The last pronghorn finally scrambled up the far bank, exhausted but alive.
The entire crossing had taken less than ten minutes, but the cost was staggering. In that short window, the fifty or so alligators lurking in the river had torn apart at least thirty pronghorns. For a mid-sized herd, that was a bloodbath.
But for the survivors, the gamble paid off. Ahead of them lay the vast, fertile stretches of the Mississippi plains. There was enough frozen grass there to keep the whole herd alive until spring.
As the pronghorns vanished into the distance, my family finished off the last of our meal.
Mom and Dad were back in "strategic mode." Our destination was the same—the plains—which meant we had to follow the same trail. But looking at that churning water and the armored prehistoric logs floating in it, even Mom and Dad weren't feeling brave.
"So, do we detour?" I wondered.
They shot that idea down fast. We didn't know the other routes, there was no guarantee of food, and the Ice Age had a nasty habit of killing travelers who got lost. That left us with one option: we had to cross.
But Sabertooths aren't pronghorns. We don't do the "strength in numbers" thing, and we definitely don't like throwing our lives away on a coin flip. Mom and Dad didn't want to risk themselves, and they sure as hell didn't want Zack, Zoe, or me ending up as alligator snacks.
So, we waited.
Days bled into each other. I lost track of time in the boredom of the stakeout. I was starting to think we'd be stuck on this bank forever until a sound like rolling thunder shook me awake.
Rumble... rumble...
The ground was thumping. Trees shivered. On the horizon, a massive wall of dust kicked up, looking like a localized sandstorm screaming toward the river. Through the haze, I heard the rhythmic, heavy rhythmic pounding of thousands of hooves.
"Long-horned Bison!!"
As they got closer, I finally saw the monsters.
If you want to talk about the most dangerous herbivores in North America, forget Mammoths or Giant Sloths. It's the Bison. They're aggressive, they have tempers like landmines, and when they move in a herd this size, nothing—and I mean nothing—stands in their way.
These were Bison latifrons—the "Giant Bison." They were absolute units. An adult was over four meters long and stood 2.5 meters at the shoulder, weighing in at two tons. They were nearly twice the size of modern American bison.
But their most terrifying feature was the horns. They had a massive spread—over two meters wide—curving out like two lethal scimitars bolted to their skulls. They looked like they were looking for a reason to kill something.
The herd was endless, a black sea of fur and muscle stretching to the horizon.
"Roar~~"
Mom and Dad didn't need to be told twice. They barked at us to get moving and we scrambled out of the way.
The bison weren't there to play. They hit the riverbank and barely paused before the lead bulls started pushing into the water in a disciplined, heavy line. They were just going to "tank" the crossing.
The alligators saw the meat coming and swarmed in, their cold eyes locked on the giants. Gators are fearless—they'd try to bite a mountain if it moved—and a group of them lunged at a stray bull.
"Mooo~~"
The bull let out a furious bellow as the gators clamped onto his hide. He started thrashing in the current, but he wasn't alone.
The bison behind him didn't slow down. They lunged forward, bringing their massive "iron" hooves down directly on top of the attacking alligators.
Cranch.
I could practically hear the gators' internal organs being rearranged. The sheer weight of a two-ton bison crushed the life out of them instantly. The gators had to let go or be turned into luggage. More bison surged forward, trampling the gators into the mud.
A few moments later, a couple of alligator carcasses floated to the surface, looking like they'd been run over by a steamroller.
The rest of the gators realized they'd picked a fight with the wrong crowd. Bison weren't soft-necked pronghorns; they were armored tanks that fought back. The gators backed off the adults and started looking for the smaller calves.
"Roar~~"
That was the signal. Mom gave the order: Now
I saw the plan immediately. We were going to hitch a ride in the wake of the bison. With thousands of two-ton monsters churning up the water, the alligators would be too busy trying not to get stomped to notice five tigers slipping through the middle.
Alligators have terrible eyesight anyway—they rely on vibrations and scent. In this chaos, with the water thumping from bison hooves, we'd be invisible.
Time to play "Follow the Leader," I thought, bracing myself for the freezing water. Let's hope these bison don't mind a few hitchhikers.