HE DIED GAME.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIV, Issue 8082, 24 September 1887, Page 2 (Supplement)

HE DIED GAME.

STORY OF A HUNTER WHO FOUGHT TO THE BITTER END. One —two —three—fourfive —six—seven 1 Seven ghastly, sun-bleached skeletons and one unmarked grave !

The men in the camp rise early, for ia there not to be a glorious run after buffalo, a hunt for the kings of the prairie—the most glorious sport known to man ? And as the hunters file out of the tents and gather around the spot where the morning meal iB waiting, it is easy to see that they are men who can appreciate the sport. Stalwart, handsome, muscular men, they are noble re* presentatives of the pioneers whowatc.h on the picket line of our great frontiers. All have passed the middle age except one, called Charley by his companions, and if the latter is not so old as the other hunters, it is evident from the marked attention shown him that be is no tyro in the noble sport. The men eat the simple meal and talk of the noble [sport. The danger is nothing to them except to give zest to the occasion. What matters it that the red devils of the West are on the war-parth What have a dozen American frontiersmen, armed with Winchesters, Colt's revolvers, and the formidable bowie knife, to fear from a score of Indians ? Gradually the conversation tabes a lighter tone. The hardy pioneers talk of the loved ones away in the States, and if no tears course down the brown cheeks the hearts beat quicker as they picture the old homestead. Charley is the last to speak, for this hunting party is a farewell entertainment to him, and to-morrow he will leave for home, where his aged mother and his bonny sweetheart are awaiting him, and his companions will wish him Godspeed on his journey home and through life. What a magnificent sight? As far as the eyo can reach is one struggling maBS of buffalo. A mighty, living cyclone. With irresistible force the body sweeps on. The ground is broken, and every vestige of vegetation is swept out of existence in the broad path over which the body moves. On the left flank of this mass hang the hunters, and at each crack of the Winchesters a dumb brute goes down. In the front ranks of the pursuers, with eges flashing and muscles drawn to their utmost tension, rides Charley ; his eyes are fixed upon ono particular animal, and he has singled out this magnificent bull for his prey. Once—twice —three times he fires, and the animal escapes. Then the brute gradually draws off from the herd and begins to circle to the left. The pursurer, now deadly in earnest, follows, while the main herd and band of hunters continue their course. One hour two hoursthree hours, and the race continues. The main herd and the little band of hunters have long since passed out of sight, but this race for life and prey goes on; Suddenly the horse steps in a rabbit-hole ; the leg is broken, the rider thrown, and the race ended.

Truly a deplorable accident. Away off to the west—now a mere speck on the horizon —is the animal which the young hunter had pursued. By his side, with eyes fully expressing the pain he feels, stands the steed which has carried him so well, and which failed at last through no fault of his own. North, south, east, and west sweeps the un« broken plain, covered with short grass. Yes, an accident much to be regretted, and yet merely an incident in the hunter's life—an accident in which there is no danger. The hunter examines his wounded horse and then draws his revolver; it is better to kill the faithful servant and relieve him from pain. As he places the weapon to the animal's head, the ma&ter turns away his face that he may not see his work. At the report the noble animal falls, raises his head, and attempts to carets the hand which has been so cruel and yet kind, and with an almost human groan the faithful brute expires. Yet once again the hunter's eyes sweep the horizon. No human being in sight. Well, he must wait till his companions discover his absence, and search for him; it is merely a question of a few hours, aud there is no danger. Stay! Away off to the right is a ravine; is that all ? Above it the young man discovers the gaudy head-dress of an Indian. Well, after all, it may be but one, and what has|he to fear from a single redskin? With his eye fixed on the spot the hunter waits. —two——four—a dozen— •twenty ; and then as the whole band sweeps into view he ceases to count. The look of disappointment on his face has given way to anxiety, and then a look of determination comes over his features as he makes a rude breastwork out of the carcass of his steed.

One against fifty ! Truly an unequal contest ! The band of red devils sweep on until they come in range of the deadly Winchester. One——three—four Indiana go down before the fire, some wounded, and the hostiles draw off; evidently the man means fight. After a moment's consultation the band sweeps in a circle around the defender, hanging over their ponies for protection, keeping up a constant; fire. It is an old Indian trick, and the hunter is too well versed in Indian tactics to waste his ammunition. Five times only he fires, and two Indians are killed and three maimed for life. Other tactics must be resorted to.

The young hunter has been hit by two balls, and uses the time spent by the Indians in consultation by stopping the flow of blood and filling the magazine of his rifle. He clenches his white teeth and waits for the final charge. The assulting party divides into two columns, and while one assaults in front the other circulates to the rear. Two more Indians go down, and then the party in the unprotected rear opens fire. A dozen ballets strike the hero, bat a single pistol shot is the only answer. Knowing the contest to be hopeless and his wounds mortal, young Charley had taken his own life. The next day the hunters return. Old Ben views the scene of combat, and his features are stern and fixed. The rough men dig a grave and bury their comrade, and the broken rifle and other arms are laid by the aide of the hero. Around the grave the hunters kneel, and a solemn vow of a war of extermination and vengeance is made. "But he died game." Away off in the Eastern home the mother and sweetheart wait for many days, with eyes ever turned longingly to the West. One morning the papers chronicle — Witohita, Kau., June 20th.—Information is received here that Charley Johnson, of New York, one of the party of hunters who left here a week ago, was killed last week by the Indians. No further particulars have been received.