The Dog Crusoe and His Master/Chapter 5
Chapter V.—To the Land of the Redskins.
ONE day the inhabitants of Mustang Valley were thrown into considerable excitement by the arrival of an officer of the United States army and a small escort of cavalry. They went direct to the block-house, which, since Major Hope’s departure, had become the residence of Joe Blunt—that worthy having been deemed the fittest man to fill the major’s place.
Soon it began to be noised abroad that the strangers had been sent by Government to bring about, if possible, a more friendly state of feeling between the Whites and Indians by means of presents, and promises, and fair speeches.
The party remained all night in the block-house, and ere long it was reported that Joe Blunt had been requested, and had consented, to be the leader and chief of a party of three men who should visit the neighbouring tribes of Indians to the west and north of the valley as Government agents. Joe’s knowledge of two or three different Indian dialects, and his well-known sagacity, rendered him a most fitting messenger on such an errand.
That same evening Dick Varley was sitting in his mother’s kitchen cleaning his rifle. Fan was coiled up in a corner sound asleep, and Crusoe was sitting at one side of the fire looking on at things in general.
“I wonder,” remarked Mrs. Varley, as she spread the table with a pure white napkin—“I wonder what the sodgers are doin’ wi’ Joe Blunt.”
As often happens when an individual is mentioned, the worthy referred to at that moment stepped into the room.
Good e’en t’ye dame,” said the stout hunter, doffing his cap, while Dick rose and placed a chair for him.
“The same to you, Master Blunt,” answered the widow; “you’ve jist comed in good time for a cut o’ venison.”
“Thanks mistress; I s’pose we’re beholden to the silver rifle for that.”
“To the hand that aimed it, rather,” suggested the widow.
“Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it,” said Dick Varley. “But for Crusoe, that buck would ha’ bin couched in the woods this night.”
“Oh! if it comes to that,” retorted Joe, I’d lay it to the door o’ Fan, for if she’d niver bin born nother would Crusoe. Howsiver, I’ve other things to talk about jist now. Them sodgers that are eatin’ buffalo tongues up at the block-house as if they’d niver ate meat before, and didn’t hope to eat again for a twelvemonth———”
“Ay, what o’ them?” interrupted Mrs. Varley; “I’ve bin wonderin’ what was their errand.”
“Of coorse ye wos. Dame Varley, and I’ve comed here a purpis to tell ye. They want me to go to the Redskins to make peace between them and us; and they’ve brought a lot o’ goods to make them presents withal—beads, an’ knives, an’ lookin’-glasses, an’ vermilion paint, an’ sich like, jist as much as’ll be a light load for one horse—for, ye see, nothin’ can be done wi’ the Redskins without gifts.”
“’Tis a blessed mission,” said the widow; “I wish it may succeed. D’ye think ye’ll go?”
“Go? Ay, that will I.”
“I only wish they’d made the offer to me,” said Dick.
“An’ so they do make the offer, lad. They’ve gin me leave to choose the two men I’m to take with me, and I’ve comed straight to’ ask you. Ay or no, for we must up an’ away by break o’ day to-morrow.”
Mrs. Varley started. “So soon?” she said, anxiously.
“Ay; the Pawnees are at the Yellow Creek jist at this time, but I’ve heerd they’re ’bout to break up camp an’ away west; so we’ll need to use haste.”
“May I go, mother?” asked Dick.
There was evidently a conflict in the widow’s breast, but it quickly ceased.
“Yes, my boy,” she said in her own low, quiet voice; and God go with ye. I knew the time must come soon, an’ I thank Him that your first visit to the Redskins will be on an errand o’ peace. ‘Blessed are the peacemakers; for they shall be called the children of God.’”
Dick grasped his mother’s hand and pressed it to his cheek in silence. At the same moment Crusoe, seeing that the deeper feelings of his master were touched, rose up and thrust his nose against him.
“Ah, pup,” cried the young man hastily, “you must go too. Of course Crusoe goes, Joe Blunt?”Hum! I don’t know that. There’s no dependin’ on a dog to keep Ids tongue quiet in times o’ danger.”
“Believe me,” exclaimed Dick, flashing with enthusiasm, “Crusoe’s more trustworthy than I am myself. If ye can trust the master, ye’re safe to trust the pup.”
“Well, lad, ye may be right. We’ll take him.”
“Thanks, Joe. And who else goes with us?”
