The Dog Crusoe and his Master

“I know who has charge o’ them,” said Dick; “I saw them grazing near the tent o’ that poor squaw whose baby was saved by Crusoe. Either her husband looks after them or some neighbours.”

“That’s well,” said Joe. “That’s one o’ my difficulties gone.”

“What are the others?”

“Well, d’ye see, they’re troublesome. We can’t git the horses out o’ camp without bein’ seen, for the red rascals would see what we were at in a jiffy. Then, if we do git ’em out, we can’t go off without our bales, an’ we needn’t think to take ’em from under the nose o’ the chief and his squaws without bein’ axed questions. To go off without them would niver do at all.”

“Joe,” said Dick, earnestly, “I’ve hit on a plan.”

“Have ye, Dick? what is’t?”

“Come and I’ll let ye see,” answered Dick, rising hastily and quitting the tent, followed by his comrades and his faithful dog.

It may be as well to remark here, that no restraint whatever had yet been put on the movements of our hunters as long as they kept to their legs, for it was well-known that any attempt by men on foot to escape from mounted Indians on the plains would be hopeless. Moreover, the savages thought that as long as there was a prospect of their being allowed to depart peaceably with their goods, they would not be so mad as to fly from the camp, and, by so doing, risk their lives and declare war with their entertainers. They had, therefore, been permitted to wander unchecked, as yet, far beyond the outskirts of the camp, and amuse themselves in paddling about the lake in the small Indian canoes and shooting wild-fowl.

Dick now led the way through the labyrinths of tents in the direction of the lake, and they talked and laughed loudly, and whistled to Crusoe as they went, in order to prevent their purpose being suspected. For the purpose of further disarming suspicion they went without their rifles. Dick explained his plan by the way, and it was at once warmly approved of by his comrades.

On reaching the lake they launched a small canoe, into which Crusoe was ordered to jump; then, embarking, they paddled swiftly to the opposite shore, singing a canoe song as they dipped their paddles in the moonlit waters of the lake. Arrived at the other side, they hauled the canoe up and hurried through the thin belt of wood and willows that intervened between the lake and the prairie. Here they paused.

“Is that the bluff, Joe?”

“No, Dick, that’s too near. T’other one’ll be best. Far away to the right. It’s a little one, and there’s others near it. The sharp eyes o’ the Red-skins won’t be so likely to be prowlin’ there.”

“Come on, then; but we’ll have to take down by the lake first.”

In a few minutes the hunters were threading their way through the outskirts of the wood at a rapid trot, in the opposite direction from the bluff, or wooded knoll, which they wished to reach. This they did lest prying eyes should have followed them. In a quarter of an hour they turned at right angles to their track, and struck straight out into the prairie, and after a long run they edged round and came in upon the bluff from behind. It was merely a collection of stunted but thick-growing willows.

Forcing their way into the centre of this they began to examine it.

“It’ll do,” said Joe.

“De very ting,” remarked Henri.

“Come here, Crusoe.”

Crusoe bounded to his master’s side, and looked up in his face.

“Look at this place, pup; smell it well.”

Crusoe instantly set off all round among the willows, in and out, snuffing everywhere, and whining with excitement.

“Come here, good pup; that will do. Now, lads, we’ll go back.” So saying, Dick and his friends left the bluff and retraced their steps to the camp. Before they had gone far, however, Joe halted, and said—

“D’ye know, Dick, I doubt if the pup’s so cliver as ye think. What if he don’t quite onderstand ye?”

Dick replied by taking off his cap and throwing it down, at the same time exclaiming, “Take it yonder, pup,” and pointing with his hand towards the bluff. The dog seized the cap, and went off with it at full speed towards the willows, where it left it, and came galloping back for the expected reward—not now, as in days of old, a bit of meat, but a gentle stroke of its head and a hearty clap on its shaggy side.

“Good pup, go now an’ fetch it.”

Away he went with a bound, and, in a few seconds, came back and deposited the cap at his master’s feet.

“Will that do?” asked Dick, triumphantly.

“Ay, lad, it will. The pup’s worth its weight in goold.”

“Oui, I have said, and I say it agen, de dog is human, so him is. If not—fat am he?”

Without pausing to reply to this perplexing question, Dick stepped forward again, and in half an hour or so they were back in the camp.

