were green, and would not burn very well; but by dint of perseverance they managed to make a fire. François’ grouse were plunged into the kettle. These, seasoned with wild onions, nasturtium, and prairie-turnips—which Lucien had gathered along the route,—made a dish that was far from unpalatable. The stock of bear-meat was not touched—with the exception of a small piece, which, with the heads and other refuse parts of the grouse, formed the supper of Marengo. As soon as they had finished eating, the hunters spread their buffalo-robes upon the grass; and, drawing their blankets over them, went off into a sound sleep.

This night they were not disturbed. When awake they could hear the howling of wolves upon the distant prairie, and near their camp. But they were used to this serenading music, and did not regard it. All three slept soundly throughout the live-long night.

They were awake by grey dawn, and felt quite refreshed. They watered their horses, and prepared their breakfast of jerked bear-meat. This is not bad eating at any time; but to appetites like theirs it was a luxury indeed; and they broke their fast cleverly enough—eating nearly a pound a-piece. They all felt quite merry and jocund. Marengo was merry, though the claws of the cougar had scored his countenance sadly. Jeanette, too, frisked about, kicking at the flies as she fed. Basil had given her shanks a fresh touch of the bear’s grease; and the scars which the cougar had made were likely to cicatrise speedily. They remained all next day by that sweet spring, and enjoyed another night of undisturbed rest. On the second morning they continued their journey, and in a few days reached the “Cross Timbers,”—those celebrated groves that have so long puzzled the speculations of the curious naturalist. Our travellers did not remain long by them—as they saw no signs of the buffalo—but kept still farther to the west, crossing the head-waters of numerous streams that run into the river Brazos.

About the third day, after leaving the Cross Timbers, they encamped on one of these streams—a very small one—that meandered through the prairie, without any timber upon its banks. But our travellers did not feel the want of this, as they could make their fire out of an article—the sight of which had been gladdening their eyes during the whole of that day’s journey. It was the bois de vache, or buffalo “chips,” as it is called by the trappers; and they knew that where this was found, the buffaloes themselves would not be far off. They had now got within the range of these animals; and might expect to fall in with them at any moment.

As soon as the next day dawned, the eyes of our hunters sought the prairie, but as yet no buffaloes were in sight. Nothing could be seen but the green treeless plain, stretching on all sides as if to the very sky. Only one object could be observed that gave a variety to the aspect around. This was an eminence that rose over the sea-like surface of the prairie—called in the language of the hunters, a “butte.” It appeared ten miles distant, at least; and seemed to stand alone, its steep sides rising like cliffs above the prairie level. It lay in the course they had hitherto been travelling.

“Shall we make for it?” asked they of one another.

“What better can we do?” said Basil. “We are as likely to meet the buffalo in that direction as in any other. We have no guide now; so we must trust to our good fortune to lead us to them, or them to us—which is about the same thing, I fancy.”

“Oh! let us ‘catch up,’” advised François, “and ride for the butte. We may find buffalo near it.”

“But what if we find no water?” suggested the ever-prudent Lucien.

“That is not likely,” returned François. “I’ll warrant there’s water—there generally is where there are mountains, I believe; and yonder butte might almost be called a mountain. I’ll warrant there’s water.”

“If there’s not,” added Basil, “we can return here.”

“But, brothers,” said Lucien, “you know not the distance of that eminence.”

“Ten miles, I should think,” said Basil.

“Not more, certainly,” added François.

“It is thirty, if an inch,” quietly remarked Lucien.

“Thirty!” exclaimed the others; “thirty miles! You are jesting, are you not? Why, I could almost lay my hand upon it!”

“That is a misconception of yours,” rejoined the philosopher. “You are both calculating distances, as you would in the low dense atmosphere of Louisiana. Remember you are now four thousand feet above the level of the sea, and surrounded by one of the purest and most translucent atmospheres in the world. Objects can be seen double the distance that you could see them on the banks of the Mississippi. That butte, which you think is only ten miles off, appears to me fifteen, or