The Dog Crusoe and his Master by R. M. Ballantyne (free ebook reader for pc .TXT) 📖

Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating. We do not mean to assert that Dick had been previously eating grass. By no means. For several days past he had been mentally subsisting on the remarkable things that he heard and saw in the Pawnee village, and wondering how he was to get away without being scalped; he was now chewing the cud of this intellectual fare. We therefore repeat emphatically—in case any reader should have presumed to contradict us—that Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating!

Joe Blunt likewise sat by the fire along with him, ruminating too, and smoking besides. Henri also sat there smoking, and looking a little the worse of his late supper.

“I don’t like the look o’ things,” said Joe, blowing a whiff of smoke slowly from his lips, and watching it as it ascended into the still air. “That blackguard Mahtawa is determined not to let us off till he gits all our goods, an’ if he gits them, he may as well take our scalps too, for we would come poor speed in the prairies without guns, horses, or goods.”

Dick looked at his friend with an expression of concern. “What’s to be done?” said he.

“Ve must escape,” answered Henri; but his tone was not a hopeful one, for he knew the danger of their position better than Dick.

“Ay, we must escape; at least we must try,” said Joe; “but I’ll make one more effort to smooth over San-it-sa-rish, an’ git him to snub that villain Mahtawa.”

Just as he spoke the villain in question entered the tent with a bold, haughty air, and sat down before the fire in sullen silence. For some minutes no one spoke, and Henri, who happened at the time to be examining the locks of Dick’s rifle, continued to inspect them with an appearance of careless indifference that he was far from feeling.

Now, this rifle of Dick’s had become a source of unceasing wonder to the Indians,—wonder which was greatly increased by the fact that no one could discharge it but himself. Dick had, during his short stay at the Pawnee village, amused himself and the savages by exhibiting his marvellous powers with the “silver rifle.” Since it had been won by him at the memorable match in the Mustang Valley, it had scarce ever been out of his hand, so that he had become decidedly the best shot in the settlement, could “bark” squirrels (that is, hit the bark of the branch on which a squirrel happened to be standing, and so kill it by the concussion alone), and could “drive the nail” every shot. The silver rifle, as we have said, became “great medicine” to the Red-men, when they saw it kill at a distance which the few wretched guns they had obtained from the fur-traders could not even send a spent ball to. The double shot, too, filled them with wonder and admiration; but that which they regarded with an almost supernatural feeling of curiosity was the percussion cap, which in Dick’s hands always exploded, but in theirs was utterly useless!

This result was simply owing to the fact, that Dick after firing handed the rifle to the Indians without renewing the cap. So that when they loaded and attempted to fire, of course it merely snapped. When he wished again to fire, he adroitly exchanged the old cap for a new one. He was immensely tickled by the solemn looks of the Indians at this most incomprehensible of all “medicines,” and kept them for some days in ignorance of the true cause, intending to reveal it before he left. But circumstances now arose which banished all trifling thoughts from his mind.

Mahtawa raised his head suddenly, and said, pointing to the silver rifle, “Mahtawa wishes to have the two-shotted medicine gun. He will give his best horse in exchange.”

“Mahtawa is liberal,” answered Joe, “but the pale-faced youth cannot part with it. He has far to travel, and must shoot buffaloes by the way.”

“The pale-faced youth shall have a bow and arrows to shoot the buffalo,” rejoined the Indian.

“He cannot use the bow and arrow,” answered Joe; “he has not been trained like the Red-man.”

Mahtawa was silent for a few seconds, and his dark brows frowned more heavily than ever over his eyes.

“The Pale-faces are too bold,” he exclaimed, working himself into a passion; “they are in the power of Mahtawa. If they will not give the gun he will take it.”

He sprang suddenly to his feet as he spoke, and snatched the rifle from Henri’s hand.

Henri, being ignorant of the language, had not been able to understand the foregoing conversation, although he saw well enough that it was not an agreeable one but no sooner did he find himself thus rudely and unexpectedly deprived of the rifle, than he jumped up, wrenched it in a twinkling from the Indian’s grasp, and hurled him violently out of the tent.

In a moment Mahtawa drew his knife, uttered a savage yell, and sprang on the reckless hunter, who, however, caught his wrist, and held it as if in a vice. The yell brought a dozen warriors instantly to the spot, and before Dick had time to recover from his astonishment, Henri was surrounded and pinioned despite his herculean struggles.

Before Dick could move, Joe Blunt grasped his arm, and whispered quickly, “Don’t rise! You can’t help him! They daren’t kill him till San-it-sa-rish agrees.”

Though much surprised, Dick obeyed, but it required all his efforts, both of voice and hand, to control Crusoe, whose mind was much too honest and straightforward to understand such subtle pieces of diplomacy, and who strove to rush to the rescue of his ill-used friend.

When the tumult had partly subsided, Joe Blunt rose and said— “Have the Pawnee braves turned traitors that they draw the knife against those who have smoked with them the pipe of peace and eaten their maize? The Pale-faces are three; the Pawnees are thousands. If evil has been done, let it be laid before the chief. Mahtawa wishes to have the medicine gun. Although we said No, we could not part with it, he tried to take it by force. Are we to go back to the great chief of the Pale-faces, and say that the Pawnees are thieves? Are the Pale-faces henceforth to tell their children when they steal, ‘That is bad; that is like the Pawnee?’ No! this must not be. The rifle shall be restored, and we will forget this disagreement. Is it not so?”

There was an evident disposition on the part of many of the Indians, with whom Mahtawa was no favourite, to applaud this speech; but the wily chief sprang forward, and, with flashing eye, sought to turn the tables.

“The Pale-face speaks with soft words, but his heart is false. Is he not going to make peace with the enemies of the Pawnee? Is he not going to take goods to them, and make them gifts and promises? The Pale-faces are spies. They come to see the weakness of the Pawnee camp, but they have found that it is strong. Shall we suffer the false-hearts to escape? Shall they live? No! we will hang their scalps in our wigwams, for they have struck a chief and we will keep all their goods for our squaws—wah!”

This allusion to keeping all the goods had more effect on the minds of the vacillating savages than the chiefs eloquence. But a new turn was given to their thoughts by Joe Blunt remarking in a quiet, almost contemptuous tone—

“Mahtawa is not the great chief.”

“True, true,” they cried, and immediately hurried to the tent of San-it-sa-rish.

Once again this chief stood between the hunters and the savages, who wanted but a signal to fall on them. There was a long palaver, which ended in Henri being set at liberty, and the rifle being restored.

That evening, as the three friends sat beside their fire eating their supper of boiled maize and buffalo meat, they laughed and talked as carelessly as ever; but the gaiety was assumed, for they were at the time planning their escape from a tribe which, they foresaw, would not long refrain from carrying out