“I’ve bin castin’ that in my mind for some time, an’ I’ve fixed to take Henri. He’s not the safest man in the valley, but he’s the truest, that’s a fact. And now, youngster, get yer horse and rifle ready, and come to the block-house at daybreak to-morrow. Good luck to ye, mistriss, till we meet agin.”
Joe Blunt rose, and taking up his rifle—without which he scarcely ever moved a foot from his own door—left the cottage with rapid strides.
“My son,” said Mrs. Varley, kissing Dick’s cheek as he resumed his seat, “put this in the little pocket I made for it in your hunting-shirt.” She handed him a pocket Bible.
“Dear mother,” he said, as he placed the book carefully within the breast of his coat, “the Redskin that takes that from me must take my scalp first. But don’t fear for me. You’ve often said the Lord would protect me. So He will, mother, for sure it’s an errand o’ peace.”
“Ay, that’s it, that’s it,” murmured the widow.
Dick Varley spent that night in converse with his mother, and next morning at daybreak he was at the place of meeting, mounted on his sturdy little horse, with the “silver rifle” on his shoulder and Crusoe by his side.
“That’s right, lad, that’s right. Nothin’ like keepin’ yer time,” said Joe, as he led out a pack-horse from the gate of the block-house, while his own charger was held ready saddled by a man named Daniel Brand, who had charge of the block-house in his absence.
“Where’s Henri? Oh, here he comes!” exclaimed Dick, as the hunter referred to came thundering up the slope at a charge, on a horse that resembled its rider in size and not a little in clumsiness of appearance.
“Ah! mes boy. Him is a goot one to go,” cried Henri, remarking Dick’s smile as he pulled up. “No hoss on de plain can beat dis one, surement.”
“Now then, Henri, lend a hand to fix this pack; we’ve no time to palaver.” By this time they were joined by several of the soldiers and a few hunters who had come to see them start.
“Remember, Joe,” said one, “if you don’t come back in three months we’ll all come out in a band to seek you.”
“If we don’t come back in less than that time, what’s left o’ us won’t be worth seekin’ for,” said Joe, tightening the girth of his saddle.
“Put a bit in yer own mouth, Henri,” cried another, as the Canadian arranged his steed’s bridle; “ye’ll need it more than yer horse when ye git ’mong the red reptiles.”
“Vraiment, if mon mout’ needs one bit, yours will need one padlock.”
“Now, lads, mount!” cried Joe Blunt as he vaulted into the saddle. Dick Varley sprang lightly on his horse, and Henri made a rush at his steed and hurled his huge frame across its back with a violence that ought to have brought it to the ground; but the tall, raw-boned, broad-chested roan was accustomed to the eccentricities of its master, and stood the shock bravely. Being appointed to lead the pack-horse, Henri seized its halter. Then the three cavaliers shook their reins, and, waving their hands to their comrades, they sprang into the woods at full gallop, and laid their course for the “far west.”
For some time they galloped side by side in silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. Crusoe keeping close beside his master’s horse. The two elder hunters evidently ruminated on the object of their mission and the prospects of success, for their countenances were grave and their eyes cast on the ground. Dick Varley, too, thought upon the Red-men, but his musings were deeply tinged with the bright hues of a first adventure. The mountains, the plains, the Indians, the bears, the buffaloes, and a thousand other objects, danced wildly before his mind’s eye, and his blood careered through his veins and flushed his forehead as he thought of what he should see and do, and felt the elastic vigour of youth respond in sympathy to the light spring of his active little steed.
After a time Joe Blunt reined up, and they proceeded at an easy ambling pace. “I hope,” said Joe, “that them sodgers ’ll go their ways soon. I’ve no notion o’ them chaps when they’re left at a place wi’ nothin’ to do but whittle sticks.”
“Why, Joe,” exclaimed Dick Varley in a tone of surprise, “I thought you were admirin’ the beautiful face o’ nature all this time, and ye’re only thinkin’ about the sodgers. Now, that's strange.”
“Not so strange after all, lad,” answered Joe. “When a man’s used to a thing, he gits to enjoy it without speakin’ much about it. But it is true, boy, that mankind gits in time to think little o’ the blissin’s he's used to.”
“Oui, c’est vrai!” murmured Henri emphatically.
