The Dog Crusoe and his Master Read online

  Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England

  THE DOG CRUSOE AND HIS MASTER, BY R.M. BALLANTYNE.

  CHAPTER ONE.

  THE BACKWOODS SETTLEMENT--CRUSOE'S PARENTAGE AND EARLY HISTORY--THEAGONISING PAINS AND SORROWS OF HIS PUPPYHOOD, AND OTHER INTERESTINGMATTERS.

  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 in allthe strength and majesty of full-grown doghood, you would haveexperienced 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, squeakingpup, 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 twotails--one in connection with his body, the other with his career. Thistale, though short, is very harrowing, and, as it is intimatelyconnected with Crusoe's subsequent history, we will relate it here. Butbefore doing so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond thecivilised portions 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 Delawares, 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 untamed andungovernable passion can make them, and free as the wind that sweepsover their mighty plains.

  There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on the banks of oneof the tributaries above referred to--a 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 into thefar west to seek a new home for themselves, where they could have "elbowroom," regardless alike of the dangers they might encounter in unknownlands and of the Red-skins 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 men thanthese backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness. Each had been trained tothe use of the rifle and the axe from infancy, and many of them hadspent so much of their lives in the woods, that they were more than amatch for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of hunting and war.When the squatters first issued from the woods bordering the valley, animmense herd of wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain.These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men, than, uttering a wildneigh, they tossed their flowing manes in the breeze and dashed awaylike a whirlwind. This incident procured the valley its name.

  The newcomers gave one satisfied glance at their future home, and thenset to work to erect log huts forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringingthrough the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while theoccasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters were cateringsuccessfully for the camp. In course of time the Mustang Valley beganto assume the aspect of a thriving settlement, with cottages and wavingfields 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 at thistime materially curtailed the extent of their hunting grounds, andnothing but the numbers and known courage of the squatters preventedthese savages from butchering and scalping them all.

  The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major Hope, a gentleman whoselove for nature in its wildest aspects determined him to exchangebarrack 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 theprime of life, and, being a bachelor, was unencumbered with a family.His first act on reaching the site of the new settlement was to commencethe erection of a block-house, to which the people might retire in caseof a general attack by the Indians.

  In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode as the guardian of thesettlement,--and here the dog Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in theearly morn of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his shaggytail in the excessive glee of puppyhood, and from the wooden portals ofthis block-house he bounded forth to the chase in all the fire, andstrength, 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 had broughtthem both from Newfoundland itself. The father's name was Crusoe; themother's name was Fan. Why the father had been so called no one couldtell. The man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained the pair was apoor, illiterate fisherman, who had never heard of the celebrated"Robinson" in all his life. All he knew was that Fan had been namedafter his own wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend, whohad got him from another friend, whose cousin had received him as amarriage gift from a friend of _his_; and that each had said to theother that the dog's name was "Crusoe," without reasons being asked orgiven on either side. On arriving at New York the major's friend, as wehave said, made him a present of the dogs. Not being much of a dogfancier, 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 neverheard 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, dashedwith an agonised howl into the water, and, seizing him in her mouth,brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition. She afterwards broughtthe 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 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 finished a long"palaver" or "talk" with Major Hope, were now in the act of prep
aringsupper. A fire had been kindled on the green sward in front of thetent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended a large tincamp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured Indian woman, or squaw,who, besides attending to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffsand kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing withseveral Indian curs that gambolled round the fire. The master of thefamily and his two sons reclined on buffalo robes, smoking their stonepipes or calumets in silence. There was nothing peculiar in theirappearance. Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse inexpression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which formed a strikingcontrast to the countenance of the young hunter, who seemed an amusedspectator of their proceedings.

  The youth referred to was very unlike, in many respects, to what we areaccustomed to suppose a backwoods hunter should be. He did not possessthat quiet gravity and staid demeanour which often characterise thesemen. True, he was tall and strongly made, but no one would have calledhim stalwart, and his frame indicated grace and agility rather thanstrength. But the point about him which rendered him different from hiscompanions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of spirits, strangelycoupled with an intense love of solitary wandering in the woods. Noneseemed so well fitted for social enjoyment as he; none laughed soheartily, or expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet fordays together he went off alone into the forest, and wandered where hisfancy led him, as grave and silent as 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 helet 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 of lifewhen 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 a man who at thatmoment issued from the block-house.

  "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 Red-skins never forgive."

  "But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the youth, pointing to thechild, which, with a mixture of boldness and timidity, was playing witha pup, wrinkling up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate rushedaway in sport, and opening wide its jet-black eyes in grave anxiety asthe pup returned at full gallop.

  "It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley, "to see such a queerpictur' 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 with onehand, seize a heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it severalviolent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill thepoor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body overthe fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the potto be cooked.

  The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup, andit 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, the twohunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight withdisgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, itwould be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages. But theinstant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yellof anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused thethree 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, walked upto 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 and shookhis 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 for ahunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."

  Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollowof his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow steptowards 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, whichseemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almostworn-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.