The Boy Hunters, Mayne Reid [best love novels of all time .TXT] 📗

of a hundred yards, I have often taken the one for the other. This resemblance, however, extends no farther than to the general appearance—the shape and colour. In most other respects they differ, as you may imagine, very materially.

“Talking of turkey-buzzards,” continued Lucien, “reminds me of an anecdote that is told in relation to one.”

“Oh! let us have it, brother,” said François.

“With pleasure,” replied Lucien. “It is intended to illustrate the superior cunning of the white over the Indian race; and is a pretty fair sample of the honesty and justice which the former has too often observed in its dealings with the latter. It is as follows:—

“A white man and an Indian went out together for a day’s hunting. They agreed that the game should be equally divided at night, no matter who had killed the largest share of it. During the day the Indian shot a turkey, and the white hunter a turkey-buzzard; and these two birds were all that either of them were able to meet with. The proceeds of the day’s hunt were brought together; and now arose a difficulty about an equal division of the game. Both knew well enough the value of a good fat turkey; and both were as well acquainted with the utter worthlessness of the buzzard—which was in fact worth less than nothing, as its filthy odour was extremely repulsive. It was evident that the only way of making a fair division would have been to cut the turkey in two equal parts, and each to take one of the halves. The white man, however, would not agree to this; but proposed that one of them should take the whole turkey, and the other the buzzard.

“‘It’s a pity,’ argued he, ‘to spoil the birds. It’s better for each of us to take one.’

“‘Very well,’ said the Indian. ‘Shall we draw lots for the choice?’

“‘Oh, no,’ replied the other. ‘It’s not worth while to do that. I’ll deal fairly with you. I’ll take the turkey, and let you have the buzzard; or, you can take the buzzard, and I’ll keep the turkey.’

“The Indian reflected, that in either case the buzzard would fall to his share; but the white man’s proposition seemed a just one; and, as he could find no flaw in its fairness, he was constrained, though reluctantly, to accept it. The white hunter, therefore, shouldered his turkey, and trudged off homewards, leaving the poor Indian supperless in the woods.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed François, “what a shallow Indian he must have been to be so easily outwitted!”

“Ah!” said Lucien, “he was not the only one of his race, who has been similarly deceived by white men. Many a pewter dollar has been passed upon these simple sons of the forest, in exchange for their furs and peltries. I have reason to suspect that one very rich fur-trader, now dead, laid the foundation of his immense fortune in this way; but my suspicions do not amount to positive proof, and therefore I do not assert it for a fact. Perhaps some historian may one day assail even the character of the good Penn; who is said to have purchased from the Indians a territory of three square miles, but took care to have it measured off as three miles square! I hope the story is not a true one.”

“Why, that,” said François, “is almost the same trick as Dido performed with the bull’s hide.”

“Yes,” replied his brother; “so you see that dishonesty belongs exclusively to no age or nation. It has existed in the past, and will continue to exist, until men, becoming more and more highly educated, will be moved by nobler ambition than the mere spirit of gain. I believe there is such a time in the far future.”

The conversation was again directed to the subject of the vultures. These now formed a flock of at least two hundred; and others were still arriving upon the ground. As fresh ones came, they would wheel about for awhile in the air, and then drop down and perch themselves on the trees and rocks. Some sat crouching with drooping wings, and heads drawn in—so that their long naked necks were quite concealed under their ruff-like collars. Others stood erect, with both wings raised from the body, half unfolded, and held “a-kimbo,” as eagles are often seen, and as they are sometimes represented upon coins and standards. It is supposed that both vultures and eagles spread their wings in this fashion to cool themselves when they are too warm, and sun themselves when too cold—for they do so in cold, as well as warm weather; and in this attitude they exhibit a singular and rather pleasing picture.

Some of the vultures could be seen descending from the very highest regions of the air. They could be noted like little specks against the blue sky, gradually growing larger and larger, until their broad wings cast moving shadows upon the sunlit sward, as the birds floated spirally downward. Others were observed approaching in a horizontal direction—some of them seeming no bigger than sparrows, as they first caught the eye upon the distant horizon.

“What a distance some of them must have travelled!” remarked François; “and how do you think they know where to come? There was not one in sight when we killed those big-horns.”

“They have been guided by their scent, of course,” replied Basil; “they have great power in that way.”

“Not so, brother,” interrupted Lucien; “that is one of the errors of your closet-naturalists—your Buffons and Cuviers—propagated by them, until it has become proverbial. Strange to say, it is altogether erroneous. It has been proved that vultures possess the sense of smell in a less degree even than most other creatures. Dogs and wolves far excel them in this respect.”

“How, then, have they found this carrion, for instance?”

