Region abounding with buffalo - that
ever-journeying animal, which moves in countless droves from
point to point of the vast wilderness; traversing plains, pouring
through the intricate defiles of mountains, swimming rivers, ever
on the move, guided on its boundless migrations by some
traditionary knowledge, like the finny tribes of the ocean,
which, at certain seasons, find their mysterious paths across the
deep and revisit the remotest shores.
These great migratory herds of buffalo have their hereditary
paths and highways, worn deep through the country, and making for
the surest passes of the mountains, and the most practicable
fords of the rivers. When once a great column is in full career,
it goes straight forward, regardless of all obstacles; those in
front being impelled by the moving mass behind. At such times
they
will break through a camp, trampling down everything in their
course.
It was the lot of the voyagers, one night, to encamp at one of
these buffalo landing places, and exactly on the trail. They had
not been long asleep, when they were awakened by a great
bellowing, and tramping, and the rush, and splash, and snorting
of animals in the river. They had just time to ascertain that a
buffalo army was entering the river on the opposite side, and
making toward the landing place.
