The Dog Crusoe and His Master: A Story of Adventure in the Western Prairies by - (e reader .txt) 📖

principle in his mind never to
give in. At first the check upon Charlie's speed was
imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic
dog began to tell, and after a time they fell a little to
the rear; then by good fortune the troop passed through
a mass of underwood, and the line getting entangled
brought their mad career forcibly to a close; the mustangs
passed on, and the two friends were left to keep
each other company in the dark.

How long they would have remained thus is uncertain,
for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a
complicated entanglement. Fortunately, however, in his
energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe's sharp teeth partially
severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie
caused it to part. Before he could escape, Crusoe again
seized the end of it, and led him slowly but steadily
back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside
until he had placed the line in Dick Varley's hand.

"Hallo, pup! where have ye bin? How did ye bring
him here?" exclaimed Dick, as he gazed in amazement
at his foam-covered horse.

Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, "Be thankful
that you've got him, Dick, my boy, and don't ask questions
that you know I can't answer."

"He must ha' broke loose and jined the stampede,"
remarked Joe, coming out of the chief's tent at the
moment; "but tie him up, Dick, and come in, for we
want to settle about startin' to-morrow or nixt day."

Having fastened Charlie to a stake, and ordered
Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where
the council had reassembled, and where Pee-eye-em--having,
in the recent struggle, split the blue surtout
completely up to the collar, so that his backbone was
visible throughout the greater part of its length--was
holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace
in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient
enemies of the Shirry-dikas, in particular.



CHAPTER XXIV.


Plans and prospects--Dick becomes home-sick, and Henri
metaphysical--Indians attack the camp--A blow-up.


On the following day the Indians gave themselves
up to unlimited feasting, in consequence of the
arrival of a large body of hunters with an immense
supply of buffalo meat. It was a regular day of rejoicing.
Upwards of six hundred buffaloes had been killed
and as the supply of meat before their arrival had been
ample, the camp was now overflowing with plenty.


Feasts were given by the chiefs, and the medicine men
went about the camp uttering loud cries, which were
meant to express gratitude to the Great Spirit for the
bountiful supply of food. They also carried a portion
of meat to the aged and infirm who were unable to hunt
for themselves, and had no young men in their family
circle to hunt for them.

This arrival of the hunters was a fortunate circumstance,
as it put the Indians in great good-humour, and
inclined them to hold friendly intercourse with the
trappers, who for some time continued to drive a brisk
trade in furs. Having no market for the disposal of
their furs, the Indians of course had more than they
knew what to do with, and were therefore glad to exchange
those of the most beautiful and valuable kind
for a mere trifle, so that the trappers laid aside their
traps for a time and devoted themselves to traffic.

Meanwhile Joe Blunt and his friends made preparations
for their return journey.

"Ye see," remarked Joe to Henri and Dick, as they
sat beside the fire in Pee-eye-em's lodge, and feasted on
a potful of grasshopper soup, which the great chief's
squaw had just placed before them--"ye see, my calc'lations
is as follows. Wot with trappin' beavers and
huntin', we three ha' made enough to set us up, an it
likes us, in the Mustang Valley--"

"Ha!" interrupted Dick, remitting for a few seconds
the use of his teeth in order to exercise his
tongue--ha! Joe, but it don't like me! What, give up a
hunter's life and become a farmer? I should think not!"

"Bon!" ejaculated Henri, but whether the remark
had reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment
we cannot tell.

"Well," continued Joe, commencing to devour a large
buffalo steak with a hunter's appetite, "ye'll please yourselves,
lads, as to that; but as I wos sayin', we've got a
powerful lot o' furs, an' a big pack o' odds and ends for
the Injuns we chance to meet with by the way, an'
powder and lead to last us a twelvemonth, besides five
good horses to carry us an' our packs over the plains;
so if it's agreeable to you, I mean to make a bee-line for
the Mustang Valley. We're pretty sure to meet with
Blackfeet on the way, and if we do we'll try to make
peace between them an' the Snakes. I 'xpect it'll be
pretty well on for six weeks afore we git to home, so
we'll start to-morrow."

"Dat is fat vill do ver' vell," said Henri; "vill you
please donnez me one petit morsel of steak."

"I'm ready for anything, Joe," cried Dick; "you are
leader. Just point the way, and I'll answer for two o'
us followin' ye--eh! won't we, Crusoe?"

"We will," remarked the dog quietly.

"How comes it," inquired Dick, "that these Indians
don't care for our tobacco?"