“Now for your part of the work, Joe; yonder’s the squaw that owns the half-drowned baby. Everything depends on her.”

Dick pointed to the Indian woman as he spoke. She was sitting beside her tent, and playing at her knee was the identical youngster that had been saved by Crusoe.

“I’ll manage it,” said Joe, and walked towards her, while Dick and Henri returned to the chiefs tent.

“Does the Pawnee woman thank the Great Spirit that her child is saved?” began Joe as he came up.

“She does,” answered the woman, looking up at the hunter. “And her heart is warm to the Pale-faces.”

After a short silence Joe continued—

“The Pawnee chiefs do not love the Pale-faces. Some of them hate them.”

“The Dark Flower knows it,” answered the woman; “she is sorry. She would help the Pale-faces if she could.”

This was uttered in a low tone, and with a meaning glance of the eye.

Joe hesitated again—could he trust her? Yes; the feelings that filled her breast and prompted her words were not those of the Indian just now—they were those of a mother, whose gratitude was too full for utterance.

“Will the Dark Flower,” said Joe, catching the name she had given herself, “help the Pale-face if he opens his heart to her? Will she risk the anger of her nation?”

“She will,” replied the woman; “she will do what she can.”

Joe and his dark friend now dropped their high-sounding style of speech, and spoke for some minutes rapidly in an undertone. It was finally arranged that on a given day, at a certain hour, the woman should take the four horses down the shores of the lake to its lower end, as if she were going for firewood, there cross the creek at the ford, and drive them to the willow-bluff, and guard them till the hunters should arrive.

Having settled this, Joe returned to the tent and informed his comrades of his success.

During the next three days Joe kept the Indians in good-humour by giving them one or two trinkets, and speaking in glowing terms of the riches of the white men, and the readiness with which they would part with them to the savages if they would only make peace.

Meanwhile, during the dark hours of each night, Dick managed to abstract small quantities of goods from their pack, in room of which he stuffed in pieces of leather to keep up the size and appearance. The goods thus taken out he concealed about his person, and went off with a careless swagger to the outskirts of the village, with Crusoe at his heels. Arrived there, he tied the goods in a small piece of deerskin, and gave the bundle to the dog, with the injunction, “Take it yonder, pup.”

Crusoe took it up at once, darted off at full speed with the bundle in his mouth, down the shore of the lake towards the ford of the river, and was soon lost to view. In this way, little by little, the goods were conveyed by the faithful dog to the willow-bluff and left there, while the stuffed pack still remained in safekeeping in the chief’s tent.

Joe did not at first like the idea of thus sneaking off from the camp; and more than once made strong efforts to induce San-it-sa-rish to let him go, but even that chief’s countenance was not so favourable as it had been. It was clear that he could not make up his mind to let slip so good a chance of obtaining guns, powder, and shot, horses and goods, without any trouble; so Joe made up his mind to give them the slip at once.

A dark night was chosen for the attempt, and the Indian woman went off with the horses to the place where firewood for the camp was usually cut. Unfortunately the suspicion of that wily savage Mahtawa had been awakened, and he stuck close to the hunters all day—not knowing what was going on, but feeling convinced that something was brewing which he resolved to watch, without mentioning his suspicions to any one.

“I think that villain’s away at last,” whispered Joe to his comrades; “it’s time to go, lads, the moon won’t be up for an hour. Come along.”

“Have ye got the big powder-horn, Joe?”

“Ay, ay, all right.”

“Stop! stop! my knife, my couteau. Ah! here it be. Now, boy.”

The three set off as usual, strolling carelessly to the outskirts of the camp; then they quickened their pace, and, gaining the lake, pushed off in a small canoe.

At the same moment Mahtawa stepped from the bushes, leaped into another canoe and followed them.

“Hah! he must die,” muttered Henri.

“Not at all,” said Joe, “we’ll manage him without that.”

The chief landed and strode boldly up to them, for he knew well that whatever their purpose might be, they would not venture to use their rifles within sound of the camp at that hour of the night; as for their knives, he could trust to his own active limbs and the woods to escape and give the alarm if need be.

“The Pale-faces hunt very late,” he said with a malicious grin. “Do they love the dark better than the sunshine?”

“Not so,” replied Joe, coolly, “but we love to walk by the light of the moon. It will be up in less than an hour, and we mean to take a long ramble to-night.”