“Well, Joe Blunt, it may be so, but I'm thankful I’m not used to this sort of thing yet,” exclaimed Varley. “Let’s have another gallop. So ho! come along, Crusoe!” shouted the youth as he shook his reins and flew over a long stretch of prairie on which they entered.
Joe smiled as he followed his enthusiastic companion, but after a short run he pulled up.
“Hold on, youngster,” he cried; “ye must larn to do as ye’re bid, lad. It’s trouble enough to be among wild Injuns and wild buffaloes, as I hope soon to be, without havin’ wild comrades to look after.”
Dick laughed, and reined in his horse. “I'll be as obedient as Crusoe,” he said, “and no one can beat him.”
“Besides,” continued Joe “the horses won’t travel far if we begin by runnin’ all the wind out o’ them.”
“Wah!” exclaimed Henri, as the led horse became restive; “I think we must give to him de pack-hoss for to lead, eh?”
“Not a bad notion, Henri. We’ll make that the penalty of runnin’ off again; so look out. Master Dick.”
“I’m down,” replied Dick, with a modest air, “obedient as a baby, and won’t run off—till—the next time. By the way, Joe, how many days’ provisions did ye bring?”
“Two. That's ’nough to carry us to the Great Prairie, which is three weeks distant from this. Our rifles must make up the difference, and keep us when we get there.”
“And s’pose we neither find deer nor buffalo,” said Dick.
“I s’pose we’ll have to starve.”
“Dat is cumfer’able to tink upon,” remarked Henri.
“More comfortable to think o’ than to undergo,” said Dick; “but I s’pose there's little chance o’ that.”
“Well, not much,” replied Joe Blunt, patting his horse’s neck; “but d’ye see, lad, ye niver can count for sartin on any thin’. The deer and buffalo ought to be thick in them plains at this time—and when the buffalo are thick they covers the plains till ye can hardly see the end o’ them; but, ye see, sometimes the rascally Redskins takes it into their heads to burn the prairies, and sometimes ye find the place that should ha’ bin black wi’ buffalo black as a coal wi’ fire for miles an’ miles on end. At other times the Redskins go huntin’ in ’ticlur places, and sweeps them clean o’ every hoof that don’t git away. Sometimes, too, the animals seems to take a scunner at a place, and keeps out o’ the way. But one way or another men gin’rally manage to scramble through.”
“Look yonder, Joe,” exclaimed Dick, pointing to the summit of a distant ridge, where a small black object was moving against the sky; “that’s a deer, ain’t it?”
Joe shaded his eyes with his hand, and gazed earnestly at the object in question. “Ye’re right, boy; and by good luck we’ve got the wind of him. Cut in an’ take your chance now. There’s a long strip o’ wood as’ll let ye git close to him.”
Before the sentence was well finished Dick and Crusoe were off at full gallop. For a few hundred yards they coursed along the bottom of a hollow; then turning to the right they entered the strip of wood, and in a few minutes gained the edge of it. Here Dick dismounted. “You can’t help me here, Crusoe. Stay where you are, pup, and hold my horse.”
Crusoe seized the end of the line, which was fastened to the horse’s nose, in his mouth, and lay down on a hillock of moss, submissively placing his chin on his forepaws, and watching his master as he stepped noiselessly through the wood. In a few minutes Dick emerged from among the trees, and creeping from bush to bush, succeeded in getting to within six hundred yards of the deer, which was a beautiful little antelope. Beyond the bush behind which he now crouched all was bare open ground, without a shrub or a hillock large enough to conceal the hunter. There was a slight undulation in the ground, however, which enabled him to advance about fifty yards farther, by means of lying down quite fiat and working himself forward like a serpent. Farther than this he could not move without being seen by the antelope, which browsed on the ridge before him in fancied security. The distance was too great even for a long shot; but Dick knew of a weak point in this little creature’s nature which enabled him to accomplish his purpose—a weak point which it shares with animals of a higher order—namely, curiosity.
The little antelope of the North American prairies is intensely curious about everything that it does not quite understand, and will not rest satisfied until it has endeavoured to clear up the mystery. Availing himself of this propensity, Dick did what both Indians and hunters are accustomed to do on these occasions: he put a piece of rag on the end of his ramrod, and keeping his person concealed and perfectly still, waved this miniature flag in the air. The antelope noticed it at once, and, pricking up its ears, began to advance, timidly and slowly, step by step, to see what remarkable phenomenon it could be. In a few seconds the flag was lowered, a sharp crack followed, and the antelope fell dead upon the plain.
