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

The great prairies of the far west—­A remarkable colony discovered, and a miserable night endured.

Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is the purest, the most joyous, and the best.  At least so think we, and so think hundreds and thousands of the human family.  And so thought Dick Varley, as he sprang suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him.

This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick; but the dog received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order to afford free scope for the use of his tail.

“Ho!  Joe Blunt!  Henri!  Up, boys, up!  The sun will have the start o’ us.  I’ll catch the nags.”

So saying Dick bounded away into the woods, with Crusoe gambolling joyously at his heels.  Dick soon caught his own horse, and Crusoe caught Joe’s.  Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two.

Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on the back of the pack-horse.  “That’s the way to do it, lad,” cried Joe.  “Here, Henri, look alive and git yer beast ready.  I do believe ye’re goin’ to take another snooze!”

Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a cavernous yawn; but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot.  He only threw the saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle.

“Now then, all ready?”

“Ay”—­“Oui, yis!”

And away they went at full stretch again on their journey.

Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they reached the edge of the Great Prairie.

It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on which he first beheld the prairie—­the vast boundless prairie.  He had heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never—­no, he had never realized it.  ’Tis always thus.  Our conceptions of things that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong.  Dick’s eyes glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath came thick and quick.

“There it is,” he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on his enraptured gaze; “that’s it—­oh!—­”

Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of the Pawnees, and being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of grass.  The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the scene, the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after him.  It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the boundless prairie of the “far west.”

The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean.  There is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon; there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes.  There are islands, too—­clumps of trees and willow-bushes—­which rise out of this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in size and numbers as do the isles of ocean, being numerous in some places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not meet one in a long day’s journey.  Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the greensward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them.

“Now, lads,” said Joe Blunt, reining up, “our troubles begin to-day.”

“Our troubles?—­our joys, you mean!” exclaimed Dick Varley.

“P’r’aps I don’t mean nothin’ o’ the sort,” retorted Joe.  “Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur’ o’ troubles.  I s’pose he couldn’t stand ’em pure.  Ye see we’ve got to the prairie now—­”

“One blind hoss might see dat!” interrupted Henri.

“An’ we may or may not diskiver buffalo.  An’ water’s scarce, too, so we’ll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we’ll lose our horses, in which case we may as well give out at once.  Besides, there’s rattlesnakes about in sandy places, we’ll ha’ to look out for them; an’ there’s badger holes, we’ll need to look sharp for them lest the horses put their feet in ’em; an’ there’s Injuns, who’ll look out pretty sharp for us if they once get wind that we’re in them parts.”

“Oui, yis, mes boys; and there’s rain, and tunder, and lightin’,” added Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon ahead of them.

“It’ll be rain,” remarked Joe; “but there’s no thunder in the air jist now.  We’ll make for yonder clump o’ bushes and lay by till it’s past.”

Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows.  Before reaching it, however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where there was neither flower nor bird.  Here they were suddenly arrested by a most extraordinary sight—­at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had never seen the like before.  This was a colony of what Joe called “prairie-dogs.”  On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly prepared to charge; but he glanced up at his master first for permission.  Observing that his finger and his look commanded “silence,” he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear.  He did not, however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity.

These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to dogs, either in formation or habits.  They are, in fact, the marmot, and in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in some degree.  They burrow under the light soil, and throw it up in mounds like moles.

Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick first beheld them; but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen rising over the ridge they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation.  Each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house, and prepared, as it were, “to receive cavalry.”

The most ludicrous thing about them was that, although the most timid and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent things that ever lived!  Knowing that their holes afforded them a perfectly safe retreat, they sat close beside them; and as the hunters slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails, showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys.  The nearer they came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter.  They let the hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails wriggled for an instant in the air—­then a dead silence reigned over the deserted scene.

“Bien, them’s have dive into de bo’-els of de eart’,” said Henri with a broad grin.

Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared, like the wink of an eye.  Then they appeared again, and a thousand pair of eyes followed.  Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as vigorously as ever.  You could not say that you saw them jump out of their holes.  Suddenly, as if by magic, they were out; then Dick tossed up his arms, and suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone!

Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous activity.  What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain, but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their own houses.  Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden danger he always fled.

But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl lived with each doggie!  This is such an extraordinary fact that we could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and written about these regions.  The whole plain was covered with these owls.  Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony.

We have not been able to ascertain from travellers why the owls have gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own private opinion to the reader.  We assume, then, that owls find it absolutely needful to have holes.  Probably prairie-owls cannot dig holes for themselves.  Having discovered, however, a race of little creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible possession of the holes made by them.  Finding, no doubt, that when they did so the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering, moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled—­that’s how it came about, no doubt of it!

There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we cannot certify our reader of the truth of this.  Still it is well to be acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods.  If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie’s family is the most miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of—­or, as Henri said, in the bo’-els of the earth.

Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black clouds over the sky.  A few heavy drops of rain now warned them to seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at full speed for the clump of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in torrents.

“Now, lads, do it slick.  Off packs and saddles,” cried Joe Blunt, jumping from his horse.  “I’ll make a hut for ye, right off.”

“A hut, Joe! what sort o’ hut can ye make here?” inquired Dick.

“Ye’ll see, boy, in a minute.”

“Ach! lend me a hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hoss’s own skin.  Ah! dere all right.”

“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something in his mouth.  “I declare, it’s a bird o’ some sort.”

“A prairie-hen,” remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick’s feet; “capital for supper.”

“Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog.  Come here, I vill clap you.”

But Crusoe refused to be caressed.  Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and thrusting their points into the ground.  Over this they threw the largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on which they laid their packs of goods.  These they further secured against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment.  Then they sat down on this pile to rest, and consider what should be done next.

“’Tis a bad look-out,” said Joe, shaking his head.

“I fear it is,” replied Dick in a melancholy tone.

Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which was now of a uniform watery gray, while black clouds drove athwart it.  The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that in a short time they were wet to the skin.  The horses stood meekly beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous; and Crusoe sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, “Couldn’t you put a stop to this if you were to try?”

“This’ll never do.  I’ll try to git up a fire,” said Dick, jumping up in desperation.

“Ye may save yerself the trouble,” remarked Joe dryly—­at least as dryly as was possible in the circumstances.

However, Dick did try, but he failed signally.  Everything was soaked and saturated.  There were no large trees; most of the bushes were green, and the dead ones were soaked.  The coverings were slobbery, the skins they sat on were slobbery, the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat down beside his companions to grin and bear it.  As for Joe and Henri, they were old hands and accustomed to such circumstances.  From the first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils that they could not cure.

There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not, and it matters little, which runs thus,—­

  “For every evil under the sun
  There is a remedy—­or there’s none. 
  If there is—­try and find it;
  If there isn’t—­never mind it!”

There is deep wisdom here in small compass.  The principle involved deserves to be heartily recommended.  Dick never heard of the lines, but he knew the principle well, so he began to “never mind it” by sitting down beside his companions and whistling vociferously.  As the wind rendered this a difficult feat, he took to singing instead.  After that he said, “Let’s eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed.”

“Be all means,” said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer’s meat from a wallet.

“It’s cold grub,” said Dick, “and tough.”

But the hunters’ teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a pool on the top of their hut.  They now tried to sleep, for the night was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands when held up before their faces.  They sat back to back, and thus, in the form of a tripod, began to snooze.  Joe’s and Henri’s seasoned frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick’s body was young and pliant, so he hadn’t been asleep a few seconds when he fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others.  Joe gave a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, “Hah!” but Dick was too sleepy and miserable to say anything.  Crusoe, however, rose up to show his sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master’s knee as he resumed his place.  This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour, and by the third time they were all awakened up so thoroughly that they gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their hunting experiences and telling stories.  So engrossed did they become that day broke sooner than they had expected, and just in proportion as the gray light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies.