A STORY OF THE PLAINS.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume VII, Issue 394, 29 October 1880, Page 17

A STORY OF THE PLAINS.

(From the Detroit Free Press.) What is that ! Look closer and you will see that it is a gaunt, grim wolf, creeping out of the little grove of cottonwoods towards a buffalo calf gamboling around its mother. . , . Eaise . your e y es a little moi> e and you see that the prairie beyond is alive with buffalo. Count them. You might as well try to count the leaves on a giant maple ! They are moving foot by foot as they crop the ]uicy grass, and living waves rise and fall as the herd slowly sweep on. Afar out to right and left— mere specks on the plainare the flankers, brave old buffaloes, which catch a bite of grass and then sniff the air and scan the horizon for intimation of danger They are the sentinels of the herd, and light well can they be trusted. J The wolf creeps nearer. All the afternoon the great herd has fed in peace, and as it now slowly moves toward the river it is all unconscious that danger is near. Look you well and watch the wolf, for you are going to see such a sight as not one man in ten thousand has ever beheld Creep— crawl— skulk— now behind a knoll— now drawing himself oyer the grass— now raising its head above a thistle to mark the locality of its victim. It is a lone, shambling, skulking wolf, lame, and spiteful and treacherous. Wounded or ailing, he has been left alone to get on as best he may, and his green eyes light up with a fiercer blaze as he draws nearer and nearer to his unconscious prey m There ! No, he is yet too far away. Creep, creep, creep. Now he is twenty feet away, now fifteen, now ten. He hugs the earth • gathers his feet under him, and he bounds through the air as if shot from a gun He is rolling the calf over and over on the grass in three seconds after he springs. s Now watch ! A cry of pain from the calf— a furious bellow from the mother as she wheels and charges the wolf— a startled movement from a dozen of the nearest animals, and a rush begins. The one wolf is magmfaed into a hundred, the hundred into a thousand. Short, sharp

bellows, snorts of alarm, a rush, and in fifty seconds after the wolf has wet his fangs with blood that living mass is in motion to getaway from an unknown terror. The waves rise higher and higher as the confusion spreads. One instant it seems as if 10,000 solid acres of prairie were moving bodily away ; again waves rise and fall as the cowards behind rush upon those in front, who wait, sniff the air and. learn the danger. In one minute the alarm runs down the herd to the leaders— further than the eye can see— and the entire herd ia going off at a mad gallop, heads down, eyes rolling, and no thought but that of escape. If Lake Erie were to dash itself against a wall the shock would be no greater than the awful crash with which thig mass of rattling hoofs, sharp horns and hairy bodies would meet it. The clatter of hoofs and rattle of horns would drown the noise of a brigade of cavalry galloping over a stone-paved road. Ride out on their trail. Here where the stampede began the ground is torn and furrowed as if a thousand cannon had been firing solid shot at targets. Here and there are calves which have been gored or crushed— here and there older animals with broken legs and disabling wounds. Here, where the herd was fairly off you might as well hunt for a gold dollar as a blade of glass. You look for three miles as you look across it. It is a trail of dirt, and dust, and ruts, and furrows, where half an hour ago was a carpet of green grass and smiling flowers. The most dreadful cyclone known to man could not have left more horrible scars behind. Miles away, on the hanks of the winding, growling river, are three white-topped emigrant waggons. A camp-fire blazes up to boil the kattles ; men. women, and children stand about, peering over the setting sun at the distant mountains and glad that their journey is almost done. Butterflies come and go on lazy wing, the crickets chirp cheerily on the grass, and the eagles sailing in the blue evening air have no warning to give. Hark ! is that thunder 1 Men and women turn in their tracks as they look in vain for a cloud in the sky. That rumble comes again, as they look into each other's faces. It grows louder as women turn pale and men reach for their trusty rifles. The ground trembles, and afar ©ff comes a din which strikes terror to the heart. " Indians ! " they whisper. No J A thousand times better for them if savage Pawnees dared ride down where these long-barrelled lines could speak a defence of the peaceful camp. " A stampede of buffaloes 1 " gasps one of the men as he catches sight of the advance-guard under the awful cloud of dust. Rifles are ready for a shot, and the children climb up on the heavy wagonwheels to see the strange procession gallop by. Here they come ! Crack ! crack ! crack ! from three rifles, and a shout as each bullet tells. Next instant a shaggy head, followed by a dust-browned body, rushed through the camp. Then another, and another. The men shout and wave their arms ; the women and children turn paler yet. The roar and din shut out every other sound, and the wagons ]ar and tremble with the concussion. Now another shaggy head another — half-a-dosen — a score — a hundred — a great living wave which sweeps along with the power of a tornado, followed by others more fierce and strong, and the camp is blotted off the face of the earth more completely than by any power of Heaven. Nothing to be seen — no shout to be heard. Wave followed wave across the spot — over the bank— into the stream across, and when the last of the herd had passed, the keenest hunter could find nothing on that spot of wood or iron, or cloth or bone or flesh to prove that a dozen men, women, and children were there wiped out of existence, and reduced to shred and dust.