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

him! Ay, I wish I was as sure o' myself."

"Look to yer primin', then, an' we'll have tongues
and marrow bones for supper to-night, I'se warrant.
Hist! down on yer knees and go softly. We might
ha' run them down on horseback, but it's bad to wind
yer beasts on a trip like this, if ye can help it; an' it's
about as easy to stalk them. Leastways, we'll try.
Lift yer head slowly, Dick, an' don't show more nor the
half o't above the ridge."

Dick elevated his head as directed, and the scene that
met his view was indeed well calculated to send an
electric shock to the heart of an ardent sportsman.
The vast plain beyond was absolutely blackened with
countless herds of buffaloes, which were browsing on
the rich grass. They were still so far distant that their
bellowing, and the trampling of their myriad hoofs, only
reached the hunters like a faint murmur on the breeze.
In the immediate foreground, however, there was a
group of about half-a-dozen buffalo cows feeding quietly,
and in the midst of them an enormous old bull was
enjoying himself in his wallow. The animals, towards
which our hunters now crept with murderous intent,
are the fiercest and the most ponderous of the ruminating
inhabitants of the western wilderness. The name of
buffalo, however, is not correct. The animal is the bison,
and bears no resemblance whatever to the buffalo proper;
but as the hunters of the far west, and, indeed,
travellers generally, have adopted the misnomer, we bow
to the authority of custom and adopt it too.

Buffaloes roam in countless thousands all over the
North American prairies, from the Hudson Bay Territories,
north of Canada, to the shores of the Gulf of
Mexico.

The advance of white men to the west has driven
them to the prairies between the Missouri and the Rocky
Mountains, and has somewhat diminished their numbers;
but even thus diminished, they are still innumerable in
the more distant plains. Their colour is dark brown,
but it varies a good deal with the seasons. The hair
or fur, from its great length in winter and spring and
exposure to the weather, turns quite light; but when
the winter coat is shed off, the new growth is a beautiful
dark brown, almost approaching to jet-black. In
form the buffalo somewhat resembles the ox, but its
head and shoulders are much larger, and are covered
with a profusion of long shaggy hair which adds greatly
to the fierce aspect of the animal. It has a large hump
on the shoulder, and its fore-quarters are much larger,
in proportion, than the hind-quarters. The horns are
short and thick, the hoofs are cloven, and the tail is
short, with a tuft of hair at the extremity.

It is scarcely possible to conceive a wilder or more
ferocious and terrible monster than a buffalo bull. He
often grows to the enormous weight of two thousand
pounds. His lion-like mane falls in shaggy confusion
quite over his head and shoulders, down to the ground.
When he is wounded he becomes imbued with the spirit
of a tiger: he stamps, bellows, roars, and foams forth
his rage with glaring eyes and steaming nostrils, and
charges furiously at man and horse with utter recklessness.
Fortunately, however, he is not naturally pugnacious,
and can be easily thrown into a sudden panic.
Moreover, the peculiar position of his eye renders this
creature not so terrible as he would otherwise be to the
hunter. Owing to the stiff structure of the neck, and
the sunken, downward-looking eyeball, the buffalo cannot,
without an effort, see beyond the direct line of
vision presented to the habitual carriage of his head.
When, therefore, he is wounded, and charges, he does so
in a straight line, so that his pursuer can leap easily
out of his way. The pace of the buffalo is clumsy, and
apparently slow, yet, when chased, he dashes away over
the plains in blind blundering terror, at a rate that
leaves all but good horses far behind. He cannot keep
the pace up, however, and is usually soon overtaken.
Were the buffalo capable of the same alert and agile
motions of head and eye peculiar to the deer or wild
horse, in addition to his "bovine rage," he would be the
most formidable brute on earth. There is no object,
perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd
of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror.
They care not for their necks. All danger in front is
forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which
they fly. No thundering cataract is more tremendously
irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes
pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky
Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the
trembling plains.

The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury
usually indulged in during the hot months of summer,
when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and
drought. At this season they seek the low grounds in
the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying
amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being
saturated, is soft. The leader of the herd, a shaggy old
bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow.

It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did
so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of
Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the
operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo
cows. Joe consented with a nod, and the four spectators--for
Crusoe was as much taken up with the
proceedings as any of them--crouched in the grass, and
looked on.

Coming up to the swampy spot, the old bull gave a
grunt of satisfaction, and going down on one knee,
plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up,
and cast it aside. Having repeated this several times,
he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated
with dirty water and bedaubed with lumps of mud,
through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous
expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of
the hunters, as if he meant to say, "I've done it that
time, and no mistake!" The other buffaloes seemed to
think so too, for they came up and looked on with an
expression that seemed to say, "Well done, old fellow;
try that again!"


