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

Savage sports—­Living cataracts—­An alarm—­Indians and their doings—­The stampede—­Charlie again.

One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the rocky gorge where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before.  Crusoe was with him, of course.  Dick had tied Charlie to a tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in.

Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him, so that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky.  Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark caverns, and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt there, when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe attracted him.

“What is’t, pup?” said he, laying his hand on the dog’s broad back.

Crusoe looked the answer, “I don’t know, Dick, but it’s something, you may depend upon it, else I would not have disturbed you.”

Dick lifted his rifle from the ground, and laid it in the hollow of his left arm.

“There must be something in the wind,” remarked Dick.

As wind is known to be composed of two distinct gases, Crusoe felt perfectly safe in replying “Yes” with his tail.  Immediately after he added, “Hallo! did you hear that?” with his ears.

Dick did hear it, and sprang hastily to his feet, as a sound like, yet unlike, distant thunder came faintly down upon the breeze.  In a few seconds the sound increased to a roar in which was mingled the wild cries of men.  Neither Dick nor Crusoe moved, for the sounds came from behind the heights in front of them, and they felt that the only way to solve the question, “What can the sounds be?” was to wait till the sounds should solve it themselves.

Suddenly the muffled sounds gave place to the distinct bellowing of cattle, the clatter of innumerable hoofs, and the yells of savage men, while at the same moment the edges of the opposite cliffs became alive with Indians and buffaloes rushing about in frantic haste—­the former almost mad with savage excitement, the latter with blind rage and terror.

On reaching the edge of the dizzy precipice, the buffaloes turned abruptly and tossed their ponderous heads as they coursed along the edge.  Yet a few of them, unable to check their headlong course, fell over, and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below.  Such falls, Dick observed, were hailed with shouts of delight by the Indians, whose sole object evidently was to enjoy the sport of driving the terrified animals over the precipice.  The wily savages had chosen their ground well for this purpose.

The cliff immediately opposite to Dick Varley was a huge projection from the precipice that hemmed in the gorge, a species of cape or promontory several hundred yards wide at the base, and narrowing abruptly to a point.  The sides of this wedge-shaped projection were quite perpendicular—­indeed, in some places the top overhung the base—­and they were at least three hundred feet high.  Broken and jagged rocks, of that peculiarly chaotic character which probably suggested the name to this part of the great American chain, projected from and were scattered all round the cliffs.  Over these the Indians, whose numbers increased every moment, strove to drive the luckless herd of buffaloes that had chanced to fall in their way.  The task was easy.  The unsuspecting animals, of which there were hundreds, rushed in a dense mass upon the cape referred to.  On they came with irresistible impetuosity, bellowing furiously, while their hoofs thundered on the turf with the muffled continuous roar of a distant but mighty cataract; the Indians, meanwhile, urging them on by hideous yells and frantic gestures.

The advance-guard came bounding madly to the edge of the precipice.  Here they stopped short, and gazed affrighted at the gulf below.  It was but for a moment.  The irresistible momentum of the flying mass behind pushed them over.  Down they came, absolutely a living cataract, upon the rocks below.  Some struck on the projecting rocks in the descent, and their bodies were dashed almost in pieces, while their blood spurted out in showers.  Others leaped from rock to rock with awful bounds, until, losing their foothold, they fell headlong; while others descended sheer down into the sweltering mass that lay shattered at the base of the cliffs.

Dick Varley and his dog remained rooted to the rock, as they gazed at the sickening sight, as if petrified.  Scarce fifty of that noble herd of buffaloes escaped the awful leap, but they escaped only to fall before the arrows of their ruthless pursuers.  Dick had often heard of this tendency of the Indians, where buffaloes were very numerous, to drive them over precipices in mere wanton sport and cruelty, but he had never seen it until now, and the sight filled his soul with horror.  It was not until the din and tumult of the perishing herd and the shrill yells of the Indians had almost died away that he turned to quit the spot.  But the instant he did so another shout was raised.  The savages had observed him, and were seen galloping along the cliffs towards the head of the gorge, with the obvious intention of gaining the other side and capturing him.  Dick sprang on Charlie’s back, and the next instant was flying down the valley towards the camp.