“The Pawnee chief loves to walk by the moon too, he will go with the Pale-faces.”

“Good,” ejaculated Joe. “Come along, then.”

The party immediately set forward, although the savage was a little taken by surprise at the indifferent way in which Joe received his proposal to accompany them. He walked on to the edge of the prairie, however, and then stopped.

“The Pale-faces must go alone,” said he; “Mahtawa will return to his tent.”

Joe replied to this intimation by seizing him suddenly by the throat and choking back the yell that would otherwise have brought the Pawnee warriors rushing to the scene of action in hundreds. Mahtawa’s hand was on the handle of his scalping-knife in a moment, but before he could draw it, his arms were glued to his sides by the bear-like embrace of Henri, while Dick tied a handkerchief quickly yet firmly round his mouth. The whole thing was accomplished in two minutes. After taking his knife and tomahawk away, they loosened their gripe and escorted him swiftly over the prairie.

Mahtawa was perfectly submissive after the first convulsive struggle was over. He knew that the men who walked on each side of him grasping his arms were more than his match singly, so he wisely made no resistance.

Hurrying him to a clump of small trees on the plain which was so far distant from the village that a yell could not be heard, they removed the bandage from Mahtawa’s mouth.

“Must he be kill?” inquired Henri, in a tone of commiseration.

“Not at all” answered Joe, “we’ll tie him to a tree and leave him there.”

“Then he vill be starve to deat’. Oh! dat is more horrobell!”

“He must take his chance o’ that. I’ve no doubt his friends’ll find him in a day or two, an’ he’s game to last for a week or more. But you’ll have to run to the willow-bluff, Dick, and bring a bit of line to tie him. We can’t spare it well; but there’s no help.”

“But there is help,” retorted Dick. “Just order the villain to climb into that tree.”

“Why so, lad?”

“Don’t ask questions, but do what I bid ye.”

The hunter smiled for a moment as he turned to the Indian, and ordered him to climb up a small tree near to which he stood. Mahtawa looked surprised, but there was no alternative. Joe’s authoritative tone brooked no delay, so he sprang into the tree like a monkey.

“Crusoe,” said Dick, “watch him!”

The dog sat quietly down at the foot of the tree, and fixed his eyes on the savage with a glare that spoke unutterable things. At the same time he displayed his full compliment of teeth, and uttered a sound like distant thunder.

Joe almost laughed, and Henri did laugh outright.

“Come along, he’s safe now,” cried Dick, hurrying away in the direction of the willow-bluff, which they soon reached, and found that the faithful squaw had tied their steeds to the bushes, and, moreover, had bundled up their goods into a pack, and strapped it on the back of the pack-horse; but she had not remained with them.

“Bless yer dark face,” ejaculated Joe as he sprang into the saddle and rode out of the clump of bushes. He was followed immediately by the others, and in three minutes they were flying over the plain at full speed.

On gaining the last far-off ridge, that afforded a distant view of the woods skirting the Pawnee camp, they drew up, and Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth, drew a long, shrill whistle.

It reached the willow-bluff like a faint echo. At the same moment the moon arose and more clearly revealed Crusoe’s catalyptic glare at the Indian chief, who, being utterly unarmed, was at the dog’s mercy. The instant the whistle fell on his ear, however, he dropped his eyes, covered his teeth, and, leaping through the bushes, flew over the plains like an arrow. At the same instant Mahtawa, descending from his tree, ran as fast as he could towards the village, uttering the terrible war-whoop when near enough to be heard. No sound sends such a thrill through an Indian camp. Every warrior flew to arms, and vaulted on his steed. So quickly was the alarm given that in less than ten minutes a thousand hoofs were thundering on the plain, and faintly reached the ears of the fugitives.

Joe smiled. “It’ll puzzle them to come up wi’ nags like ours. They’re in prime condition too, lots o’ wind in ’em. If we only keep out o’ badger holes we may laugh at the red varmints.”

Joe’s opinion of Indian horses was correct. In a very few minutes the sound of hoofs died away, but the fugitives did not draw bridle during the remainder of that night, for they knew not how long the pursuit might be continued. By pond, and brook, and bluff they passed, down in the grassy bottoms and over the prairie waves,—nor checked their headlong course till the sun blazed over the level sweep of the eastern plain as if it arose out of the mighty ocean.

