The Dog Crusoe and his Master

“Now, pup,” he said, stretching himself, “we’ll go and see our horse. Ours, pup; yours and mine: didn’t you help to catch him, eh! pup?”

Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag, and a playful “bow-wow-wow-oo-ow!” and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketted. It was standing there quite quiet, but looking a little timid.

Dick went boldly up to it, and patted its head and stroked its nose, for nothing is so likely to alarm either a tame or a wild horse as any appearance of timidity or hesitation on the part of those who approach them.

After treating it thus for a short time, he stroked down its neck, and then its shoulders—the horse eyeing him all the time nervously. Gradually he stroked its back and limbs gently, and walked quietly round and round it once or twice, sometimes approaching and sometimes going away, but never either hesitating or doing anything abruptly. This done, he went down to the stream and filled his cap with water and carried it to the horse, which snuffed suspiciously and backed a little, so he laid the cap down, and went up and patted him again. Presently he took up the cap and carried it to his nose; the poor creature was almost choking with thirst, so that, the moment he understood what was in the cap, he buried his lips in it and sucked it up.

This was a great point gained, he had accepted a benefit at the hands of his new master; he had become a debtor to man, and no doubt he felt the obligation. Dick filled the cap, and the horse emptied it again, and again, and again, until its burning thirst was slaked. Then Dick went up to his shoulder, patted him, undid the line that fastened him, and vaulted lightly on his back!

We say lightly, for it was so, but it wasn’t easily, as Dick could have told you! However, he was determined not to forego the training of his steed on account of what he would have called a “little bit pain.”

At this unexpected act the horse plunged and reared a good deal, and seemed inclined to go through the performance of the day before over again, but Dick patted and stroked him into quiescence, and having done so, urged him into a gallop over the plains, causing the dog to gambol round in order that he might get accustomed to him. This tried his nerves a good deal, and no wonder, for if he took Crusoe for a wolf, which no doubt he did, he must have thought him a very giant of the pack.

By degrees they broke into a furious gallop, and after breathing him well, Dick returned and tied him to the tree. Then he rubbed him down again, and gave him another drink. This time the horse smelt his new master all over, and Dick felt that he had conquered him by kindness. No doubt the tremendous run of the day before could scarcely be called kindness, but without this subduing run he never could have brought the offices of kindness to bear on so wild a steed.

During all these operations Crusoe sat looking on with demure sagacity—drinking in wisdom and taking notes. We know not whether any notes made by the canine race have ever been given to the world, but certain are we that, if the notes and observations made by Crusoe on that journey were published, they would—to say the least—surprise us!

Next day Dick gave the wild horse his second lesson, and his name. He called him “Charlie,” after a much loved companion in the Mustang Valley. And long and heartily did Dick Varley laugh as he told the horse his future designation in the presence of Crusoe, for it struck him as somewhat ludicrous that a mustang, which, two days ago, pawed the earth in all the pride of independent freedom, should suddenly come down so low as to carry a hunter on his back and be named Charlie!

The next piece of instruction began by Crusoe being led up under Charlie’s nose, and while Dick patted the dog with his right hand he patted the horse with his left. It backed a good deal at first and snorted, but Crusoe walked slowly and quietly in front of him several times, each time coming nearer, until he again stood under his nose, then the horse smelt him nervously, and gave a sigh of relief when he found that Crusoe paid no attention to him whatever. Dick then ordered the dog to lie down at Charlie’s feet, and went to the camp to fetch his rifle, and buffalo robe, and pack of meat. These and all the other things belonging to him were presented for inspection, one by one, to the horse, who arched his neck, and put forward his ears, and eyed them at first, but smelt them all over, and seemed to feel more easy in his mind.

Next, the buffalo robe was rubbed over his nose, then over his eyes and head, then down his neck and shoulder, and lastly was placed on his back. Then it was taken off and flung on; after that it was strapped on, and the various little items of the camp were attached to it. This done, Dick took up his rifle and let him smell it; then he put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, vaulted on to his back, and rode away.

Charlie’s education was completed; and now our hero’s journey began again in earnest, and with some prospect of its speedy termination.

In this course of training through which Dick put his wild horse, he had been at much greater pains and had taken far longer time than is usually the case among the Indians, who will catch, and “break,” and ride a wild horse into camp in less than three hours. But Dick wanted to do the thing well, which the Indians are not careful to do; besides, it must be borne in remembrance that this was his first attempt, and that his horse was one of the best and most high spirited, while those caught by the Indians, as we have said, are generally the poorest of a drove.

