_The backwoods settlement--Crusoe's parentage and early history--The
agonizing pains and sorrows of his puppyhood, and other interesting
matters_.
CHAPTER II.
_A shooting-match and its consequences--New friends introduced to the
reader--Crusoe and his mother change masters_.
CHAPTER III.
_Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree--An
old woman--Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts--The dog
Crusoe's education begun_.
CHAPTER IV.
_Our hero enlarged upon_--_Grumps_.
CHAPTER V.
_A mission of peace--Unexpected joys--Dick and Crusoe set off for the
land of the Redskins, and meet with adventures by the way as a matter
of course--in the wild woods_.
CHAPTER VI.
_The great prairies of the far west--A remarkable colony discovered,
and a miserable night endured_.
CHAPTER VII.
_The "wallering" peculiarities of buffalo bulls--The first buffalo
hunt and its consequences--Crusoe comes to the rescue--Pawnees
discovered--A monster buffalo hunt--Joe acts the part of ambassador_.
CHAPTER VIII.
_Dick and his friends visit the Indians and see many wonders--Crusoe,
too, experiences a few surprises, and teaches Indian dogs a lesson--An
Indian dandy--A foot-race_.
CHAPTER IX.
_Crusoe acts a conspicuous and humane part--A friend gained--A great
feast_.
CHAPTER X.
_Perplexities--Our hunters plan their escape--Unexpected
interruption--The tables turned--Crusoe mounts guard--The escape_.
CHAPTER XI.
_Evening meditations and morning reflections--Buffaloes, badgers,
antelopes, and accidents--An old bull and the wolves--"Mad
tails"--Henri floored, etc_.
CHAPTER XII.
_Wanderings on the prairie--A war party--Chased by Indians--A bold
leap for life_.
CHAPTER XIII.
_Escape from Indians--A discovery--Alone in the desert_.
CHAPTER XIV.
_Crusoe's return, and his private adventures among the Indians--Dick
at a very low ebb--Crusoe saves him_.
CHAPTER XV.
_Health and happiness return--Incidents of the journey--A buffalo
shot--A wild horse "creased"--Dick's battle with a mustang_.
CHAPTER XVI.
_Dick becomes a horse tamer--Resumes his journey--Charlie's
doings--Misfortunes which lead to, but do not terminate in, the Rocky
Mountains--A grizzly bear_.
CHAPTER XVII.
_Dick's first fight with a grizzly--Adventure with a deer--A
surprise_.
CHAPTER XVIII.
_A surprise, and a piece of good news--The fur-traders--Crusoe proved,
and the Peigans pursued_.
CHAPTER XIX.
_Adventures with the Peigans--Crusoe does good service as a
discoverer--The savages outwitted--The rescue_.
CHAPTER XX.
_New plans--Our travellers join the fur-traders, and see many strange
things--A curious fight--A narrow escape, and a prisoner taken_.
CHAPTER XXI.
_Wolves attack the horses, and Cameron circumvents the wolves--A
bear-hunt, in which Henri shines conspicuous--Joe and the
"Natter-list"--An alarm--A surprise and a capture_.
CHAPTER XXII.
_Charlie's adventures with savages and bears--Trapping life_.
CHAPTER XXIII.
_Savage sports--Living cataracts--An alarm--Indians and their
doings--The stampede--Charlie again_.
CHAPTER XXIV.
_Plans and prospects--Dick becomes home-sick, and Henri
metaphysical--The Indians attack the camp--A blow-up_.
CHAPTER XXV.
_Dangers of the prairie--Our travellers attacked by Indians, and
delivered in a remarkable manner_.
CHAPTER XXVI.
_Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise--Safe home at last, and
happy hearts_.
CHAPTER XXVII.
_Rejoicings--The feast at the block-house--Grumps and Crusoe come out
strong--The closing scene_.
THE DOG CRUSOE.
CHAPTER I.
_The backwoods settlement--Crusoe's parentage, and early
history--The agonizing pains and sorrows of his puppyhood, and other
interesting matters_.
The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss your
head contemptuously, and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told
_you_ that." You know very well that you have often seen a man above
six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggy
visage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, or
thought, or heard others say, "It is scarcely possible to believe that
such a man was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero in
all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would have
experienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you--as we now
repeat--that the dog Crusoe was once a pup--a soft, round, sprawling,
squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind as a bat.
But we draw particular attention to the fact of Crusoe's having once
been a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood there
hangs a tale.
This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails--one in
connection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, though
short, is very harrowing, and as it is intimately connected with
Crusoe's subsequent history we will relate it here. But before doing
so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilized
portions of the United States of America--beyond the frontier
settlements of the "far west," into those wild prairies which are
watered by the great Missouri River--the Father of Waters--and his
numerous tributaries.
Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawarers, the Crows, the
Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are gradually
retreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancing
white man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here,
too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, and
the badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamed
and ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that
sweeps over their mighty plains.
There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of one
of the tributaries above referred to--long stretch of mingled woodland
and meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green
bosom--which goes by the name of the Mustang Valley. This remote vale,
even at the present day, is but thinly peopled by white men, and is
still a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowl
curiously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. At
the period of which we write the valley had just been taken possession
of by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and the
squabbles of the _then_ frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into
the far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have
"elbow room," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in
unknown lands and of the Redskins who dwelt there.
The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Most
of the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicit
reliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to
protect them; and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men
than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been
trained to the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of
them had spent so much of their lives in the woods that they were more
than a match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting
and war. When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the
valley, an immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on
the plain. These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men than,
uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze
and dashed away like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley
its name.
The new-comers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and
then set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard
ringing through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground,
while the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were
catering successfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang
Valley began to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with
cottages and waving fields clustered together in the midst of it.
Of course the savages soon found it out and paid it occasional visits.
These dark-skinned tenants of the woods brought furs of wild animals
with them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, and
beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the
"Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had at
this time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting-grounds,
and nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters
prevented these savages from butchering and scalping them all.
The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman
whose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to
exchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was a
first-rate shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist.
He was past the prime of life, and being a bachelor, was unencumbered
with a family. His first act on reaching the site of the new
settlement was to commence the erection of a block-house, to which the
people might retire in case of a general attack by the Indians.
In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of
the settlement. And here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in
the early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his
shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood; and from the wooden
portals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the
fire, and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood.
Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There was
no doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope had
received them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had
brought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was
Crusoe, the mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called
no one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained
the pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the
celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had
been named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a
friend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had received
him as a marriage-gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had said
to the other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons being
asked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the major's
friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being
much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him away
to a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the end of
him. He was never heard of more.
When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, of course, without a name.
That was given to him afterwards in honour of his father. He was also
born in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drowned
themselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, by
falling into the river which flowed past the block-house--a calamity
which occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out
without their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother and
sisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved from
sharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened,
dashed with an agonized howl into the water, and, seizing him in her
mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards
brought the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things were
dead.
And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the proper
understanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful.
One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American year
called the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to the
Mustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A
young hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades,
watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finished
a long "palaver" or talk with Major Hope, were now in the act of
preparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the greensward in front
of the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large
tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or
squaw, who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed
sundry cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her
playing with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The
master of the family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes,
smoking their stone pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing
peculiar in their appearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor
coarse in expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which
formed a striking contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who
seemed an amused spectator of their proceedings.
The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we
are accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did
not possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often
characterize these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no
one would have called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and
agility rather than strength. But the point about him which rendered
him different from his companions was his bounding, irrepressible
flow of spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary
wandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted for social
enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee in
his mischief-loving eye; yet for days together he went off alone into
the forest, and wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silent
as an Indian warrior.
After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followed
implicitly the dictates of nature within him. He was amiable,
straightforward, sanguine, and intensely _earnest_. When he laughed,
he let it out, as sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good
cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We have
called him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period of
life when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was
good-looking (_every_ earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hair
was reddish-brown and his eye bright-blue. He was costumed in the
deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to the
western hunter. "You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said a
man who at that moment issued from the blockhouse.
"That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with a
broad grin to his companion.
"Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon take
offence; an' them Redskins never forgive."
"But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to
the child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing
with a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate
rushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave
anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop.
"It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a
queer pictur' o' itself."
He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw the
Indian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg with
one hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it
several violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to
kill the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing
body over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it
into the pot to be cooked.
The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup,
and it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young
Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although
they had often heard others speak of and describe it.
Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the
two hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with
disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty,
it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But
the instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered
a yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused
the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.
Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a
careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to
resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at
having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle; while Dick
Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position,
scowled angrily in the woman's face, and turning on his heel, walked
up to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.
Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of
countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground, and
shook his head.
Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in
appearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like; gifted with
the hunting, stalking, running, and trail-following powers of the
savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers,
the daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too--seldom
smiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was a
compound of seriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he was a good,
steady shot, but by no means a "crack" one. His ball never failed to
_hit_, but it often failed to _kill_.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and
muttered to himself, "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for
a hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."
Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the
hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow
step towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an
attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone,
which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and
almost worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little
better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his
misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him
tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one
can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks,
Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat as ever.