Two years passed away--the Mustang Valley settlement advanced
prosperously, despite one or two attacks made upon it by the savages,
who were, however, firmly repelled; Dick Varley had now become a man,
and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The "silver rifle," as
Dick's weapon had come to be named, was well-known among the hunters and
the Red-skins of the border-lands, and in Dick's hands its bullets were
as deadly as its owner's eye was quick and true.
Crusoe's education, too, had been completed. Faithfully and patiently
had his young master trained his mind, until he fitted him to be a meet
companion in the hunt. To "carry" and "fetch" were now but trifling
portions of the dog's accomplishments. He could dive a fathom deep in
the lake and bring up any article that might have been dropped or thrown
in. His swimming powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his
muscles, that he seemed to spurn the water while passing through it,
with his broad chest high out of the curling wave, at a speed that
neither man nor beast could keep up with for a moment. His intellect
now was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a second bidding.
When Dick went out hunting he used frequently to drop a mitten or a
powder-horn unknown to the dog, and, after walking miles away from it,
would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle face of his
companion.
"Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with which he would have
addressed a human friend, "I've dropped my mitten, go fetch it, pup."
Dick continued to call it "pup" from habit.
One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye, and in a moment he
was away at full gallop; nor did he rest until the lost article was
lying at his master's feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his
track Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back five and six
miles at a stretch; but his powers did not stop here. He could carry
articles back to the spot from which they had been taken and leave them
there. He could head the game that his master was pursuing and turn it
back; and he would guard any object he was desired to "watch" with
unflinching constancy. But it would occupy too much space and time to
enumerate all Crusoe's qualities and powers. His biography will unfold
them.
In personal appearance he was majestic, having grown to an immense size
even for a Newfoundland. Had his visage been at all wolfish in
character, his aspect would have been terrible. But he possessed in an
eminent degree that mild, humble expression of face peculiar to his
race. When roused or excited, and especially when bounding through the
forest with the chase in view, he was absolutely magnificent. At other
times his gait was slow, and he seemed to prefer a _quiet_ walk with
Dick Varley to anything else under the sun. But when Dick was inclined
to be boisterous Crusoe's tail and ears rose at a moment's notice, and
he was ready for _anything_. Moreover, he obeyed commands instantly and
implicitly. In this respect he put to shame most of the _boys_ of the
settlement, who were by no means famed for their habits of prompt
obedience.
Crusoe's eye was constantly watching the face of his master. When Dick
said "Go" he went, when he said "Come" he came. If he had been in the
midst of an excited bound at the throat of a stag, and Dick had called
out, "Down, Crusoe," he would have sunk to the earth like a stone. No
doubt it took many months of training to bring the dog to this state of
perfection; but Dick accomplished it by patience, perseverance, and
_love_.
Besides all this, Crusoe could speak! He spoke by means of the dog's
dumb alphabet in a way that defies description. He conversed, so to
speak, with his extremities--his head and his tail. But his eyes, his
soft brown eyes, were the chief medium of communication. If ever the
language of the eyes was carried to perfection, it was exhibited in the
person of Crusoe. But, indeed, it would be difficult to say which part
of his expressive face expressed most. The cocked ears of expectation;
the drooped ears of sorrow; the bright, full eye of joy; the half-closed
eye of contentment; and the frowning eye of indignation accompanied with
a slight, a very slight, pucker of the nose and a gleam of dazzling
ivory--ha! no enemy ever saw this last piece of canine language without
a full appreciation of what it meant. Then as to the tail--the
modulations of meaning in the varied wag of that expressive member! Oh!
it's useless to attempt description. Mortal man cannot conceive of the
delicate shades of sentiment expressible by a dog's tail, unless he has
studied the subject--the wag, the waggle, the cock, the droop, the
slope, the wriggle! Away with description--it is impotent and valueless
here!
As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild. He had been bitten, on the
sly, by half the ill-natured curs in the settlement, and had only shown
his teeth in return. He had no enmities--though several enemies--and he
had a thousand friends, particularly among the ranks of the weak and the
persecuted, whom he always protected and avenged when opportunity
offered. A single instance of this kind will serve to show his
character.
One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside the lake--the same
identical rock near which, when a pup, the latter had received his first
lesson. They were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a
fund of intelligence from the dog's mind, and had injected such wealth
of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced it understood every word he
said.
"This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain't it pup?"
Crusoe made a motion with his head which was quite as significant as a
nod.
"Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and have a slap at the
grizzly bars and a look at the Rocky Mountains. Wouldn't it be nuts,
pup?"
Crusoe looked dubious.
"What, you don't agree with me! Now, tell me, pup, wouldn't ye like to
grip a bar?"
Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion with his tail, as
though he would have said, "I've seen neither Rocky Mountains nor
grizzly bars, and know nothin' about 'em, but I'm open to conviction."
"You're a brave pup," rejoined Dick, stroking the dog's huge head
affectionately. "I wouldn't give you for ten times your weight in
golden dollars--if there be sich things."
Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded it as a truism
unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that a comparison between love and
dollars was preposterous.
At this point in the conversation a little dog with a lame leg hobbled
to the edge of the rocks in front of the spot where Dick was seated, and
looked down into the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so for
the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the liquid mirror, or
finding out what was going on among the fish, we cannot say, as it never
told us; but at that moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out
from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.
"Punish him, Crusoe," said Dick quickly.
Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been proud of, and seizing
the aggressor by the back, lifted him off his legs and held him,
howling, in the air--at the same time casting a look towards his master
for further instructions.
"Pitch him in," said Dick, making a sign with his hand.
Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the lake. Having
regarded his struggles there for a few moments with grave severity of
countenance, he walked slowly back and sat down beside his master.
The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three legs would carry
it, and the surly dog, having swam ashore, retired sulkily, with his
tail very much between his legs.
Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by great and small among
the well-disposed of the canine tribes of the Mustang Valley.
But Crusoe was not a mere machine. When not actively engaged in Dick
Varley's service, he busied himself with private little matters of his
own. He undertook modest little excursions into the woods or along the
margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but more frequently with a little
friend whose whole heart and being seemed to be swallowed up in
admiration of his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanised or geologised
on these excursions we will not venture to say. Assuredly he seemed as
though he did both, for he poked his nose into every bush and tuft of
moss, and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the ground--and, in
short, if he did not understand these sciences, he behaved very much as
if he did. Certainly he knew as much about them as many of the human
species do.
In these walks he never took the slightest notice of Grumps (that was
the little dog's name), but Grumps made up for this by taking excessive
notice of _him_. When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat down to
look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps trotted on too. When
Crusoe examined a bush Grumps sat down to watch him, and when he dug a
hole Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps never helped
him; his sole delight was in looking on. They didn't converse much,
these two dogs. To be in each other's company seemed to be happiness
enough--at least Grumps thought so.
There was one point at which Grumps stopped short, however, and ceased
to follow his friend; and that was when he rushed headlong into the lake
and disported himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters. Crusoe
was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog. Grumps, on the
contrary, held water in abhorrence, so he sat on the shores of the lake
disconsolate when his friend was bathing, and waited till he came out.
The only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed, was when Dick
Varley's whistle sounded faintly in the far distance. Then Crusoe would
prick up his ears, and stretch out at full gallop, clearing ditch, and
fence, and brake with his strong elastic bound, and leaving Grumps to
patter after him as fast as his four-inch legs would carry him. Poor
Grumps usually arrived at the village, to find both dog and master gone,
and would betake himself to his own dwelling, there to lie down and
sleep, and dream, perchance, of rambles and gambols with his gigantic
friend.