The Dog Crusoe and His Master: A Story of Adventure in the Western Prairies

by R. M. Ballantyne

  CHAPTER I.

  _The backwoods settlement--Crusoe's parentage, and earlyhistory--The agonizing pains and sorrows of his puppyhood, and otherinteresting matters_.

  The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not, courteous reader, toss yourhead contemptuously, and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told_you_ that." You know very well that you have often seen a man abovesix feet high, broad and powerful as a lion, with a bronzed shaggyvisage and the stern glance of an eagle, of whom you have said, orthought, or heard others say, "It is scarcely possible to believe thatsuch a man was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero inall the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would haveexperienced a vague sort of surprise had we told you--as we nowrepeat--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 oncebeen a pup, because in connection with the days of his puppyhood therehangs a tale.

  This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two tails--one inconnection with his body, the other with his career. This tale, thoughshort, is very harrowing, and as it is intimately connected withCrusoe's subsequent history we will relate it here. But before doingso we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the civilizedportions of the United States of America--beyond the frontiersettlements of the "far west," into those wild prairies which arewatered by the great Missouri River--the Father of Waters--and hisnumerous tributaries.

  Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawarers, the Crows, theBlackfeet, and many other tribes of Red Indians, who are graduallyretreating step by step towards the Rocky Mountains as the advancingwhite man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies. Here,too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the deer, the buffalo, andthe badger; all, men and brutes alike, wild as the power of untamedand ungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind thatsweeps over their mighty plains.

  There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of oneof the tributaries above referred to--long stretch of mingled woodlandand meadow, with a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its greenbosom--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 isstill a frontier settlement round which the wolf and the bear prowlcuriously, and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away. Atthe period of which we write the valley had just been taken possessionof by several families of squatters, who, tired of the turmoil and thesquabbles of the _then_ frontier settlements, had pushed boldly intothe far west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have"elbow room," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter inunknown lands and of the Redskins who dwelt there.

  The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and ammunition. Mostof the women were used to dangers and alarms, and placed implicitreliance in the power of their fathers, husbands, and brothers toprotect them; and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart menthan these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had beentrained to the use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many ofthem had spent so much of their lives in the woods that they were morethan a match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of huntingand war. When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering thevalley, an immense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing onthe plain. These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men than,uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breezeand dashed away like a whirlwind. This incident procured the valleyits name.

  The new-comers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, andthen set to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heardringing through the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground,while the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters werecatering successfully for the camp. In course of time the MustangValley began to assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, withcottages 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 animalswith them, which they exchanged with the white men for knives, andbeads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But they hated the"Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because their encroachments had atthis time materially curtailed the extent of their hunting-grounds,and nothing but the numbers and known courage of the squattersprevented these savages from butchering and scalping them all.

  The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentlemanwhose love for nature in its wildest aspects determined him toexchange barrack life for a life in the woods. The major was afirst-rate shot, a bold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist.He was past the prime of life, and being a bachelor, was unencumberedwith a family. His first act on reaching the site of the newsettlement was to commence the erection of a block-house, to which thepeople might retire in case of a general attack by the Indians.

  In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian ofthe settlement. And here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled inthe early morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged hisshaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood; and from the woodenportals of this block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all thefire, and strength, and majesty of full-grown doghood.

  Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders. There wasno doubt as to their being of the genuine breed, for Major Hope hadreceived them as a parting gift from a brother officer, who hadbrought them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name wasCrusoe, the mother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so calledno one could tell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtainedthe pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of thecelebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan hadbeen named after his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from afriend, who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had receivedhim as a marriage-gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had saidto the other that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons beingasked or given on either side. On arriving at New York the major'sfriend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs. Not beingmuch of a dog fancier, he soon tired of old Crusoe, and gave him awayto a gentleman, who took him down to Florida, and that was the end ofhim. 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 alsoborn in company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom drownedthemselves accidentally, in the first month of their existence, byfalling into the river which flowed past the block-house--a calamitywhich occurred, doubtless, in consequence of their having gone outwithout their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his brother andsisters at the time, and fell in along with them, but was saved fromsharing their fate by his mother, who, seeing what had happened,dashed with an agonized howl into the water, and, seizing him in hermouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwardsbrought the others ashore one by one, but the poor little things weredead.

  And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale, for the properunderstanding of which the foregoing dissertation was needful.

  One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of the American yearcalled the Indian summer, there came a family of Sioux Indians to theMustang Valley, and pitched their tent close to the block-house. Ayoung hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of the palisades,watching the movements of the Indians, who, having just finisheda long "palaver" or talk with Major Hope, were now in the act ofpreparing supper. A fire had been kindled on the greensward in frontof the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a largetin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, orsquaw, who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowedsundry cuffs and kicks upon her little child, which sat near to herplaying with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. Themaster of the family and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes,smoking th
eir stone pipes or calumets in silence. There was nothingpeculiar in their appearance. Their faces were neither dignified norcoarse in expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, whichformed a striking contrast to the countenance of the young hunter, whoseemed an amused spectator of their proceedings.

  The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what weare accustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He didnot possess that quiet gravity and staid demeanour which oftencharacterize these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but noone would have called him stalwart, and his frame indicated grace andagility rather than strength. But the point about him which renderedhim different from his companions was his bounding, irrepressibleflow of spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitarywandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted for socialenjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or expressed such glee inhis mischief-loving eye; yet for days together he went off alone intothe forest, and wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silentas an Indian warrior.

  After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The boy followedimplicitly 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 goodcause to be grave, no power on earth could make him smile. We havecalled him boy, but in truth he was about that uncertain period oflife when a youth is said to be neither a man nor a boy. His face wasgood-looking (_every_ earnest, candid face is) and masculine; his hairwas reddish-brown and his eye bright-blue. He was costumed in thedeerskin cap, leggings, moccasins, and leathern shirt common to thewestern hunter. "You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley," said aman who at that moment issued from the blockhouse.

  "That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the youth, turning with abroad grin to his companion.

  "Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much. They soon takeoffence; an' them Redskins never forgive."

  "But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing tothe child, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playingwith a pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmaterushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in graveanxiety as the pup returned at full gallop.

  "It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such aqueer pictur' o' itself."

  He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his face as he saw theIndian woman stoop quickly down, catch the pup by its hind-leg withone hand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike itseveral violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble tokill the poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhingbody over the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting itinto 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 youngCrusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, althoughthey had often heard others speak of and describe it.

  Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, thetwo hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight withdisgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty,it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. Butthe instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttereda yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that causedthe three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.

  Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with acareless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians toresume their seats and pipes with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust athaving been startled out of their propriety by a trifle; while DickVarley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position,scowled angrily in the woman's face, and turning on his heel, walkedup to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.

  Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression ofcountenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground, andshook his head.

  Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both inappearance and in fact--broad, tall, massive, lion-like; gifted withthe hunting, stalking, running, and trail-following powers of thesavage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers,the daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He was grave, too--seldomsmiled, and rarely laughed. His expression almost at all times was acompound 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, andmuttered to himself, "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless fora hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."

  Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into thehollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slowstep towards his own cottage.

  Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to anattentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone,which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare andalmost worn-out heirloom.

  Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed littlebetter than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented hismisery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided himtenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no onecan tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks,Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat as ever.