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

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 gray 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 one 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.

“Ah, pup!” cried Dick, sympathetically, “does’t hurt ye, eh, poor dog?”

Hurt him? such a question!  No, he should think not; better ask if that leap from the precipice hurt yourself.

So Crusoe might have said, but he didn’t; he took no notice of the remark whatever.

“We’ll cut him up now, pup,” continued Dick.  “The skin’ll make a splendid bed for you an’ me o’ nights, and a saddle for Charlie.”

Dick cut out all the claws of the bear by the roots, and spent the remainder of that night in cleaning them and stringing them on a strip of leather to form a necklace.  Independently of the value of these enormous claws (the largest as long as a man’s middle finger) as an evidence of prowess, they formed a remarkably graceful collar, which Dick wore round his neck ever after with as much pride as if he had been a Pawnee warrior.

When it was finished he held it out at arm’s-length, and said, “Crusoe, my pup, ain’t ye proud of it?  I’ll tell ye what it is, pup, the next time you an’ I floor Caleb, I’ll put the claws round your neck, an’ make ye wear em ever arter, so I will.”

The dog did not seem quite to appreciate this piece of prospective good fortune.  Vanity had no place in his honest breast, and, sooth to say, it had not a large place in that of his master either, as we may well grant when we consider that this first display of it was on the occasion of his hunter’s soul having at last realized its brightest day-dream.

Dick’s dangers and triumphs seemed to accumulate on him rather thickly at this place, for on the very next day he had a narrow escape of being killed by a deer.  The way of it was this.

Having run short of meat, and not being particularly fond of grizzly bear steak, he shouldered his rifle and sallied forth in quest of game, accompanied by Crusoe, whose frequent glances towards his wounded side showed that, whatever may have been the case the day before, it “hurt” him now.

They had not gone far when they came on the track of a deer in the snow, and followed it up till they spied a magnificent buck about three hundred yards off, standing in a level patch of ground which was everywhere surrounded either by rocks or thicket.  It was a long shot, but as the nature of the ground rendered it impossible for Dick to get nearer without being seen, he fired, and wounded the buck so badly that he came up with it in a few minutes.  The snow had drifted in the place where it stood bolt upright, ready for a spring, so Dick went round a little way, Crusoe following, till he was in a proper position to fire again.  Just as he pulled the trigger, Crusoe gave a howl behind him and disturbed his aim, so that he feared he had missed; but the deer fell, and he hurried towards it.  On coming up, however, the buck sprang to its legs, rushed at him with its hair bristling, knocked him down in the snow, and deliberately commenced stamping him to death.

Dick was stunned for a moment, and lay quite still, so the deer left off pommelling him, and stood looking at him.  But the instant he moved it plunged at him again and gave him another pounding, until he was content to lie still.  This was done several times, and Dick felt his strength going fast.  He was surprised that Crusoe did not come to his rescue, and once he cleared his mouth and whistled to him; but as the deer gave him another pounding for this, he didn’t attempt it again.  He now for the first time bethought him of his knife, and quietly drew it from his belt; but the deer observed the motion, and was on him again in a moment.  Dick, however, sprang up on his left elbow, and making several desperate thrusts upward, succeeded in stabbing the animal to the heart.

Rising and shaking the snow from his garments, he whistled loudly to Crusoe, and, on listening, heard him whining piteously.  He hurried to the place whence the sound came, and found that the poor dog had fallen into a deep pit or crevice in the rocks, which had been concealed from view by a crust of snow, and he was now making frantic but unavailing efforts to leap out.

Dick soon freed him from his prison by means of his belt, which he let down for the dog to grasp, and then returned to camp with as much deer-meat as he could carry.  Dear meat it certainly was to him, for it had nearly cost him his life, and left him all black and blue for weeks after.  Happily no bones were broken, so the incident only confined him a day to his encampment.

Soon after this the snow fell thicker than ever, and it became evident that an unusually early winter was about to set in among the mountains.  This was a terrible calamity, for if the regular snow of winter set in, it would be impossible for him either to advance or retreat.

While he was sitting on his bearskin by the camp-fire one day, thinking anxiously what he should do, and feeling that he must either make the attempt to escape or perish miserably in that secluded spot, a strange, unwonted sound struck upon his ear, and caused both him and Crusoe to spring violently to their feet and listen.  Could he be dreaming?—­it seemed like the sound of human voices.  For a moment he stood with his eyes rivetted on the ground, his lips apart, and his nostrils distended, as he listened with the utmost intensity.  Then he darted out and bounded round the edge of a rock which concealed an extensive but narrow valley from his view, and there, to his amazement, he beheld a band of about a hundred human beings advancing on horseback slowly through the snow.