He did not, however, fear being overtaken, for the gorge could not be crossed, and the way round the head of it was long and rugged; but he was anxious to alarm the camp as quickly as possible, so that they might have time to call in the more distant trappers and make preparations for defence.

“Where away now, youngster?” inquired Cameron, emerging from his tent as Dick, taking the brook that flowed in front at a flying leap, came crashing through the bushes into the midst of the fur-packs at full speed.

“Injuns!” ejaculated Dick, reining up, and vaulting out of the saddle.  “Hundreds of ’em.  Fiends incarnate every one!”

“Are they near?”

“Yes; an hour’ll bring them down on us.  Are Joe and Henri far from camp to-day?”

“At Ten-mile Creek,” replied Cameron with an expression of bitterness, as he caught up his gun and shouted to several men, who hurried up on seeing our hero burst into camp.

“Ten-mile Creek!” muttered Dick.  “I’ll bring ’em in, though,” he continued, glancing at several of the camp horses that grazed close at hand.

In another moment he was on Charlie’s back, the line of one of the best horses was in his hand, and almost before Cameron knew what he was about he was flying down the valley like the wind.  Charlie often stretched out at full speed to please his young master, but seldom had he been urged forward as he was upon this occasion.  The led horse being light and wild, kept well up, and in a marvellously short space of time they were at Ten-mile Creek.

“Hallo, Dick, wot’s to do?” inquired Joe Blunt, who was up to his knees in the water setting a trap at the moment his friend galloped up.

“Injuns!  Where’s Henri?” demanded Dick.

“At the head o’ the dam there.”

Dick was off in a moment, and almost instantly returned with Henri galloping beside him.

No word was spoken.  In time of action these men did not waste words.  During Dick’s momentary absence, Joe Blunt had caught up his rifle and examined the priming, so that when Dick pulled up beside him he merely laid his hand on the saddle, saying, “All right!” as he vaulted on Charlie’s back behind his young companion.  In another moment they were away at full speed.  The mustang seemed to feel that unwonted exertions were required of him.  Double weighted though he was, he kept well up with the other horse, and in less than two hours after Dick’s leaving the camp the three hunters came in sight of it.

Meanwhile Cameron had collected nearly all his forces and put his camp in a state of defence before the Indians arrived, which they did suddenly, and, as usual, at full gallop, to the amount of at least two hundred.  They did not at first seem disposed to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, but assembled in a semicircle round the camp in a menacing attitude, while one of their chiefs stepped forward to hold a palaver.  For some time the conversation on both sides was polite enough, but by degrees the Indian chief assumed an imperious tone, and demanded gifts from the trappers, taking care to enforce his request by hinting that thousands of his countrymen were not far distant.  Cameron stoutly refused, and the palaver threatened to come to an abrupt and unpleasant termination just at the time that Dick and his friends appeared on the scene of action.

The brook was cleared at a bound; the three hunters leaped from their steeds and sprang to the front with a degree of energy that had a visible effect on the savages; and Cameron, seizing the moment, proposed that the two parties should smoke a pipe and hold a council.  The Indians agreed, and in a few minutes they were engaged in animated and friendly intercourse.  The speeches were long, and the compliments paid on either side were inflated, and, we fear, undeserved; but the result of the interview was, that Cameron made the Indians a present of tobacco and a few trinkets, and sent them back to their friends to tell them that he was willing to trade with them.

Next day the whole tribe arrived in the valley, and pitched their deerskin tents on the plain opposite to the camp of the white men.  Their numbers far exceeded Cameron’s expectation, and it was with some anxiety that he proceeded to strengthen his fortifications as much as circumstances and the nature of the ground would admit.

