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Show everyone followed on the right, the herd would turn and scatter and there would be less success. Some of the riders had to be assigned to the left side to keep the herd going in the right direction. wouldnt shoot any arrows until a straggler moved away from the herd, allowing the rider to get between it and the herd for the desired shot. If a straggler didnt appear, the brave, hunter would sometimes ride right in among the stampeding bison, greatly increasing the danger of being trampled or gored. All these things raced through my mind when I was chosen to ride on the left. They were saving the right side for the best hunters, the ones they could count on to bring down the meat. At Crazy Calf's command, we stopped at the point of the hill. The buffalo were still out of sight. The braves who had been leading their spirited buffalo horses dismounted from their riding animals and mounted the hunting ponies. The other horses were sent back to the caravan of women, children and pack animals follow- ing close on our heels. The mounted hunters spread out in a line as if we were preparing for a horse race. Each man had an equal chance to be first to reach the herd and make the first kill. Crazy Calf, mounted on his dancing pinto at the right end of the line, held his bow high above his head. When he brought the bow down, the chase would begin. I leaned over my horses neck, the reins in my right hand; the bow with a notched arrow and a handful of mane in the left. It was going to be a fast start, and the mane was my insurance that the enthusiastic pony wouldnt leap out from under me. Crazy Calfs bow went down and the race was on. Almost immediately the buffalo were in view, just a few hundred yards ahead, and they were in full stampede in the opposite direction before we had covered half the distance. The bay stallion had never been in a race like this before, and seemed to think we were chasing the calves which were falling behind the main herd. He seemed confused and somewhat hesitant when I urged him past the calves, but when he caught sight of the thundering bulls charging on the heels of the swifter cows, the horse suddenly surged ahead with a new strength and speed, understanding that we were going after the big ones! By the time I reached the bulls, they were still bunched close together. I urged the horse past them to the faster cows, which were beginning to spread out some. Now that the hunt was under way, most of my fear was gone. The surging muscles of the galloping hose gave me a sense of confidence and shoulder and let the first arrow fly. The cow didnt falter in the least as the shaft sank deep into her side about six inches behind the intended mark. drew another shaft, remembering that it sometimes took two or three arrows to bring down a stampeding buffalo. Just as I was drawing back the second shaft, a wounded buffalo directly in front of me lost its footing, its chest and chin digging into the sod like a plow as it ground to a halt. With the cow on my left and the herd on my right, the pony had no choice but to leap over the dying beast. I was so intent on getting the second arrow into the cow that I didnt see the downed buffalo until it was too late. The horses unexpected leap unseated me. Before could grab for the main, I found myself falling backwards over the horses flanks. As the horse struck the ground again, after successfully clearing the hurdle, I tumbled into the green sod. I right-hande- d I didn't have the luxury of a second horse. I was fortuante to have the bay stallion. Sometimes called him Ike, in memory of my powerful black friend who had come up the Missouri River with me a year earlier. With the passage of time I began to believe that Ike had probably been killed by the Shoshones north of the Snake River Country. s This was my first hunt with I to tribe. was anxious prove myself. Most of the young men of the tribe thought me clumsy. When I first joined the band, I couldn't ride, hunt or shoot arrows nearly as well as the other boys my age. During the migration to the buffalo country, there was considerable discussion among the boys my age and some of the men as to whether or not I should be allowed to hunt with the men. Some thought that since my skills were not much better than most of the younger boys, I should have to hunt with them, chasing the calves that followed behind the main buffalo herd. Neuwafe came to my defense, and it was finally agreed that I would be allow- ed to hunt with the men on the first hunt If I was successful, as measured by my ability to kill at least one buffalo, I would be allowed to continue hunting with the men. If I failed to kill a buffalo, or got in the way of other hunters, then I would have to hunt with the boys the remainder of the season. I had killed buffalo before, with my .50 caliber Hawken rifle, the summer before when I was with Beaer George, but I wasn't sure how successful I arwould be with my obsidian-tipperows, shot from my chokecherry bow from the back of the galloping stallion. Most of the boys my age and size were already hunting with the men. I didn't want the dishonor of being assigned to the boys. I didn't want to dishonor Neuwafe who promised the tribe, when they agreed to let me in, that someday I would become a great Ute hunter and warrior. I was worried on this beautiful spring morning. I wondered how the big bay would respond. It was one thing to race ' alongside another horse, or chase a . deer into the bush, but quite another, I thought, to close in on a 1, bull buffalo. Some horses never overcame their fear of stampeding buffalo. Would the bay stallion have the courage to move in close enough for