The party pitched their permanent camp in a canyon of the Brazos known
as Canyon Blanco. The last few days of their journey they travelled
beside the river through a veritable hunter's paradise. The drought
had forced all the animals to come to the larger water-courses, and the
country was literally swarming with game. Every day, and all day long,
the wagons travelled through the herds of antelopes that grazed on every
side, while, whenever they approached the canyon brink, bands of deer
started from the timber that fringed the river's course; often, even
the deer wandered out on the prairie with the antelope. Nor was the game
shy; for the hunters, both red and white, followed only the buffaloes,
until the huge, shaggy herds were destroyed, and the smaller beasts were
in consequence but little molested.
Once my brother shot five antelopes from a single stand, when the party
were short of fresh venison; he was out of sight and to leeward, and the
antelopes seemed confused rather than alarmed at the rifle-reports and
the fall of their companions.
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