Nosib was an American bison, as you might have guessed if you had tried spelling his name backwards. At the time we speak of Nosib was newly born. This was in April, 1870. His mother had left the herd when it came time for Nosib to be born and had found a sheltered place at the head of a narrow stream, tributary to the Mississippi. Nosib was born on a bed of grass under an overhanging bank. For several hours he could not stand up. He lay there on the grass while his mother stood guard over him and, from time to time, licked him lovingly. After a few days he could walk well enough to follow his mother back to the herd.
For days the bison had been traveling north on the way from their winter to their summer range. Nosib did not know it, but his own mother had started this great herd of buffalo on its northward journey. One day before he was born she had been feeding with a small band in a side valley of the Arkansas River. The air smelled like spring that day, and the grass looked a little greener on the bottoms. She was an old cow and knew what that meant. She was also the leader of her small herd, for, you must know, among the buffalo an experienced old cow is always leader. So when Nosib's mother turned her head north that day the others followed. As they migrated north they were joined by other similar bands. The farther they went the larger the herd grew. It grew as a rolling snowball grows. By the time Nosib was born it was a hundred thousand strong. And this herd was only one of many, just as large, moving in the same direction throughout the whole range of the buffalo in America. All told there were then about six million buffaloes ranging the plains west of the Mississippi from the gulf states far up into Canada. Originally their range covered a third of the continent and their number is thought to have been between thirty and sixty million. But that was a long time ago, before the white man came and before the Indians had horses to hunt with. These were evil times for the buffaloes. The first trans-continental railroad had recently been built and that had brought many men, eager for buffalo hides.
When the big herd reached summer pasture, it split up. Nosib's mother was again the leader of a small herd of about a hundred. Life had settled down to a daily routine. Every morning the bison grazed for a few hours. Near mid-day his mother led the rest to water in the valley. There they drank and rested during the heat of the day, chewing their cud and dozing. At evening they grazed again.
Nosib learned much that summer. He saw how the old bulls protected themselves from pestering insects. There was a swampy spot in the valley where they drank. One old bull would begin to scrape out a place with his horns. If he were not the strongest one in the herd, the boss bull would soon drive him away and resume the work himself. When the hole filled with water the bull would lie down in his puddle and work and roll his body round and round. In this way a wallow would be made, perhaps fifteen feet across and two feet deep. When finished wallowing, the bull would be covered with mud which caked on as it dried and which served as a fine a protection against flies.
One morning when Nosib was nearly a year old the herd was grazing under the brow of a hill. Nosib's mother got up to lead the way down to water. Suddenly there was a loud noise and Nosib saw his mother fall to the ground. He approached her and saw blood running out of her nose. He did not know why she lay so still, but he was vaguely alarmed. A minute later there was another noise and a second buffalo toppled over. Now many of the bison were aroused to the danger. But their leader was dead so they did nothing but stand and sniff at the two carcasses until another old cow began to lead the retreat. Again the noise, and the old cow plunged to her knees. In a hour sixty dead bison lay on the hillside, and the rest, including Nosib and some thirty others, had fled in a panic.
Once before, when he was small, Nosib and his mother had been caught away from the herd by wolves. His mother had gored one with her horns and then bellowed for help. Three bulls came to their rescue and frightened off the wolves while they made their way back to the herd. And another time, the herd had been frightened by some horsemen who suddenly rode among the bison and killed several before they could run away. But never had Nosib had such an experience as this awful still-hunt. The bison had not known what to run from. The still-hunter had lain concealed on the edge of the hill and had shot down every buffalo that began to lead the herd off.
Years went by and with the years the bison's enemies increased. The autumn after Nosib’s mother had been killed he had been driven out of the herd by rival bulls. He joined another, and barely escaped the attack of another still-hunter. Everywhere he went it was the same story: hunters, guns and slaughter. In 1888 Nosib was an old bull. He and a few of his fellows had taken refuge on a secluded range in southern Canada. He was one of a thousand surviving buffaloes in the world. The rest of the millions, which ruled the plains when Nosib was born, were gone. Cooke
Buffalo Story
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