me to be accurate with my arrows? A closeness of just a few feet. I wondered about my own courage. I Neu-wafe- d 000-poun- d Would my aim be sure, my arm strong? I knew if I wasnt careful, an enraged bull could disembowel and overturn my horse with one quick swipe of a shaggy head. I began to wonder that perhaps I should have swallowed a little pride and been content to hunt with the younger boys for a summer. I was dressed like most of the other warriors, in a loin cloth, leggings, and moccasins. There were 20 arrows in the elkskin quiver over my right shoulder. I had made every one of them. Each arrow had two black circles painted around the circumference of the shaft, just below the feathers. If killed a buffalo, it could be easily identified after the hunt by the black marks on the arI rows. My arms and chest were bronzed from long exposure to sun and wind. I was a little taller, and a lot stronger than when I first came to this wild land a year earlier. The thing that set me apart from the Indians, more than anything else, was the sandy hair hanging to my shoulders. I was riding bareback, but most of the older braves had light, padded saddles, stuffed with buffalo hair. As I joined the other riders, I felt uneasy, knowing I had not proven myself, that I was not accepted among them, that they were still suspicious of my white skin. I was on trial as a hunter and knew they would be watching me closely. It would be bad for me not to kill a buffalo. It would be worse if I displayed a lack of courage, or fear of the buffalo. I desperately wanted to be accepted among them. I wanted their respect and admiration. I was one of them now. My upbringing in the white settlements of eastern Canada and Missouri was nothing more to me now than a cloudy memory of what seemed a very distant past. My plans for the future didnt go beyond becoming a brave and competent Ute warrior. I fingered through the feathered shafts, making sure they were all there. I made sure the coiled end of my horses lead rope was tucked firmly under the front of my breechclout. This was a safety precaution in case I was thrown from the horse during the chase. By hanging onto the uncoiling rope during the fall, I could maintain control of the horse and prevent from getting away from me. Soon the scout, Many Horse Hooves, galloped down from a little knoll to meet the hunters. He pointed in the direction of the buffalo herd, grazing peacefully in an open flat, around the point of a small hill. We couldn't see them yet. Crazy Calf, the chief of the band, was in charge of the hunt. His word was final, and everyone seemed willing to do exactly as he instructed. The herd was small, less than a hundred animals making it necessary to assign riders to each side of the herd. Given their choice, most riders, would choose the being right side because of the difficulty of shooting arrows from the left. But if right-hande- power. was about to ride in among the racing cows when, just in front of me, a young cow veered out away from the herd. Quickly I urged the pony into the gap between her and the herd. When the cow realized the horse was beside her, she swerved back towards the herd. The fearless pony held its ground and the cow had to straighten out again. Thats when I dropped the reins, freeing my right hand to pull back the bow string. I hoped the horse would remember its training and remain beside the cow. I took quick aim at an imaginary circle behind the cow's upper I I My first concern was the loss of a chance to get a buffalo. My hunt was over and I would not be allowed to ride with the men again. Then I felt the jerk under my belt as the lead rope pulled free. I lunged for the disappearing line and held fast. It seemed as if the horse was never going to stop as it dragged me over the slippery new grass. By the time the horse was stopped, the cows were gone and the last of the bulls were charging by. I still had my bow and quiver. Shaken but determined, I leaped upon the bay, spun him around, and lunged after the last bull. The horse was tired now, but so was the bison. After a good slap on the flank with the bow, the horse mustered the speed to move alongside the last buffalo. The first arrow hit too far forward on the shoulder. The second shaft was too far back, like the first arrow in the cow. And the third, a little too high. The arrows didnt seem to slow the old fellow down. The tired horse was falling behind. , Even a few more bow slaps on the rump couldnt coax another drop of energy out of the cup that was already empty. Tears began to swell in my eyes as the buffalo began to pull away. I had tried so hard, and had failed to prove myself worthy to hunt with the men. I relaxed my heels to let the pony know the hunt was over. Just then the front legs of the disappearing bull buckled and the beast ground to a halt, finally rolling over on its side, coughing red saliva. By the time I reached the animal, it was dead. I slid from the back of the lathered horse and walked around the dead bull, several times. I couldnt pull my eyes away from the conquest. Finally the spell was broken by the voice of Neuwafe. "Wont get up," he said. He looked pleased that his white friend had killed a buffalo. Grinning from ear to ear, I slipped out of my leggings, drew my knife to begin dressing out my buffalo. As Neuwafe turned to ride away, to take care of his own kills, he pointed his bow to the east and said, "The other one's over there, the cow." As I began to insert my knife into the soft underbelly of the bull buffalo, I heard hoofbeats behind me. It was Red Leaf, Neuwafes little sister. She had come to help dress the kills. She was a year or two younger than I was, I supposed kind of a shy girl. |