Dick now followed the trail of his lost companions at a rapid pace, yet not so rapidly as he might have done; being averse to exhausting his good dog and his new companion. Each night he encamped under the shade of a tree or a bush when he could find one, or in the open prairie when there were none, and, picketting his horse to a short stake or pin which he carried with him for the purpose, lit his fire, had supper, and lay down to rest. In a few days Charlie became so tame and so accustomed to his master’s voice that he seemed quite reconciled to his new life. There can be no doubt whatever that he had a great dislike to solitude, for on one occasion, when Dick and Crusoe went off a mile or so from the camp where Charlie was tied, and disappeared from his view, he was heard to neigh so loudly that Dick ran back thinking the wolves must have attacked him. He was all right, however, and exhibited evident tokens of satisfaction when they returned.

On another occasion his fear of being left alone was more clearly demonstrated.

Dick had been unable to find wood or water that day, so he was obliged to encamp upon the open plain. The want of water was not seriously felt, however, for he had prepared a bladder in which he always carried enough to give him one pannikin of hot syrup, and leave a mouthful for Crusoe and Charlie. Dried buffalo dung formed a substitute for fuel. Spreading his buffalo robe, he lit his fire, put on his pannikin to boil, and stuck up a piece of meat to roast, to the great delight of Crusoe, who sat looking on with much interest.

Suddenly Charlie, who was picketted a few hundred yards off in a grassy spot, broke his halter close by the head-piece, and with a snort of delight bounded away, prancing and kicking up his heels!

Dick heaved a deep sigh, for he felt sure that his horse was gone. However, in a little Charlie stopped, and raised his nose high in the air, as if to look for his old equine companions. But they were gone; no answering neigh replied to his; and he felt, probably for the first time, that he was really alone in the world. Having no power of smell, whereby he might have traced them out as the dog would have done, he looked in a bewildered and excited state all round the horizon. Then his eye fell on Dick and Crusoe sitting by their little fire. Charlie looked hard at them, and then again at the horizon; and then, coming to the conclusion, no doubt, that the matter was quite beyond his comprehension, he quietly took to feeding.

Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed.

Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand; so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again. But it was of no use; he was evidently coquetting with them, and dodged about and defied their utmost efforts, for there was only a few inches of line hanging to his head. At last it occurred to Dick that he would try the experiment of forsaking him. So he packed up his things, rolled up the buffalo robe, threw it and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked deliberately away.

“Come along, Crusoe!” he cried, after walking a few paces.

But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, “Hello, man! what’s wrong? You’ve forgot Charlie! Hold on! Are you mad?”

“Come here, Crusoe!” cried his master in a decided tone.

Crusoe obeyed at once. Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master; but he perpetually turned his head as he went, first on this side and then on that, to look and wonder at Charlie.

When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong. He trotted to the brow of a slope with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and, seeing that everything was gone, he began to neigh violently, and at last started off at full speed, and overtook his friends, passing within a few feet of them, and wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf.

Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith.

After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse.

At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross, which marked the head of a grave. There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been young or old when he fell?—had he a mother in the distant settlement, who watched, and longed, and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes?—had he been murdered, or had he died there and been buried by his sorrowing comrades? These and a thousand questions passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross.

Suddenly he started. “Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?” For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old, and that the wooden cross had stood over it for years.

Dick turned away with a saddened heart; and that night, as he pored over the pages of his Bible, his mind was filled with many thoughts about eternity and the world to come. He, too, must come to the grave one day, and quit the beautiful prairies and his loved rifle. It was a sad thought; but while he meditated he thought upon his mother. “After all,” he murmured, “there must be happiness without the rifle, and youth, and health, and the prairie! My mother’s happy, yet she don’t shoot, or ride like wildfire over the plains.” Then that word which had been sent so sweetly to him through her hand came again to his mind, “My son, give me thine heart;” and as he read God’s book, he met with the word, “Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart.”

“The desire of thine heart.” Dick repeated this, and pondered it till he fell asleep.

A misfortune soon after this befell Dick Varley, which well-nigh caused him to give way to despair. For some time past he had been approaching the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains—those ragged, jagged, mighty hills, which run through the whole continent from north to south in a continuous chain, and form, as it were, the backbone of America. One morning, as he threw the buffalo robe off his shoulders and sat up, he was horrified to find the whole earth covered with a mantle of snow. We say he was horrified, for this rendered it absolutely impossible any further to trace his companions either by scent or sight.

For some time he sat musing bitterly on his sad fate, while his dog came and laid his head sympathisingly on his arm.

“Ah! pup,” he said, “I know ye’d help me if ye could! But it’s all up now; there’s no chance of findin’ them—none.”

To this Crusoe replied by a low whine. He knew full well that something distressed his master, but he hadn’t yet ascertained what it was. As something had to be done, Dick put the buffalo robe on his steed, and, mounting, said, as he was in the habit of doing each morning, “Lead on, pup.”

