The Dog Crusoe and his Master

To examine his supply of bullets was his next care, and slowly he counted them out, one by one, to the number of thirty. This was a pretty fair supply, and with careful economy would last him many days. Having relieved his mind on these all-important points, he carefully examined every pouch and corner of his dress to ascertain the exact amount and value of his wealth.

Besides the leather-leggings, moccasins, deerskin hunting shirt, cap, and belt which composed his costume, he had a short heavy hunting-knife, a piece of tinder, a little tin pannikin, which he had been in the habit of carrying at his belt, and a large cake of maple sugar. This last is a species of sugar which is procured by the Indians from the maple-tree. Several cakes of it had been carried off from the Pawnee village, and Dick usually carried one in the breast of his coat. Besides these things, he found that the little Bible, for which his mother had made a small inside breast pocket, was safe. Dick’s heart smote him when he took it out and undid the clasp, for he had not looked at it until that day. It was firmly bound with a brass clasp, so that although the binding and edges of the leaves were soaked, the inside was quite dry. On opening the book to see if it had been damaged, a small paper fell out. Picking it up quickly, he unfolded it, and read, in his mother’s handwriting, “Call upon me in the time of trouble, and I will deliver thee, and thou shalt glorify me. My son, give me thine heart.”

Dick’s eyes filled with tears while the sound, as it were, of his mother’s voice thus reached him unexpectedly in that lonely wilderness. Like too many whose hearts are young and gay, Dick had regarded religion, if not as a gloomy, at least as not a cheerful thing. But he felt the comfort of these words at that moment, and he resolved seriously to peruse his mother’s parting gift in time to come.

The sun was hot, and a warm breeze gently shook the leaves, so that Dick’s garments were soon dry. A few minutes served to change the locks of his rifle, draw the wet charges, dry out the barrels, and re-load. Then, throwing it across his shoulder, he entered the wood, and walked lightly away. And well he might, poor fellow, for at that moment he felt light enough in person if not in heart. His worldly goods were not such as to oppress him, but the little note had turned his thoughts towards home, and he felt comforted.

Traversing the belt of woodland that marked the course of the river, Dick soon emerged on the wide prairie beyond, and here he paused in some uncertainty as to how he should proceed.

He was too good a backwoodsman, albeit so young, to feel perplexed as to the points of the compass. He knew pretty well what hour it was, so that the sun showed him the general bearings of the country, and he knew that when night came he could correct his course by the pole star. Dick’s knowledge of astronomy was limited; he knew only one star by name, but that one was an inestimable treasure of knowledge. His perplexity was owing to his uncertainty as to the direction in which his companions and their pursuers had gone, for he had made up his mind to follow their trail if possible, and render all the succour his single arm might afford. To desert them, and make for the settlement, he held, would be a faithless and cowardly act.

While they were together Joe Blunt had often talked to him about the route he meant to pursue to the Rocky Mountains, so that, if they had escaped the Indians, he thought there might be some chance of finding them at last. But, to set against this, there was the probability that they had been taken and carried away in a totally different direction, or they might have taken to the river, as he had done, and gone further down without his observing them. Then, again, if they had escaped, they would be sure to return and search the country round for him, so that if he left the spot he might miss them.

“Oh, for my dear pup Crusoe!” he exclaimed aloud in this dilemma; but the faithful ear was shut now, and the deep silence that followed his cry was so oppressive that the young hunter sprang forward at a run over the plain, as if to fly from solitude. He soon became so absorbed, however, in his efforts to find the trail of his companions, that he forgot all other considerations, and ran straight forward for hours together, with his eyes eagerly fixed on the ground. At last he felt so hungry, having tasted no food since supper-time the previous evening, that he halted for the purpose of eating a morsel of maple sugar. A line of bushes in the distance indicated water, so he sped on again, and was soon seated beneath a willow, drinking water from the cool stream. No game was to be found here; but there were several kinds of berries, among which wild grapes and plums grew in abundance. With these and some sugar he made a meal, though not a good one, for the berries were quite green, and intensely sour.

All that day Dick Varley followed up the trail of his companions, which he discovered at a ford in the river. They had crossed, therefore, in safety, though still pursued, so he ran on at a regular trot, and with a little more hope than he had felt during the day. Towards night, however, Dick’s heart sank again, for he came upon innumerable buffalo tracks, among which those of the horses soon became mingled up, so that he lost them altogether. Hoping to find them again more easily by broad daylight, he went to the nearest clump of willows he could find, and encamped for the night.

