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Buffalo
Hunting Time Machine By: Bryce M. Towsley |
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 No
other time or era can begin to match the short history of buffalo
hunting in the American West or the marksmanship ability of the men
who were at the center of it all. Those rugged men who chased their
futures across the plains may well have been the best rifle shots
to ever walk the planet. They fired thousands of rounds at distances that are long even by today’s standards and each shot had to count; misses meant lost money or worse. Buffalo hunters like the legendary Billy Dixon relied on those skills not only for their livelihood, but also to stay alive. More than one band of marauding Indians learned the hard lesson that it was a mistake to allow a buffalo hunter to dig in and get his big Sharps Rifle booming. At the famous battle of Adobe Walls in 1874, as many as 700 Indians attacked Dixon and a group of 27 other buffalo hunters and one woman. Only four of the hunters were killed; two of them in a wagon while still asleep, another shot himself while falling down a ladder. (Or perhaps his wife shot him in the head accidentally while handing him a loaded rifle, accounts vary.) Only one was killed in the actual battle and he was stupid enough to go outside in the middle of it all. It was on the third day of the siege that followed the battle that Billy Dixon made what was called the “shot of the century” when he shot an Indian off his horse with a borrowed Sharps “Big 50” rifle at a reported 1,538 yards. The buffalo hunting era was a short, but intense time lasting only about a decade, but it left behind a rich legacy. In February, 1996 I hunted coyotes in a wheat field that was the former location of Rath City (which I believe was the inspiration for “Crow Town” in Larry McMurtry’s book The Streets of Laredo.) Rath City was located in the heart of the Texas buffalo country and existed only to process buffalo hides. In the three short years of its existence, from 1876 to 1879, there were 1,100,000 buffalo hides bought there. With an average of three shots per buffalo that’s a lot of burned powder. The Texas hunter famous for shooting a white buffalo, J. Wright Mooar, is said to have used one rifle to shoot 8,000 buffalo and another to take 14,000 and that doesn’t include practice, fights and all the other shooting, or any other rifles he might have owned. How many of us can claim that depth of experience? What true American hunter can avoid being captivated by this time and place? The buffalo hunting era was unique in the history of the world. We know now the tragedy of overindulgence and misguided policy, but the men who were there knew nothing of all that. They knew only freedom, the quest for fortune and the sound of the rifles. No doubt, there is something magic in the distinctive sound of a black powder cartridge rifle being fired. It’s a sound that conjures buried memories of a distant time. Of independent men living free and sharing endless miles of wild land with millions of wild buffalo. To me, the Sharps Rifle has come to symbolize the freedom that those men enjoyed, a freedom that in turn symbolizes hunting in America in its most raw form.  But
sadly, by the mid 1880s most of the buffalo were gone. I am sure that
many of those hunters loved the buffalo and were shocked, shamed and
questioning what they had done. I believe lot of retired buffalo hunters
felt like John Wayne’s Rooster Cogburn when he stared mournfully
at the campfire and quietly said; “I like buffalo hunting, but
them big shaggies is just about gone.” He paused for a moment
and quietly added, “Damn shame.” The American Bison narrowly avoided extinction, but today they are doing fine. Except that hunting them in any truly wild situation is extremely difficult and always expensive. While I have always wanted to shoot one of North America’s largest land mammals, I was turned off by the tales of ranch hunts. One fellow outdoor writer told me a sad story late one night. He started quietly; staring at campfire sparkling amber through the bottle of Kentucky’s finest sitting on the table between us. He was invited by a major ammo company to test a new product on a South Dakota buffalo. Thinking much as I would have been about capturing some of the bygone era, he quickly agreed. But, rather than adventure he found disappointment. Early the first morning they drove a truck out to a pasture filled with buffalo. “That big one is yours,” the guide said as he pointed to a bull. My buddy was starting for his gun when the guide spoke again. “Sit tight and drink your coffee. We need the light to get better for photos and the processing truck is not due here for another hour. That bull ain’t going anywhere; he thinks we are here to feed him.” When my friend talks of this “hunt” you can see shame and disappointment in his eyes.  I
wanted more. Sure I wanted a buffalo, but I wanted a buffalo hunt
even more. I had hoped to capture just a sliver of what it was really
like. I recognized that most bison taken in today’s world will
be shot on a managed ranch and will not be wild and free like those
Billy Dixon and his buddies followed across the plains. I could live
with that. Heck, I have hunted whitetails in Texas and plains game
in South Africa on high fence ranches and never felt for a moment
that I was cheating. I knew in my heart that a buffalo hunt could