"They like their own better, I s'pose," answered Joe;
"most all the western Injuns do. They make it o' the
dried leaves o' the shumack and the inner bark o' the
red-willow, chopped very small an' mixed together.
They call this stuff kinnekinnik; but they like to mix
about a fourth o' our tobacco with it, so Pee-eye-em tells
me, an' he's a good judge. The amount that red-skinned
mortal smokes is oncommon."

"What are they doin' yonder?" inquired Dick, pointing
to a group of men who had been feasting for some
time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio.

"Goin' to sing, I think," replied Joe.

As he spoke six young warriors were seen to work
their bodies about in a very remarkable way, and give
utterance to still more remarkable sounds, which gradually
increased until the singers burst out into that
terrific yell, or war-whoop, for which American savages
have long been famous. Its effect would have been appalling
to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their
voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones, while their
action corresponded thereto. Suddenly the furious style
was revived, and the men wrought themselves into a
condition little short of madness, while their yells rang
wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary
canine nature to withstand, so all the dogs in the
neighbourhood joined in the horrible chorus.

Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities
of Indians and their curs with dignified contempt.
He paid no attention to this serenade, but lay sleeping
by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take
leave of their host and return to the camp of the fur-traders.
The remainder of that night was spent in
making preparations for setting forth on the morrow;
and when, at gray dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down
to snatch a few hours' repose, the yells and howling
in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as
ever.

The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping
the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy
peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and
gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when
Dick and Joe and Henri mounted their gallant steeds,
and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses
trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward,
and bade adieu to the Indian camp.

Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well
aware that he and his companions were on their way
home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering
over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of
Dick Varley's cottage, and of Dick's mild, kind-hearted
mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own
mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did
so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been
unworthy the title of hero if he hadn't. Perchance he
thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure.
We rather think, upon the whole, that he did.

Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction
of home. Sweet word! Those who have never left it
cannot, by any effort of imagination, realize the full import
of the word "home." Dick was a bold hunter; but
he was young, and this was his first long expedition.
Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing
dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he
thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn
to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however,
when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly,
and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the
chase; but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became
thoroughly home-sick, and while admitting the fact to
himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades.
He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor
Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human
nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even
Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master,
although he could not exactly make out what it was.
But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his
memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his
master's new disease with the care and minute exactness
of a physician, and, we doubt not, ultimately added the
knowledge of the symptoms of home-sickness to his
already well-filled stores of erudition.

It was not till they had set out on their homeward
journey that Dick Varley's spirits revived, and it was
not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern
slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the
greensward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick
ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.

"D'ye know, Joe," he said confidentially, reining up
his gallant steed after a sharp gallop--"d'ye know I've
bin feelin' awful low for some time past."

"I know it, lad," answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in
which there was a dash of something that implied he
knew more than he chose to express.

Dick felt surprised, but he continued, "I wonder what
it could have bin. I never felt so before."

"'Twas home-sickness, boy," returned Joe.

"How d'ye know that?"

"The same way as how I know most things--by
experience an' obsarvation. I've bin home-sick myself
once, but it was long, long agone."

Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by
such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy
having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to
the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious
partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking
part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical,
and were hard to be understood. Most conversations
that were not connected with eating and hunting were
of this nature to Henri.

"Hom'-sik," he cried, "veech mean bein' sik of hom'!
Hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de
expedition. Oui, vraiment."

"I always packs up," continued Joe, paying no attention
to Henri's remark--"I always packs up an' sets
off for home when I gits home-sick. It's the best cure;
an' when hunters are young like you, Dick, it's the only cure. I've
knowed
fellers a'most die o' home-sickness,
an' I'm told they do go under altogether
sometimes."

"Go onder!" exclaimed Henri; "oui, I vas all but
die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom'. If I
have not git away, I not be here to-day."

Henri's idea of home-sickness was so totally opposed
to theirs that his comrades only laughed, and refrained
from attempting to set him right.

"The fust time I wos took bad with it wos in a
country somethin' like that," said Joe, pointing to the
wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters
of trees and meandering streamlets, that lay before them.
"I had bin out about two months, an' was makin' a
good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to
think somehow more than usual o' home. My mother
wos alive then."

Joe's voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said
this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence.

"Well, it grew worse and worse. I dreamed o' home
all night an' thought of it all day, till I began to shoot
bad, an' my comrades wos gittin' tired o' me; so says I
to them one night, says I, 'I give out, lads; I'll make
tracks for the settlement to-morrow.' They tried to
laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed
up, bid them good-day, an' sot off alone on a trip o' five
hundred miles. The very first mile o' the way back I
began to mend, and before two days I wos all right
again."

Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden
appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an
eminence not half-a-mile distant. The three friends
instantly drove their pack-horses behind a clump of
trees; but not