“By their sight—for that sense they possess in a high degree of perfection.”

“But how can that be, Luce?” rejoined Basil. “See! yonder are some coming from the eastward. Now, as the butte is between them and the big-horn, how is it possible they could have seen it?”

“I do not say they have; but they have seen others, who have seen others, who in their turn have seen others, who actually have seen the carrion.”

“Oh! I understand; you mean that some one or more have first spied it; and, while making towards it, have been observed by others at a greater distance; and those again who have followed them have been followed by others still more distant, and so on.”

“Precisely so; and this at once accounts for the fabulous stories of vultures scenting carrion at the distance of miles—none of which stories are true, but have been propagated by men who, perhaps, never saw a vulture in the air, but who, in order to make their books amusing, have readily adopted the exaggerated tales of every Munchausen they could meet with.”

“Your theory is certainly the more probable one.”

“It is the true one. It has been proved to be so by numerous experiments with vultures; all of which have gone to show, that these birds have anything but a keen sense of smell. On the contrary, it is remarkably weak; and I think it is well for them it is so, considering the sort of food they live upon.”

“This flock must have gathered from all parts,” remarked François; “we see them coming in from every point of the compass. No doubt some of them have travelled fifty miles.”

“As likely an hundred,” rejoined Lucien. “Such a journey is a mere bagatelle to them. Now, if I knew the precise moment at which the carrion was discovered by the first one, I could tell how far each of the others had come—that is, each of them whose arrival we are now witnessing.”

“But how could you do that, brother?” demanded Basil and François, in astonishment; “pray tell us how?”

“I should make my calculation thus:—In the first place, they have all started at the same time.”

“At the same time!” interrupted Basil; “how can that be, if some of them were an hundred miles off?”

“No matter what distance,” replied Lucien; “it is all the same. They have all commenced their flight hither, not exactly, but nearly, at the same moment. Is it not plain? These birds, while hunting for their food, sweep through the air in great circles. Each of these circles overlooks a large tract of the earth’s surface below. Their circumferences approach or intersect each other—so that, in fact, the whole country is under a network of them. Now, as soon as one of the vultures, thus sailing about, discovers with far-seeing eye the carrion below, he immediately drops from his high orbit, and wings his way downward. He is observed by that one circling nearest him; who, well knowing the cause of the altered flight of his companion, at once forsakes his own orbit and follows; and he, in his turn, is followed by another; and so on to the end of the chain.”

“But how can one of them tell that the other is gone in pursuit of prey?” inquired François, interrupting Lucien in his explanation.

“Suppose you saw Basil at a great distance off on the prairie, could you not tell by his actions when he had started game, and was in pursuit of it?”

“Oh! yes! I could easily.”

“Well, then, the vultures, who have far keener sight than you, understand each other’s movements thoroughly—even to the shaking of a feather—so that they can easily tell when one of their number has a good dinner in sight.

“I think I have shown,” continued Lucien, “that they all start within a few seconds of the same time; and as they fly in a nearly direct line towards the object, if we knew the rate at which they go, it would only remain for us to mark the date of their arrival, to be able to tell how far they had come. Of course it is supposed that we have already noted the time when the first one came upon the spot.

“If we suppose,” continued Lucien, as he pointed up to the vultures, “that the first of these has alighted here two hours ago, and we allow them a flight of thirty miles an hour, we may then safely conclude that some of those now coming in have made a journey of sixty miles this morning. What think you of my theory?”

“It is, to say the least of it, a curious one, brother,” replied Basil.

“But what are they waiting for now?” demanded François; “why don’t they at once fall to, and enjoy it while it is fresh?”

François’ interrogatory was a very natural one. Most of the vultures, instead of attacking the carrion, were, as we have already seen, sitting perched upon rocks and trees—some of them in listless attitudes, as though they were not hungry, and did not care to eat.

Basil proffered an explanation.

“No doubt,” said he, “they are waiting until the flesh becomes putrid. It is said that they prefer it in that state.”

“And that,” remarked Lucien, “is another assertion that has no foundation in fact. They do not prefer it in that state. On the contrary, it is certain that vultures like their food better when fresh, and eat it so when they can get it.”

“And what hinders them now?” inquired François.

“The tough hide hinders them. These birds do not possess the great muscular power in their claws that eagles do, else you would soon see the big-horn reduced to a skeleton. They are waiting until its skin becomes more tender, through decomposition, so that they may be able to tear it open. That is why they are waiting.”

Such was evidently the true explanation; for each of the new-comers was seen to attack the carcass; and, after finding he could make nothing of it, fly off and settle quietly down on the rocks or trees.

As the boys watched them, however, some more eager than the rest effected an incision—at the spot where Basil’s bullet had