Then they sprang from the saddle and hastily set about the preparation of their morning meal.

Chapter Eleven.

Evening meditations and morning reflections—Buffaloes, badgers, antelopes, and accidents—An old bull and the wolves—“Mad-tails”—Henri floored, etcetera

There is nothing that prepares one so well for the enjoyment of rest, both mental and physical, as a long-protracted period of excitement and anxiety, followed up by bodily fatigue. Excitement alone banishes rest; but, united with severe physical exertion, it prepares for it. At least, courteous reader, this is our experience, and certainly this was the experience of our three hunters as they lay on their backs beneath the branches of a willow bush, and gazed serenely up at the twinkling stars, two days after their escape from the Indian village.

They spoke little; they were too tired for that; also, they were too comfortable. Their respective suppers of fresh antelope steak, shot that day, had just been disposed of; their feet were directed towards the small fire on which the said steaks had been cooked, and which still threw a warm, ruddy glow over the encampment. Their blankets were wrapped comfortably round them, and tucked in as only hunters and mothers know how to tuck them in. Their respective pipes delivered forth, at stated intervals, three richly yellow puffs of smoke, as if a three-gun battery were playing upon the sky from that particular spot of earth. The horses were picketted and hobbled in a rich grassy bottom close by, from which the quiet munch of their equine jaws sounded pleasantly, for it told of healthy appetites, and promised speed on the morrow. The fear of being overtaken during the night was now past, and the faithful Crusoe, by virtue of sight, hearing, and smell, guaranteed them against sudden attack during the hours of slumber. A perfume of wild flowers mingled with the loved odours of the “weed,” and the tinkle of a tiny rivulet fell sweetly on their ears. In short, the “Pale-faces” were supremely happy, and disposed to be thankful for their recent deliverance and their present comforts.

“I wonder what the stars are,” said Dick, languidly taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“Bits o’ fire,” suggested Joe.

“I tink dey are vorlds,” muttered Henri, “an’ have peepels in dem. I have hear men say dat.”

A long silence followed, during which, no doubt, the star-gazers were working out various theories in their own minds.

“Wonder,” said Dick again, “how far off they be.”

“A mile or two, maybe,” said Joe.

Henri was about to laugh sarcastically at this; but, on further consideration, he thought it would be more comfortable not to, so he lay still. In another minute he said—“Joe Blunt, you is ver’ igrant. Don’t you know dat de books say de stars be hondreds, tousands,—oh! milleryons of mile away to here, and dat de is more bigger dan dis vorld?”

Joe snored lightly, and his pipe fell out of his mouth at this point, so the conversation dropped. Presently Dick asked, in a low tone, “I say, Henri, are ye asleep?”

“Oui,” replied Henri, faintly. “Don’t speak, or you vill vaken me.”

“Ah! Crusoe, you’re not asleep, are you, pup?” No need to ask that question. The instantaneous wag of that speaking fail, and the glance of that wakeful eye, as the dog lifted his head and laid his chin on Dick’s arm, showed that he had been listening to every word that was spoken. We cannot say whether he understood it, but beyond all doubt he heard it. Crusoe never presumed to think of going to sleep until his master was as sound as a top; then he ventured to indulge in that light species of slumber which is familiarly known as “sleeping with one eye open.” But, comparatively, as well as figuratively speaking, Crusoe slept usually with one eye and a-half open, and the other half was never very tightly shut.

Gradually Dick’s pipe fell out of his mouth, an event which the dog, with an exercise of instinct almost, if not quite, amounting to reason, regarded as a signal for him to go off. The campfire went slowly out, the stars twinkled down at their reflections in the brook, and a deep breathing of wearied men was the only sound that rose in harmony with the purling stream.

Before the sun rose next morning, and while many of the brighter stars were still struggling for existence with the approaching day, Joe was up and buckling on the saddle-bags, while he shouted to his unwilling companions to rise.

“If it depended on you,” he said, “the Pawnees wouldn’t be long afore they got our scalps. Jump, ye dogs, an’ lend a hand, will ye!”