The Indian camp, which numbered upwards of a thousand souls, was arranged with great regularity, and was divided into three distinct sections, each section being composed of a separate tribe.  The Great Snake nation at that time embraced three tribes or divisions—­namely, the Shirry-dikas, or dog-eaters; the War-are-ree-kas, or fish-eaters; and the Banattees, or robbers.  These were the most numerous and powerful Indians on the west side of the Rocky Mountains.  The Shirry-dikas dwelt in the plains, and hunted the buffaloes; dressed well; were cleanly; rich in horses; bold, independent, and good warriors.  The War-are-ree-kas lived chiefly by fishing, and were found on the banks of the rivers and lakes throughout the country.  They were more corpulent, slovenly, and indolent than the Shirry-dikas, and more peaceful.  The Banattees, as we have before mentioned, were the robbers of the mountains.  They were a wild and contemptible race, and at enmity with every one.  In summer they went about nearly naked.  In winter they clothed themselves in the skins of rabbits and wolves.  Being excellent mimics, they could imitate the howling of wolves, the neighing of horses, and the cries of birds, by which means they could approach travellers, rob them, and then fly to their rocky fastnesses in the mountains, where pursuit was vain.

Such were the men who now assembled in front of the camp of the fur-traders, and Cameron soon found that the news of his presence in the country had spread far and wide among the natives, bringing them to the neighbourhood of his camp in immense crowds, so that during the next few days their numbers increased to thousands.

Several long palavers quickly ensued between the red men and the white, and the two great chiefs who seemed to hold despotic rule over the assembled tribes were extremely favourable to the idea of universal peace which was propounded to them.  In several set speeches of great length and very considerable power, these natural orators explained their willingness to enter into amicable relations with all the surrounding nations, as well as with the white men.

“But,” said Pee-eye-em, the chief of the Shirry-dikas, a man above six feet high, and of immense muscular strength—­“but my tribe cannot answer for the Banattees, who are robbers, and cannot be punished, because they dwell in scattered families among the mountains.  The Banattees are bad; they cannot be trusted.”

None of the Banattees were present at the council when this was said; and if they had been it would have mattered little, for they were neither fierce nor courageous, although bold enough in their own haunts to murder and rob the unwary.

The second chief did not quite agree with Pee-eye-em.  He said that it was impossible for them to make peace with their natural enemies, the Peigans and the Blackfeet on the east side of the mountains.  It was very desirable, he admitted; but neither of these tribes would consent to it, he felt sure.

Upon this Joe Blunt rose and said, “The great chief of the War-are-ree-kas is wise, and knows that enemies cannot be reconciled unless deputies are sent to make proposals of peace.”

“The Pale-face does not know the Blackfeet,” answered the chief.  “Who will go into the lands of the Blackfeet?  My young men have been sent once and again, and their scalps are now fringes to the leggings of their enemies.  The War-are-ree-kas do not cross the mountains but for the purpose of making war.”

“The chief speaks truth,” returned Joe; “yet there are three men round the council fire who will go to the Blackfeet and the Peigans with messages of peace from the Snakes if they wish it.”

Joe pointed to himself, Henri, and Dick as he spoke, and added, “We three do not belong to the camp of the fur-traders; we only, lodge with them for a time.  The Great Chief of the white men has sent us to make peace with the Red-men, and to tell them that he desires to trade with them—­to exchange hatchets, and guns, and blankets for furs.”

This declaration interested the two chiefs greatly, and after a good deal of discussion they agreed to take advantage of Joe Blunt’s offer; and appoint him as a deputy to the court of their enemies.  Having arranged these matters to their satisfaction, Cameron bestowed a red flag and a blue surtout with brass buttons on each of the chiefs, and a variety of smaller articles on the other members of the council, and sent them away in a particularly amiable frame of mind.