The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again,
plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until
he formed an excavation large enough to contain his
huge body. In this bath he laid himself comfortably
down, and began to roll and wallow about until he
mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which
completely covered him. When he came out of the
hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self
visible!

The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted
by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of
until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass
and washings by rain at length clear it away.

When the old bull vacated this delectable bath,
another bull, scarcely if at all less ferocious-looking,
stepped forward to take his turn; but he was interrupted
by a volley from the hunters, which scattered
the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds
in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror.
The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their
panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was
heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon.
The family party which had been fired at, however, did
not escape so well, Joe's rifle wounded a fat young
cow, and Dick Varley brought it down. Henri had
done his best, but as the animals were too far distant
for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at, and
hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted.
The others scattered and fled.

"Well done, Dick," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all
ran up to the cow that had fallen. "Your first shot at
the buffalo was a good un. Come, now, an' I'll show ye
how to cut it up an' carry off the tit-bits."

"Ah, mon dear ole bull!" exclaimed Henri, gazing
after the animal which he had wounded, and which was
now limping slowly away. "You is not worth goin'
after. Farewell--adieu."

"He'll be tough enough, I warrant," said Joe; "an'
we've more meat here nor we can lift."

"But wouldn't it be as well to put the poor brute
out o' pain?" suggested Dick.

"Oh, he'll die soon enough," replied Joe, tucking up
his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife.

Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of
looking at it. Saying that he would be back in a few
minutes, he reloaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his
side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was
now hid from view in a hollow of the plain.

In a few minutes he came in sight of it, and ran
forward with his rifle in readiness.

"Down, Crusoe," he whispered; "wait for me here."

Crusoe crouched in the grass instantly, and Dick
advanced. As he came on, the bull observed him, and
turned round bellowing with rage and pain to receive
him. The aspect of the brute on a near view was so
terrible that Dick involuntarily stopped too, and gazed
with a mingled feeling of wonder and awe, while it
bristled with passion, and blood-streaked foam dropped
from its open jaws, and its eyes glared furiously.
Seeing that Dick did not advance, the bull charged him
with a terrific roar; but the youth had firm nerves,
and although the rush of such a savage creature at full
speed was calculated to try the courage of any man,
especially one who had never seen a buffalo bull before,
Dick did not lose presence of mind. He remembered
the many stories he had listened to of this very thing
that was now happening; so, crushing down his excitement
as well as he could, he cocked his rifle and
awaited the charge. He knew that it was of no use to
fire at the head of the advancing foe, as the thickness
of the skull, together with the matted hair on the forehead,
rendered it impervious to a bullet.

When the bull was within a yard of him he leaped
lightly to one side and it passed. Just as it did so,
Dick aimed at its heart and fired, but his knowledge of
the creature's anatomy was not yet correct. The ball
entered the shoulder too high, and the bull, checking
himself as well as he could in his headlong rush, turned
round and made at Dick again.

The failure, coupled with the excitement, proved too
much for Dick; he could not resist discharging his
second barrel at the brute's head as it came on. He
might as well have fired at a brick wall. It shook its
shaggy front, and with a hideous bellow thundered forward.
Again Dick sprang to one side, but in doing so
a tuft of grass or a stone caught his foot, and he fell
heavily to the ground.

Up to this point Crusoe's admirable training had
nailed him to the spot where he had been left, although
the twitching of every fibre in his body and a low continuous
whine showed how gladly he would have hailed
permission to join in the combat; but the instant he
saw his master down, and the buffalo turning to charge
again, he sprang forward with a roar that would have
done credit to his bovine enemy, and seized him by the
nose. So vigorous was the rush that he well-nigh
pulled the bull down on its side. One toss of its head,
however, sent Crusoe high into the air; but it accomplished
this feat at the expense of its nose, which was
torn and lacerated by the dog's teeth.

Scarcely had Crusoe touched the ground, which he
did with a sounding thump, than he sprang up and
flew at his adversary again. This time, however, he
adopted the plan of barking furiously and biting by
rapid yet terrible snaps as he found opportunity, thus
keeping the bull entirely engrossed, and affording Dick
an opportunity of reloading his rifle, which he was not
slow to do. Dick then stepped close up, and while the
two combatants were roaring in each other's faces, he
shot the buffalo through the heart. It fell to the earth
with a deep groan.

Crusoe's rage instantly vanished on beholding this,
and he seemed to be filled with tumultuous joy at his
master's escape, for he gambolled round him, and whined
and fawned upon him in a manner that could not be
misunderstood.

"Good dog; thank'ee, my pup," said Dick, patting
Crusoe's head as he stooped to brush the dust from his
leggings. "I don't know what would ha' become o' me
but for your help, Crusoe."

Crusoe turned his head a little to one side, wagged
his tail, and looked at Dick with an expression that
said quite plainly, "I'd die for you, I would--not
once, or twice, but ten times, fifty times if need be--and
that not merely to save your life, but even