The Hunter Hercules

THE YOUNG HUNTER’S FIRST PRIZE.

It was a beautiful scene. Not a cloud marred the vast blue dome of heaven. Autumn reigned supreme in the Lone Star State, where brave Houston fought, and valiant Bowie fell at the Alamo. Near the Comanche ground on the far north-western border of the State we would bring the reader on this bright, cheerful morning in October.

The prairie which, a month or two before, had presented a beautiful aspect of flowers and green grass, had been literally baked to a rich brown color, and now, moved by the breeze that was blowing the long, dry grass, looked for all the world like the waves of the ocean or an inland sea.

Riding leisurely across the prairie was a young man of about twenty-two or three. He wore a complete suit of fine buck-skin, which, it was plainly apparent, had been made by a “regular” tailor, for it bore none of the marks which almost always distinguish the clothes of the old trapper.

The suit was beautifully made and ornamented, and truly became the fine form of the owner. The head-covering of the young equestrian was a large felt, which kept the sun from his face and might prove almost as effective as an umbrella, in case of a shower.

The face underneath the hat was a resolute one.

The eyes were gray and piercing; the nose, rather large and slightly inclined to the Roman, but was perfect for all that; the cheek-bones high and the mouth firm.

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On his upper lip, the rider sported a fine mustache, and taken altogether, he was a very “good-looking fellow.”

The form of the young hunter was not large, but there appeared to be a vast amount of strength in that well-knit frame.

The horse upon which he was seated was a large bay, the exquisite shape of whose limbs proved that it was a good runner. The horse had indeed been selected on account of its speed, and could show a clean pair of heels to ninety-nine out of a hundred of its fellows.

The arms of the young man consisted of a light rifle which he carried across the pommel of his saddle, a pair of revolvers in his belt, and, keeping them company, was a sharp, two-edged hunting knife. Although a stranger on the plains of the Great West, Chauncy Branrare was no novice in the art of hunting. He could bring down a deer as well as the most experienced hunter. His hand was steady and his eye quick and sure.

He was the only son of a wealthy citizen of New York, and had made this trip to the South-west in a spirit of adventure. Chauncy had traveled over Europe; had hunted in Asia, Africa and South America, and was now to satisfy his love of the wild excitements of the chase by a season in the South-west.

Chauncy had intended to secure an old hunter for a guide, who was an old friend of his father’s. Many years before, the two had fought in the Mexican war, side by side, and the hunter’s life had been saved by his comrade in arms, which made them good friends. After the war Chauncy’s father returned to his home in the North, and several times received scrawling letters from the old hunter, but the two had never seen each other since their parting.

Disappointed in meeting the old Texan, Chauncy had started out alone, determined that he would not wait in the little border town for the old ranger’s return.

He had a mission to accomplish if possible, for he had not come out for the hunting alone. An uncle had died and left two-thirds of his estate, which was large, to an adopted son and the other third to Chauncy. This adopted son having had a quarrel with the uncle had gone “out West.” No one
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had heard of him for years, and it was not an unlikely thing for him to be dead.

Mr. Branrare was to institute a search for him, and if he was not found at the end of a year, then the former was to assume possession of the fortune bequeathed to the missing man.

The horse of the young man was approaching one of the numerous “mottes” of trees which spot the prairies of Texas. Suddenly he started and looked around.

It was a sound which, in any place, would have awakened all that was chivalrous in his nature. It was a cry for help, and it was a woman’s voice!

It came from the trees, not once but twice—thrice, and without hesitation the young hunter dashed his spurs into the sides of his horse, when, like a flash, the noble animal darted forward and in a moment reached the trees.

Throwing himself from his horse, Chauncy rushed in among the undergrowth rifle in hand. He reached the edge of a small glade with a few bounds, and a thrilling sight was before him.

On the limb of a tree opposite to him was a large panther flattened out for a leap. Not five yards from the tree was a young girl, her face blanched with terror!