“Ha, boy! that’s a good supper, anyhow,” cried Joe, as he galloped up and dismounted.
“Goot! Dat is better nor dried meat,” added Henri.
Give him to me; I will put him on my hoss, vich is strongar dan yourn. But ver is your hoss?”
“He’ll be here in a minute,” replied Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth and giving a shrill whistle.
The instant Crusoe heard the sound he made a savage and apparently uncalled-for dash at the horse’s heels. This wild act, so contrary to the dog’s gentle nature, was a mere piece of acting. He knew that the horse would not advance without getting a fright, so he gave him one in this way, which sent him off at a gallop. Crusoe followed close at his heels, so as to bring the line alongside of the nag’s body, and thereby prevent its getting entangled; but despite his best efforts the horse got on one side of a tree and he on the other, so he wisely let go his hold of the line, and waited till more open ground enabled him to catch it again. Then he hung heavily back, gradually checked the horse’s speed, and finally trotted him up to his master’s side.
“’Tis a cliver cur, good sooth,” exclaimed Joe Blunt.
“Ah, Joe! you haven’t seen much of Crusoe yet. He’s as good as a man any day. I’ve done little else but train him for two years gone by, and he can do most anything but shoot—he can’t handle the rifle nohow.”
“Ha! then, I tink perhaps him could if he wos try,” said Henri, plunging on to his horse, and arranging the carcass of the antelope across the pommel of his saddle.
Thus they hunted and galloped, and trotted and ambled on through wood and plain all day, until the sun began to descend below the tree-tops of the bluffs on the west. Then Joe Blunt looked about him for a place on which to camp, and finally fixed on a spot under the shadow of a noble birch by the margin of a little stream. The carpet of grass on its banks was soft like green velvet, and the rippling waters of the brook were clear as crystal—very different from the muddy Missouri into which it flowed.
While Dick Varley felled and cut up firewood, Henri unpacked the horses and turned them loose to graze, and Joe kindled the fire and prepared venison steaks and hot tea for supper.
In excursions of this kind it is customary to “hobble” the horses—that is, to tie their fore-legs together, so that they cannot run either fast or far, but are free enough to amble about with a sort of hop in search of food. But when out in the prairies where Indians are known or supposed to be in the neighbourhood, the horses are picketed by means of a pin or stake attached to the ends of their long lariats, as well as hobbled, for Indians deem it no disgrace to steal or tell lies, though they think it disgraceful to be found out in doing either. And so expert are these dark-skinned natives of the western prairies that they will creep into the midst of an enemy’s camp, cut the lariats and hobbles of several horses, spring suddenly on their backs, and gallop away.
They not only steal from white men, but tribes that are at enmity steal from each other, and the boldness with which they do this is most remarkable. When Indians are travelling in a country where enemies are prowling, they guard their camps at night with jealous care. The horses in particular are both hobbled and picketed, and sentries are posted all round the camp. Yet, in spite of these precautions, hostile Indians manage to elude the sentries and creep into the camp. When a thief thus succeeds in effecting an entrance, his chief danger is past. He rises boldly to his feet, and wrapping his blanket or buffalo robe round him, he walks up and down as if he were a member of the tribe. At the same time he dexterously cuts the lariats of such horses as he observes are not hobbled. He dare not stoop to cut the hobbles, as the action would be observed, and suspicion would be instantly aroused. He then leaps on the best horse he can find, and uttering a terrific war-whoop darts away into the plains, driving the horses before him.
No such dark thieves were supposed to be near the camp under the birch-tree, however, so Joe, and Dick, and Henri ate their supper in comfort, and let their horses browse at will on the rich pasturage.
When the substantial part of supper was disposed of, tea and pipes were introduced, and conversation began to flow. Then the three saddles were placed in a row, each hunter wrapped himself in his blanket, and pillowing his head on his saddle, stretched his feet towards the fire and went to sleep, with his loaded rifle by his side and his hunting-knife handy in his belt. Crusoe mounted guard by stretching himself out couchant at Dick Varley’s side. The faithful dog slept lightly, and never moved all night; but had any one observed him closely he would have seen that every fitful flame that burst from the sinking fire, every puff of wind, and every motion of the horses that fed or rested hard by, had the effect of revealing a speck of glittering white in Crusoe’s watchful eye.