A snore from Dick and a deep sigh from Henri was the answer to this pathetic appeal. It so happened, however, that Henri’s pipe, in falling from his lips, had emptied the ashes just under his nose, so that the sigh referred to drew a quantity thereof into his throat, and almost choked him. Nothing could have been a more effective awakener. He was up in a moment coughing vociferously. Most men have a tendency to vent ill-humour on some one, and they generally do it on one whom they deem to be worse than themselves. Henri, therefore, instead of growling at Joe for rousing him, scolded Dick for not rising.

“Ha, mauvais dog! bad chien, vill you dare to look to me?”

Crusoe did look with amiable placidity, as though to say, “Howl away, old boy, I won’t budge till Dick does.”

With a mighty effort Giant Sleep was thrown off at last, and the hunters were once more on their journey, cantering lightly over the soft turf.

“Ho! let’s have a run,” cried Dick, unable to repress the feelings aroused by the exhilarating morning air.

“Have a care, boy,” cried Joe, as they stretched out at full gallop. “Keep off the ridge; it’s riddled wi’ badger—Hah! I thought so.”

At that moment Dick’s horse put its foot into a badger hole, and turned completely over, sending its rider through the air in a curve that an East Indian acrobat would have envied. For a few seconds Dick lay flat on his back; then he jumped up and laughed, while his comrades hurried up anxiously to his assistance.

“No bones broke?” inquired Joe.

Dick gave a hysterical gasp. “I—I think not.”

“Let’s have a look. No, nothin’ to speak o’, be good luck. Ye should niver go slap through a badger country like that, boy; always keep i’ the bottoms, where the grass is short. Now then, up ye go. That’s it!”

Dick remounted, though not with quite so elastic a spring as usual, and they pushed forward at a more reasonable pace.

Accidents of this kind are of common occurrence in the prairies. Some horses, however, are so well trained that they look sharp out for these holes, which are generally found to be most numerous on the high and dry grounds. But in spite of all the caution both of man and horse, many ugly falls take place, and sometimes bones are broken.

They had not gone far after this accident, when an antelope leaped from a clump of willows and made for a belt of woodland that lay along the margin of a stream not half a mile off.

“Hurrah!” cried Dick, forgetting his recent fall. “Come along, Crusoe.” And away they went again full tilt, for the horse had not been injured by its somersault.

The antelope which Dick was thus wildly pursuing was of the same species as the one he had shot some time before, namely, the prong-horned antelope. These graceful creatures have long, slender limbs, delicately formed heads, and large, beautiful eyes. The horns are black, and rather short; they have no branches like the antlers of the red-deer, but have a single projection on each horn, near the head, and the extreme points of the horns curve suddenly inwards, forming the hook or prong from which the name of the animal is derived. Their colour is dark yellowish brown. They are so fleet that not one horse in a hundred can overtake them, and their sight and sense of smell are so acute, that it would be next to impossible to kill them, were it not for the inordinate curiosity which we have before referred to. The Indians manage to attract these simple little creatures by merely lying down on their backs and kicking their heels in the air, or by waving any white object on the point of an arrow, while the hunter keeps concealed by lying flat in the grass. By these means a herd of antelopes may be induced to wheel round and round an object in timid, but intense, surprise, gradually approaching until they come near enough to enable the hunter to make sure of his mark. Thus the animals, which of all others ought to be the most difficult to slay, are, in consequence of their insatiable curiosity, more easily shot than any other deer of the plains.

May we not gently suggest to the reader for his or her consideration that there are human antelopes, so to speak, whose case bears a striking resemblance to the prong-horn of the North American prairie?

Dick’s horse was no match for the antelope; neither was Crusoe, so they pulled up shortly and returned to their companions to be laughed at.

“It’s no manner o’ use to wind yer horse, lad, after sich game. They’re not much worth, an’, if I mistake not, we’ll be among the buffalo soon. There’s fresh tracks everywhere, and the herds are scattered now. Ye see, when they keep together in bands o’ thousands ye don’t so often fall in wi’ them. But when they scatters about in twos, an’ threes, an sixes, ye may shoot them every day as much as ye please.”

Several groups of buffalo had already been seen on the horizon; but as a red-deer had been shot in a belt of woodland the day before, they did not pursue them. The red-deer is very much larger than the prong-horned antelope, and is highly esteemed both for its flesh and its skin, which latter becomes almost like chamois leather when dressed. Notwithstanding this supply of food, the hunters could not resist the temptation to give chase to a herd of about nine buffaloes that suddenly came into view as they overtopped an undulation in the plain.