be the same. I found the hunt I wanted with Lee Hawes. Lee runs a buffalo hunting ranch just outside of Dodge City, Kansas. If there is a more traditional location for buffalo hunting than Marshal Dillon’s old stomping grounds, it has escaped my notice. Dodge City shipped millions of buffalo hides during a ten year period in the 1860s and 1870s, when it was the epicenter of this enterprise. Lee has made every effort to recreate that buffalo hunting era. His hunters stay in teepees or in dugouts, while the largest of the three dugouts serves as the cookhouse. A dugout, for those who don’t know, is where they dig back into the bank of a deep wash or coulee to form a room, and then put up a roof and a front door. They were the mainstay of life on the prairie and were how many survived the brutal winters. After spending a cold December night in a teepee when the temperature dipped into the single digits, I could appreciate how the thick dirt walls of a dugout had far better insulating qualities. The hunts are on horseback and Lee encourages the use of “period” firearms and lead bullets. We even tried to wear clothing that matched what the hunters of that era would have used as well. When I climbed stiffly into the frost covered saddle that first morning and secured my rifle across in front of me, I was facing east and watching the sun rising over the endless prairie. I felt like I was stepping back in time and believed that this is what it must have been like. I was about to hunt the American Bison on the Kansas prairie with not much more than a good horse and a Sharps rifle. We can never return to the 1870s, but this was getting darn close. These buffalo are hunted hard and they know what a man on horseback means. Rather than the placid bovines that other hunters have described shooting, the bison we hunted made us earn our shots. I detest crawling on my belly and I am not really built for it with no neck and an oversized belly. (I joke that I often get rocking on my stomach when trying to belly crawl and wind up motion sick!) Throw in a fifty-something, badly abused body with tortured knees and a bad back and you can see why belly crawling is not my preferred method of transport. But, when the highest cover couldn’t hide a low pair of boots it is prudent to use the scant terrain to cover your approach. In Lee’s world that means crawling. Truth be known, probably more than was absolutely necessary, but it sure made me feel like I was a buffalo hunter.  We
snaked through the winter grass on our bellies for what seemed like
miles on our first stalk. I don’t remember much about being
a baby, but I think it was easier then. Over the years, crawling had
become hard work and I was tired and winded by the time we were in
shooting position. Then somebody did something stupid (not me for
a change) and the herd spooked and ran away. I rolled over on my back
and took advantage of the lull to get some blood back into the places
it belonged. Then we stood up and started the hike back to our horses.
That scenario repeated itself a couple of more times, with the stalks
longer and more physically punishing each time. Soon the elbows of
my new wool coat were starting to fray and wear along with the reserves
in my body. But, every time I thought about complaining I reminded
myself that I wanted a real hunt, not just a buffalo shoot. I thought
of the hardships that the first buffalo hunters had to endure and
suddenly sore knees seemed trivial. I had lost track of the stalks before I finally got to cock the big hammer on my Sharps rifle, but it did happen. We had been after this band of buffalo for quite awhile and each time we slithered over the horizon they would see us and move farther out of range. The sun had fled to the west and taken the color of the prairie with it. In the flat, grey twilight the bison seemed less able to spot us and before long we were close enough for a shot. But, the bull I wanted was covered up with other buffalo. I knew that my handloads would probably shoot clean through the bull, so the path on both sides of him had to be clear. Time and again I lined up my sights on his shoulder only to see another buffalo move in front or behind him. When I finally had a clear shot, it was just dark enough that I couldn’t pick up the black bead of the front sight on his dark shoulder. I hesitated for a second and that’s all I had. He was protected again and before another opportunity reared its head dark called the game. We limped back to the horses, hoping that a hot meal waited in the dugout.  We
found the bull the next morning, away from the herd and clearly tired
of women and children. He was out of the wind in a deep coulee with
one of his bachelor buddies. When we tried to stalk in close they
saw us and headed up the other side of the deep wash. I ran to the
edge, sat down, cocked the big Sharps and waited. Just as he crested
the hill, the bull turned to look back and gave me a shoulder. I put
a cast bullet through and watched it kick up dust on the prairie beyond.
Buffalo are notoriously tough and come as close to being bullet proof
as anything that walks the North American continent. I knew that shot
would be enough if I let it work, but I don’t believe in that.
My approach with any big game is that if they are still on their feet,
I am still shooting. The bulls ran up the far edge of the coulee as
I reloaded and shot again. I saw that bullet hit back in his ribs
where it would take both lungs, but not break any supporting bones.
I ran as fast as I could while reloading, and I watched the bull drop
down over the edge of an intersecting wash and out of sight. I kept
pace until he came back into sight and my big Sharps boomed again.
This time when the bullet struck him high in the shoulder he went
down in a cloud of dust. We tried to approach, but his buddy was standing guard and had adapted a really bad attitude about buffalo hunters. I thought for a moment that we would have to shoot him in self defense. But, we backed away and decided that perhaps we should retrieve the horses and give him some time to think it over. He was still waiting when we came back, but he was less determined to stomp us into a wet spot on the prairie. We rode at him and he reluctantly moved off to join the herd visible off in the distance.  I
sat quietly with my bull, leaning against his huge shoulder and feeling
his warmth. I looked at the Sharps rifle in my hands and I thought
about how 130 years ago another hunter might have sat in this same
spot doing the same thing. I wondered what he was thinking and how
he felt about his first buffalo. Like me, he was probably thinking
about the work that lay ahead. But too, I believe he was probably
thinking about this wonderful country so full of opportunity and promise,
and this unique animal that would become so important to its development.
Like me, I’ll bet he was also thankful at that moment to be
an American and to live in a land with rifles, buffalo, wide open
spaces and the freedom to enjoy them all. |
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