Remembering the use formerly made of the tall willows, he set to work to construct a covering to protect him from the dew. As he had no blanket or buffalo-skin, he used leaves and grass instead, and found it a better shelter than he had expected, especially when the fire was lighted, and a pannikin of hot sugar and water smoked at his feet; but as no game was to be found, he was again compelled to sup off unripe berries. Before lying down to rest he remembered his resolution, and, pulling out the little Bible, read a portion of it by the fitful blaze of the fire, and felt great comfort in its blessed words. It seemed to him like a friend with whom he could converse in the midst of his loneliness.

The plunge into the river having broken Dick’s pipe and destroyed his tobacco, he now felt the want of that luxury very severely, and, never having wanted it before, he was greatly surprised to find how much he had become enslaved to the habit. It cost him more than an hour’s rest that night, the craving for his wonted pipe.

The sagacious reader will doubtless not fail here to ask himself the question, whether it is wise in man to create in himself an unnatural and totally unnecessary appetite, which may, and often does, entail hours—ay, sometimes months—of exceeding discomfort; but we would not for a moment presume to suggest such a question to him. We have a distinct objection to the ordinary method of what is called “drawing a moral.” It is much better to leave wise men to do this for themselves.

Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding again on sour berries. He was disappointed, however, in finding the tracks of his companions. The ground here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression of a distinct kind was made on it; and, as buffaloes had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly bewildered. He thought it possible that, by running out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued, and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint.

Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district, where he might procure fresh meat; but the further he advanced the worse and more sandy did the district become. For several days he pushed on over this arid waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his misery, he failed at last to find water. For a day and a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his throat so parched that he was almost suffocated. Towards the close of the second day he saw a slight line of bushes away down in a hollow on his right. With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld—blessed sight!—a stream of water glancing in the beams of the setting sun.

Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice. It mattered not; exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged head-foremost into the stream.

The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart; it was salt as brine.

The poor youth’s cup of bitterness was now full to overflowing. Crawling out of the stream, he sank down on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which he awakened next morning in a raging fever. Delirium soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching power on the arid plain. What mattered it to Dick? He was far away in the shady groves of the Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe in the bright blue lake. Now he was in his mother’s cottage, telling her how he had thought of her when far away on the prairie, and what a bright, sweet word it was she had whispered in his ear,—so unexpectedly, too. Anon he was scouring over the plains on horseback, with the savages at his heels; and at such times Dick would spring with almost supernatural strength from the ground, and run madly over the burning plain; but, as if by a species of fascination, he always returned to the salt river, and sank exhausted by its side, or plunged helplessly into its waters.

These sudden immersions usually restored him for a short time to reason, and he would crawl up the bank and gnaw a morsel of the maple sugar; but he could not eat much, for it was in a tough, compact cake, which his jaws had not power to break. All that day and the next night he lay on the banks of the salt stream, or rushed wildly over the plain. It was about noon of the second day after his attack that he crept slowly out of the water, into which he had plunged a few seconds before. His mind was restored, but he felt an indescribable sensation of weakness, that seemed to him to be the approach of death. Creeping towards the place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted beside it, and laid his cheek on the Bible, which had fallen out of his pocket there.

While his eyes were closed in a dreamy sort of half-waking slumber, he felt the rough, hairy coat of an animal brush against his forehead. The idea of being torn to pieces by wolves flashed instantly across his mind, and with a shriek of terror he sprang up,—to be almost overwhelmed by the caresses of his faithful dog.

Yes, there he was, bounding round his master, barking and whining, and giving vent to every possible expression of canine joy.

Chapter Fourteen.

Crusoe’s return and his private adventures among the Indians—Dick at a very low ebb—Crusoe saves him

The means by which Crusoe managed to escape from his two-legged captors, and rejoin his master, requires separate and special notice.

In the struggle with the fallen horse and Indian, which Dick had seen begun but not concluded, he was almost crushed to death; and the instant the Indian gained his feet, he sent an arrow at his head with savage violence. Crusoe, however, had been so well used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian’s throat, and dragged him down. At the same moment the other Indians came up, and one of them turned aside to the rescue. This man happened to have an old gun, of the cheap sort at that time exchanged for peltries by the fur-traders. With the butt of this he struck Crusoe a blow on the head that sent him sprawling on the grass.

The rest of the savages, as we have seen, continued in pursuit of Dick until he leaped into the river; then they returned, took the saddle and bridle off his dead horse, and rejoined their comrades. Here they held a court-martial on Crusoe, who was now bound, foot and muzzle, with cords. Some were for killing him; others, who admired his noble appearance, immense size, and courage, thought it would be well to carry him to their village and keep him. There was a pretty violent dispute on the subject; but at length it was agreed that they should spare his life in the mean time, and perhaps have a dog-dance round him when they got to their wigwams.