Crusoe put his nose to the ground and ran forward a few paces, then he returned and ran about snuffing and scraping up the snow. At last he looked up, and uttered a long melancholy howl.

“Ah! I knowed it,” said Dick, pushing forward. “Come on, pup, you’ll have to follow now. Any way we must go on.”

The snow that had fallen was not deep enough to offer the slightest obstruction to their advance. It was, indeed, only one of those occasional showers common to that part of the country in the late autumn, which season had now crept upon Dick almost before he was aware of it, and he fully expected that it would melt away in a few days. In this hope he kept steadily advancing, until he found himself in the midst of those rocky fastnesses which divide the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific Ocean. Still the slight crust of snow lay on the ground, and he had no means of knowing whether he was going in the right direction or not.

Game was abundant, and there was no lack of wood now, so that his night bivouac was not so cold or dreary as might have been expected.

Travelling, however, had become difficult, and even dangerous, owing to the rugged nature of the ground over which he proceeded. The scenery had completely changed in its character. Dick no longer coursed over the free, open plains, but he passed through beautiful valleys filled with luxuriant trees, and hemmed in by stupendous mountains, whose rugged sides rose upward until the snow-clad peaks pierced the clouds.

There was something awful in these dark solitudes, quite overwhelming to a youth of Dick’s temperament; his heart began to sink lower and lower every day, and the utter impossibility of making up his mind what to do became at length agonising. To have turned and gone back the hundreds of miles over which he had travelled would have caused him some anxiety under any circumstances, but to do so while Joe and Henri were either wandering about there or in the power of the savages, was, he felt, out of the question. Yet, in which way should he go? Whatever course he took might lead him further and further away from them.

In this dilemma he came to the determination of remaining where he was, at least until the snow should leave the ground.

He felt great relief even when this hopeless course was decided upon, and set about making himself an encampment with some degree of cheerfulness. When he had completed this task, he took his rifle, and leaving Charlie picketted in the centre of a dell, where the long, rich grass rose high above the snow, went off to hunt.

On turning a rocky point his heart suddenly bounded into his throat, for there, not thirty yards distant, stood a huge grizzly bear!

Yes, there he was at last, the monster to meet which the young hunter had so often longed,—the terrible size and fierceness of which he had heard so often spoken about by the old hunters. There it stood at last; but little did Dick Varley think that the first time he should meet with his foe should be when alone in the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, and with none to succour him in the event of the battle going against him. Yes! there was one. The faithful Crusoe stood by his side, with his hair bristling, all his formidable teeth exposed, and his eyes glaring in their sockets. Alas! for poor Crusoe, had he gone into that combat alone. One stroke of that monster’s paw would have hurled him dead upon the ground.

Chapter Seventeen.

Dick’s first fight with a grizzly—Adventure with a deer—A surprise

There is no animal in all the land so terrible and dangerous as the grizzly bear. Not only is he the largest of the species in America, but he is the fiercest, the strongest, and the most tenacious of life, facts which are so well understood that few of the western hunters like to meet him single-handed, unless they happen to be first-rate shots; and the Indians deem the encounter so dangerous, that to wear a collar composed of the claws of a grizzly bear of his own killing, is counted one of the highest honours to which a young warrior can attain.

The grizzly bear resembles the brown bear of Europe, but it is larger, and the hair is long, the points being of a paler shade. About the head there is a considerable mixture of grey hair, giving it the “grizzly” appearance, from which it derives its name. The claws are dirty white, arched, and very long, and so strong that when the animal strikes with its paw they cut like a chisel. These claws are not embedded in the paw, as is the case with the cat, but always project far beyond the hair, thus giving to the foot a very ungainly appearance; they are not sufficiently curved to enable the grizzly bear to climb trees, like the black and brown bears, and this inability on their part is often the only hope of the pursued hunter, who, if he succeeds in ascending a tree, is safe, for the time at least, from the bear’s assaults; but “Caleb” is a patient creature, and will often wait at the foot of the tree for many hours for his victim.

The average length of his body is about nine feet, but he sometimes attains to a still larger growth. Caleb is more carnivorous in his habits than other bears; but, like them, he does not object to indulge occasionally in vegetable diet, being partial to the bird-cherry, the choke-berry, and various shrubs. He has a sweet tooth, too, and revels in honey—when he can get it.

The instant the grizzly bear beheld Dick Varley standing in his path, he rose on his hind-legs, and made a loud hissing noise, like a man breathing quick, but much harsher. To this Crusoe replied by a deep growl, and showing the utmost extent of his teeth, gums and all; and Dick cocked both barrels of his rifle.

