The Boy Hunters. Reid Mayne
though the explosions sounded softer and more hollow.
“A steamboat!” cried François, whose ear first caught the sounds.
“Yes,” muttered Basil, “from New Orleans, I expect, and bound to Saint Louis.”
“No, brother,” said Lucien, quietly raising himself from his book. “She is an Ohio boat.”
“How can you tell that, Luce?” inquired François.
“From the sound of her ’scape, of course. I can distinguish the boat. She is the ‘Buck-eye’ – mail-boat for Cincinnati.”
In a short time the white cloud of steam was seen ascending over the trees; and then the huge vessel came “bulging” around a bend of the river, cleaving the brown current as she went. She was soon opposite the lawn; and, sure enough, proved to be what Lucien had said she was – the mail-steamer “Buck-eye.” This was a triumph for Lucien, although he bore it with characteristic modesty.
The boat had not passed many minutes, when the loud screeching of her steam was heard in the direction of Point Coupée. They could tell from this that she was putting in at the landing.
“Hugot!” cried the Colonel, “their may be something for us. Go and see.”
Without waiting for further orders, Hugot started on his errand. He was a brisk walker, Hugot; and was back again in a trice. He brought with him a letter of goodly size and appearance.
“From Prince Lucien!” cried François, who was sure to have the first word in everything. “It is from the Prince, papa; I know the seal.”
“Quiet, François! quiet!” said his father, reprovingly; at the same time hobbling into the verandah, and calling for his spectacles.
The letter was soon opened, and perused.
“Hugot!” cried the Colonel, after he had finished reading it.
Hugot made no reply, but threw himself in front of his master, with his hand raised to his eyebrows à la militaire.
“Hugot, you must go to Saint Louis.”
“Bien, mon Colonel!”
“You must start by the first boat.”
“Très-bien, mon Colonel!”
“You must procure for me the skin of a white buffalo.”
“That will not be difficult, monsieur.”
“More difficult than you imagine, I fear.”
“With money, monsieur?”
“Ay, even with money, Hugot. Look you! It is a skin I want – not a robe – but a perfect skin with the head, feet, and all complete, and fit for stuffing.”
“Ah! mon Colonel! that is different.”
“Ah! you may say so. I fear it will be difficult, indeed,” soliloquised the Colonel, with a thoughtful air. “I very much doubt whether we can get it at all; but it must be had, cost what it may– ay, cost what it may.”
“I will do my best, Colonel.”
“Try at every fur-store in Saint Louis, – inquire among the hunters and trappers – you know where to find them. If these fail you, put an advertisement in the newspapers – advertise both in English and French. Go to Monsieur Choteau – anywhere. Spare no expense, but get me the skin.”
“Restez tranquille, mon Colonel; I shall do all that.”
“Make ready, then, to start. There may be a steamer going up before night. Hush! I hear one this very moment. It may be a Saint Louis boat.”
All stood for a moment silent and listening. The ’scape of another boat coming up the river could be heard plain enough.
“It is a Saint Louis boat,” said Lucien. “It is the ‘Belle of the West.’”
Lucien, who had a quick talent in that way, could tell, by the sound of their steam-pipe, almost every boat that plied upon the Mississippi. In half-an-hour the steamer hove in sight, and it was seen that he had again guessed correctly. It was a Saint Louis boat, and the “Belle of the West,” too!
Hugot had not many preparations to make; and before the boat had arrived opposite to the house, he had arranged everything – received some further instructions, with a purse of money, from his master – and was off to Point Coupée, to meet the steamer at the landing.
Chapter Four.
Going on a Great Hunt
It was full three weeks before Hugot returned. They were a long three weeks to the old Colonel, – who was troubled with apprehensions that Hugot would not succeed in his errand. He had written in reply to the letter of Prince Bonaparte. He had written promising to procure —if possible– a white buffalo-skin – for this was what the Prince’s letter was about; – and not for half what he was worth would the Colonel have failed to accomplish this object. No wonder, then, he was impatient and uneasy during Hugot’s absence.
Hugot returned at length, after night. The Colonel did not wait until he entered the house, but met him at the door, candle in hand. He need not have put any question, as Hugot’s face answered that question before it was asked. The moment the light fell upon it, any one could have told that Hugot had come back without the skin. He looked quite crest-fallen; and his great moustachios appeared bleached and drooping.
“You have not got it?” interrogated the Colonel, in a faltering voice.
“No, Colonel,” muttered Hugot, in reply.
“You tried everywhere?”
“Everywhere.”
“You advertised in the papers?”
“In all the papers, monsieur.”
“You offered a high price?”
“I did. It was to no purpose. I could not have procured a white buffalo’s skin if I had offered ten times as much. I could not have got it for a thousand dollars.”
“I would give five thousand!”
“It would have been all the same, monsieur. It is not to be had in Saint Louis.”
“What says Monsieur Choteau?”
“That there is but little chance of finding what you want. A man, he says, may travel all over the prairies without meeting with a white buffalo. The Indians prize them beyond anything, and never let one escape when they chance to fall in with it. I found two or three among the fur packs of the traders; but they were not what you desire, monsieur. They were robes; and even for them a large sum was asked.”
“They would be of no use. It is wanted for a different purpose – for a great museum. Ah! I fear I cannot obtain it. If not to be had in Saint Louis, where else?”
“Where else, papa?” interrupted François, who, with his brothers, had stood listening to the above dialogue. “Where else, but on the prairies?”
“On the prairies!” mechanically echoed his father.
“Yes, papa. Send Basil, and Lucien, and myself. We’ll find you a white buffalo, I warrant you.”
“Hurrah, François!” cried Basil; “you’re right, brother. I was going to propose the same myself.”
“No, no, my lads; you’ve heard what Monsieur Choteau says. You need not think of such a thing. It cannot be had. And I have written to the Prince, too. I have as good as promised him!”
As the old Colonel uttered these words, his countenance and gestures expressed disappointment and chagrin.
Lucien, who had observed this with a feeling of pain, now interposed.
“Papa,” he said, “it is true that Monsieur Choteau has great experience in the fur-trade; but the facts do not correspond with what he has stated,” – (Lucien, you will observe, was a keen reasoner).