This dance, of which Crusoe was to be the chief, though passive performer, is peculiar to some of the tribes east of the Rocky Mountains, and consists in killing a dog and cutting out its liver, which is afterwards sliced into shreds or strings and hung on a pole about the height of a man’s head. A band of warriors then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth.

But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved in his own mind that he would escape, but the hopelessness of his ever carrying that resolution into effect would have been apparent to any one who could have seen the way in which his muzzle was secured, and his four paws were tied together in a bunch, as he hung suspended across the saddle of one of the savages!

This particular party of Indians who had followed Dick Varley determined not to wait for the return of their comrades who were in pursuit of the other two hunters, but to go straight home, so for several days they galloped away over the prairie. At nights, when they encamped, Crusoe was thrown on the ground like a piece of old lumber, and left to lie there with a mere scrap of food till morning, when he was again thrown across the horse of his captor and carried on. When the village was reached, he was thrown again on the ground, and would certainly have been torn to pieces in five minutes by the Indian curs which came howling round him, had not an old woman come to the rescue and driven them away. With the help of her grandson—a little naked creature, just able to walk, or rather to stagger—she dragged him to her tent, and, undoing the line that fastened his mouth, offered him a bone.

Although lying in a position that was unfavourable for eating purposes, Crusoe opened his jaws and took it. An awful crash was followed by two crunches—and it was gone; and Crusoe looked up in the old squaw’s face with a look that said plainly, “Another of the same, please, and as quick as possible.” The old woman gave him another and then a lump of meat, which latter went down with a gulp—but he coughed after it! and it was well he didn’t choke. After this the squaw left him, and Crusoe spent the remainder of that night gnawing the cords that bound him. So diligent was he that he was free before morning and walked deliberately out of the tent. Then he shook himself, and with a yell that one might have fancied was intended for defiance, he bounded joyfully away, and was soon out of sight.

To a dog with a good appetite which had been on short allowance for several days, the mouthful given to him by the old squaw was a mere nothing. All that day he kept bounding over the plain from bluff to bluff in search of something to eat, but found nothing until dusk, when he pounced suddenly and most unexpectedly on a prairie-hen fast asleep. In one moment its life was gone. In less than a minute its body was gone too—feathers and bones and all—down Crusoe’s ravenous throat.

On the identical spot Crusoe lay down and slept like a top for four hours. At the end of that time he jumped up, bolted a scrap of skin that somehow had been overlooked at supper, and flew straight over the prairie to the spot where he had had the scuffle with the Indian. He came to the edge of the river, took precisely the same leap that his master had done before him, and came out on the other side a good deal higher up than Dick had done, for the dog had no savages to dodge, and was, as we have said before, a powerful swimmer.

It cost him a good deal of running about to find the trail, and it was nearly dark before he resumed his journey; then, putting his keen nose to the ground, he ran step by step over Dick’s track, and at last found him, as we have shown, on the banks of the Salt Creek.

It is quite impossible to describe the intense joy which filled Dick’s heart on again beholding his favourite. Only those who have lost and found such an one can know it. Dick seized him round the neck and hugged him as well as he could, poor fellow, in his feeble arms; then he wept, then he laughed, and then he fainted.

This was a consummation that took Crusoe quite aback! Never having seen his master in such a state before he seemed to think at first that he was playing some trick, for he bounded round him, and barked, and wagged his tail. But as Dick lay quite still and motionless, he went forward with a look of alarm; snuffed him once or twice and whined piteously; then he raised his nose in the air and uttered a long melancholy wail.

The cry seemed to revive Dick, for he moved, and with some difficulty sat up, to the dog’s evident relief. There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe learned an erroneous lesson that day, and was firmly convinced thenceforth that the best cure for a fainting-fit is a melancholy yell. So easy is it for the wisest of dogs as well as men to fall into gross error!

“Crusoe,” said Dick, in a feeble voice, “dear good pup, come here.” He crawled, as he spoke, down to the water’s edge where there was a level patch of dry sand.

“Dig,” said Dick, pointing to the sand.

Crusoe looked at him in surprise, as well he might, for he had never heard the word “dig” in all his life before.

Dick pondered a minute; then a thought struck him. He turned up a little of the sand with his fingers, and, pointing to the hole cried, “Seek him out, pup!”

Ha! Crusoe understood that. Many and many a time had he unhoused rabbits, and squirrels, and other creatures at that word of command, so, without a moment’s delay, he commenced to dig down into the sand, every now, and then stopping for a moment and shoving in his nose, and snuffing interrogatively, as if he fully expected to find a buffalo at the bottom of it. Then he would resume again, one paw after another so fast that you could scarce see them going “hand over hand” as sailors would have called it—while the sand flew out between his hind-legs in a continuous shower. When the sand accumulated so much behind him as to impede his motions he scraped it out of his way, and set to work again with tenfold earnestness. After a good while he paused and looked up at Dick with an “it—won’t—do,—I—fear,—there’s—nothing—here” expression on his face.

“Seek him out, pup!” repeated Dick.

“Oh! very good,” mutely answered the dog, and went at it again, tooth and nail, harder than ever.

In the course of a quarter of an hour there was a deep yawning hole in the sand, into which Dick peered with intense anxiety. The bottom appeared slightly damp. Hope now reanimated Dick Varley, and by various devices he succeeded in getting the dog to scrape away a sort of tunnel from the hole, into which he might roll himself and put down his lips to drink when the water should rise high enough. Impatiently and anxiously he lay watching the moisture slowly accumulate in the bottom of the hole, drop by drop, and while he gazed he fell into a troubled, restless slumber, and dreamed that Crusoe’s return was a dream, and that he was alone again perishing for want of water.

When he awakened the hole was half full of clear water, and Crusoe was lapping it greedily.

“Back, pup!” he shouted, as he crept down to the hole and put his trembling lips to the water. It was brackish, but drinkable, and as Dick drank deeply of it he esteemed it at that moment better than nectar. Here he lay for half an hour alternately drinking and gazing in surprise at his own emaciated visage as reflected in the pool.

The same afternoon Crusoe, in a private hunting excursion of his own, discovered and caught a prairie-hen, which he quietly proceeded to devour on the spot, when Dick, who saw what had occurred, whistled to him.

Obedience was engrained in every fibre of Crusoe’s mental and corporeal being. He did not merely answer at once to the call—he sprang to it, leaving the prairie-hen untasted.

“Fetch it, pup,” cried Dick eagerly as the dog came up.

In a few moments the hen was at his feet. Dick’s circumstances could not brook the delay of cookery; he gashed the bird with his knife and drank the blood, and then gave the flesh to the dog, while he crept to the pool again for another draught. Ah! think not, reader, that although we have treated this subject in a slight vein of pleasantry, because it ended well, that therefore our tale is pure fiction. Not only are Indians glad to satisfy the urgent cravings of hunger with raw flesh, but many civilised men and delicately nurtured, have done the same—ay, and doubtless, will do the same again, as long as enterprising and fearless men shall go forth to dare the dangers of flood and field in the wild places of our wonderful world!

Crusoe had finished his share of the feast before Dick returned from the pool. Then master and dog lay down together side by side and fell into a long, deep, peaceful slumber.

Chapter Fifteen.

Health and happiness return—Incidents of the journey—A buffalo shot—A wild horse “creased”—Dick’s battle with a mustang

Dick Varley’s fears and troubles, in the meantime, were ended. On the day following he awoke refreshed and happy—so happy and light at heart, as he felt the glow of returning health coursing through his veins, that he fancied he must have dreamed it all. In fact, he was so certain that his muscles were strong that he endeavoured to leap up, but was powerfully convinced of his true condition by the miserable stagger that resulted from the effort.

However, he knew he was recovering, so he rose, and thanking God for his recovery and for the new hope that was raised in his heart, he went down to the pool and drank deeply of its water. Then he returned, and, sitting down beside his dog, opened the Bible and read long—and, for the first time, earnestly—the story of Christ’s love for sinful man. He at last fell asleep over the book, and when he awakened felt so much refreshed in body and mind that he determined to attempt to pursue his journey.

He had not proceeded far when he came upon a colony of prairie-dogs. Upon this occasion he was little inclined to take a humorous view of the vagaries of these curious little creatures, but he shot one, and, as before, ate part of it raw. These creatures are so active that they are difficult to shoot, and even when killed generally fall into their holes and disappear. Crusoe, however, soon unearthed the dead animal on this occasion. That night the travellers came to a stream of fresh water, and Dick killed a turkey, so that he determined to spend a couple of days there to recruit. At the end of that time he again set out, but was able only to advance five miles when he broke down. In fact, it became evident to him that he must have a longer period of absolute repose ere he could hope to continue his journey, but to do so without food was impossible. Fortunately there was plenty of water, as his course lay along the margin of a small stream, and, as the arid piece of prairie was now behind him, he hoped to fall in with birds, or perhaps deer, soon.

While he was plodding heavily and wearily along, pondering these things, he came to the brow of a wave from which he beheld a most magnificent view of green grassy plains, decked with flowers, and rolling out to the horizon, with a stream meandering through it, and clumps of trees scattered everywhere far and wide. It was a glorious sight; but the most glorious object in it to Dick, at that time, was a fat buffalo which stood grazing not a hundred yards off. The wind was blowing towards him, so that the animal did not scent him, and, as he came up very slowly, and it was turned away, it did not see him.