The Republican. [volume] (Oakland, Md.) 1877-current, 1895-06-27
THE LAST OF HIS RACE.
He Died with Fire in His Eye and he.
flant Cry.

He Died with Fire in His Eye and he
fisnt Cry.
An hour before sunset he came out
of his hiding place on the banks of the
Little Missouri. Hunger drove him
out. He shifted the air and looked
about him like a fugitive. He was
fugitive. His once proud bearing had
given olace to the demeanor of
skulker. The fire in his eye had died
out-he had become thin and weak
he started in alarm as a coyote sneaked
out of the bushes above him and gave
utterance to a dismal howl. He start
led by the voice of such creature
he, the grand old buffalo bull who had
led herd of thousands in hundred
wild stampedes-who had known no
conqueror-who had traversed half
continent unchecked by man or the
obstacles of nature!
He lifted his head and looked to the
south. From the Canadian line and
beyond down to the very waters of the
Rio Grande the American bison could
once be found in numbers absolutely
countless. Their migration made a
continent tremble. Their stampedes
made mountains rock. A strip Of
country two thousand miles long by
six hundred broad had been their
pasture ground. A thousand streams
had been made to quench their thirst
"a thousand fords created that they
might pass in safety.
And now the end has come! If there
was one single living buffalo between
him and the waters tapping the far
shores of Texas it was some craven in
hiding like himself. From the Lara
ME plains to the waters of the Elk
horn-from north to south of con-
tinent the plains and prairies and val
leys yielded up the monuments of
mans cupidity in the shape of bleach
ing skeletons, They bleached in the
sun by day and blackened under the
dews of night. At every yard was a
skull polished by the teeth of wolf and
bear and coyote; at every rod a skel-
eton with bones falling apart and half
hidden in the grass Even amidst the
frs and cedars and pines on the hill
sides were bOnes-carried there by the
vultures who feasted and grew fat and
were lethargic with overlooking.
Down in the dark and dismal ravines,
where the foot of man had never trod
up canyons where the darkness and
silence were like horrible nightmare
there were skulls and ribs and thigh
bones, dragged away by panther and
grizzly and wildcat.
Scared by arrows, wounded by bull
lets-pursued by foes from valley to
valley and from river to river, the
whilom monarch has at last found
covert and a breathing-spell for q day.
He has skulked like a wounded wolf;
he has crouched like fox in his hair.
The cry of a vulture lowering high
above had made him tremble-he, who
had driven the dreaded grizzly out of
his path more than once, and whose
sharp, stout horns has sent more than
one Indian pony to his death!
All! But the cries of coyote have
brought company! They come sneak
ing out of thicket and grass and crew
ice until there are dozen. The young
est calf of a herd would not fear them,
and yet their angry snarls make the
old monarch tremble! The sun seems
to drop into lower notch as the old
monarch moves softly about to snatch
a bite here and there, but always keep
ing his eye on the pack. AS the
craving of hunger becomes partly sat-
isfed the fire comes back to his eyes,
and he even gives his head a defiant
toss. If their bowling brings the saw
age wolf he will die Nightingale will
die game. He has fought them hun
dred battles and never suffered defeat.
Here they come! He looks up to find
himself almost encircled. They are
hungry and gaunt. Their eyes blaze
and foam falls from their lips as they
close in on him. Now watch him! He
is no longer the fugitive-the craven
trembling at every sound His head is
held high, there is royal fire in his
great eyes, and he utters low below
of defiance and paws the earth as
challenge for them to come on.
Crack! Crash Hurrah!
The bull totters, sways to and fro,
and falls to the earth, shot through the
heart. A man leaps out of the thicket,
waves his hat and gun, and cheers the
success of his shot, while the wolves
sneak away into the twilight and
growl and snap at each other. The
last of his race is dead. He would
have died fighting as monarch should,
but man prevented. 1t is the last hide
the last feast for wolves and vultures
the last monument to mark mans
savagery when stirred by cupidity and
selfshness.-Detroit Free Press