To say that Dick Varley felt no fear would be simply to make him out that sort of hero which does not exist in nature, namely a perfect hero. He did feel a sensation as if his bowels had suddenly melted into water! Let not our reader think the worse of Dick for this. There is not a man living who, having met with a huge grizzly bear for the first time in his life, in a wild, solitary place, all alone, has not experienced some such sensation. There was no cowardice in this feeling. Fear is not cowardice. Acting in a wrong and contemptible manner because of our fear, is cowardice.

It is said that Wellington or Napoleon, we forget which, once stood watching the muster of the men who were to form the forlorn hope in storming a citadel. There were many brave, strong, stalwart men there, in the prime of life, and flushed with the blood of high health and courage. There were also there a few stern-browed men of riper years, who stood perfectly silent, with lips compressed, and as pale as death. “Yonder veterans,” said the general, pointing to these soldiers, “are men whose courage I can depend on; they know what they are going to, the others don’t!” Yes, these young soldiers very probably were brave; the others certainly were.

Dick Varley stood for a few seconds as if thunderstruck, while the bear stood hissing at him. Then the liquefaction of his interior ceased, and he felt a glow of fire gush through his veins. Now, Dick knew well enough that to fly from a grizzly bear was the sure and certain way of being torn to pieces, as when taken thus by surprise they almost invariably follow a retreating enemy. He also knew that if he stood where he was, perfectly still, the bear would, get uncomfortable under his stare, and would retreat from him. But he neither intended to run away himself nor to allow the bear to do so; he intended to kill it, so he raised his rifle quickly, “drew a bead,” as the hunters express it, on the bear’s heart, and fired.

It immediately dropped on its fore-legs and rushed at him.

“Back, Crusoe, out of the way, pup,” shouted Dick, as his favourite was about to spring forward.

The dog retired, and Dick leaped behind a tree. As the bear passed he gave it the contents of the second barrel behind the shoulder, which brought it down, but in another moment it rose and again rushed at him. Dick had no time to load, neither had he time to spring up the thick tree beside which he stood, and the rocky nature of the ground out of which it grew rendered it impossible to dodge round it. His only resource was flight; but where was he to fly to? If he ran along the open track, the bear would overtake him in a few seconds; on the right was a sheer precipice, a hundred feet high; on the left was an impenetrable thicket. In despair he thought for an instant of clubbing his rifle and meeting the monster in close conflict; but the utter hopelessness of such an effort was too apparent to be entertained for a moment. He glanced up at the overhanging cliffs. There were one or two rents and projections close above him. In the twinkling of an eye he sprang up and grasped a ledge of about an inch broad, ten or twelve feet up, to which he clung while he glanced upward. Another projection was within reach,—he gained it, and in a few seconds he stood upon a ledge about twenty feet up the cliff, where he had just room to plant his feet firmly.

Without waiting to look behind he seized his powder-horn and loaded one barrel of his rifle; and well was it for him that his early training had fitted him to do this with rapidity, for the bear dashed up the precipice after him at once. The first time it missed its hold, and fell back with a savage growl, but, on the second attempt, it sunk its long claws into the fissures between the rocks, and ascended steadily till within a foot of the place where Dick stood.

At this moment Crusoe’s obedience gave way before a sense of Dick’s danger. Uttering one of his lion-like roars, he rushed up the precipice with such violence that, although naturally unable to climb, he reached and seized the bear’s flank, despite his master’s stern order to “keep back,” and in a moment the two rolled down the face of the rock together, just as Dick completed loading.

Knowing that one stroke of the bear’s paw would be certain death to his poor dog, Dick leaped from his perch, and, with one bound reached the ground at the same moment with the struggling animals, and close beside them, and, before they had ceased rolling, he placed the muzzle of his rifle into the bear’s ear, and blew out its brains.

Crusoe, strange to say, escaped with only one scratch on the side. It was a deep one, but not dangerous, and gave him but little pain at the time, although it caused him many a smart for some weeks after.

Thus happily ended Dick’s first encounter with a grizzly bear; and although, in the course of his wild life he shot many specimens of “Caleb,” he used to say that “he an’ pup were never so near goin’ under as on the day he dropped that bar!”

Having refreshed himself with a long draught from a neighbouring rivulet, and washed Crusoe’s wound, Dick skinned the bear on the spot.

“We chawed him up that time, didn’t we, pup?” said Dick, with a smile of satisfaction, as he surveyed his prize.

Crusoe looked up and assented to this.

“Gave us a hard tussle, though; very nigh sent us both under, didn’t he, pup!”

Crusoe agreed entirely, and, as if the remark reminded him of honourable scars, he licked his wound.