Pee-eye-em burst the blue surtout at the shoulders and elbows in putting it on, as it was much too small for his gigantic frame; but never having seen such an article of apparel before, he either regarded this as the natural and proper consequence of putting it on, or was totally indifferent to it, for he merely looked at the rents with a smile of satisfaction, while his squaw surreptitiously cut off the two back buttons and thrust them into her bosom.

By the time the council closed the night was far advanced, and a bright moon was shedding a flood of soft light over the picturesque and busy scene.

“I’ll go to the Injun camp,” said Joe to Walter Cameron, as the chiefs rose to depart.  “The season’s far enough advanced already; it’s time to be off; and if I’m to speak for the Redskins in the Blackfeet Council, I’d need to know what to say.”

“Please yourself, Master Blunt,” answered Cameron.  “I like your company and that of your friends, and if it suited you I would be glad to take you along with us to the coast of the Pacific; but your mission among the Indians is a good one, and I’ll help it on all I can.—­I suppose you will go also?” he added, turning to Dick Varley, who was still seated beside the council fire caressing Crusoe.

“Wherever Joe goes, I go,” answered Dick.

Crusoe’s tail, ears, and eyes demonstrated high approval of the sentiment involved in this speech.

“And your friend Henri?”

“He goes too,” answered Joe.  “It’s as well that the Redskins should see the three o’ us before we start for the east side o’ the mountains.—­Ho, Henri! come here, lad.”

Henri obeyed, and in a few seconds the three friends crossed the brook to the Indian camp, and were guided to the principal lodge by Pee-eye-em.  Here a great council was held, and the proposed attempt at negotiations for peace with their ancient enemies fully discussed.  While they were thus engaged, and just as Pee-eye-em had, in the energy of an enthusiastic peroration, burst the blue surtout almost up to the collar, a distant rushing sound was heard, which caused every man to spring to his feet, run out of the tent, and seize his weapons.

“What can it be, Joe?” whispered Dick as they stood at the tent door leaning on their rifles, and listening intently.

“Dun’no’,” answered Joe shortly.

Most of the numerous fires of the camp had gone out, but the bright moon revealed the dusky forms of thousands of Indians, whom the unwonted sound had startled, moving rapidly about.

The mystery was soon explained.  The Indian camp was pitched on an open plain of several miles in extent, which took a sudden bend half-a-mile distant, where a spur of the mountains shut out the farther end of the valley from view.  From beyond this point the dull rumbling sound proceeded.  Suddenly there was a roar as if a mighty cataract had been let loose upon the scene.  At the same moment a countless herd of wild horses came thundering round the base of the mountain and swept over the plain straight towards the Indian camp.

“A stampede!” cried Joe, springing to the assistance of Pee-eye-em, whose favourite horses were picketed near the tent.

On they came like a living torrent, and the thunder of a thousand hoofs was soon mingled with the howling of hundreds of dogs in the camp, and the yelling of Indians, as they vainly endeavoured to restrain the rising excitement of their steeds.  Henri and Dick stood rooted to the ground, gazing in silent wonder at the fierce and uncontrollable gallop of the thousands of panic-stricken horses that bore down upon the camp with the tumultuous violence of a mighty cataract.

As the maddened troop drew nigh, the camp horses began to snort and tremble violently, and when the rush of the wild steeds was almost upon them, they became ungovernable with terror, broke their halters and hobbles, and dashed wildly about.  To add to the confusion at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon and threw the whole scene into deep obscurity.  Blind with terror, which was probably increased by the din of their own mad flight, the galloping troop came on, and with a sound like the continuous roar of thunder that for an instant drowned the yell of dog and man they burst upon the camp, trampling over packs and skins, and dried meat, etc., in their headlong speed, and overturning several of the smaller tents.  In another moment they swept out upon the plain beyond, and were soon lost in the darkness of the night, while the yelping of dogs, as they vainly pursued them, mingled and gradually died away with the distant thunder of their retreat.

This was a stampede, one of the most extraordinary scenes that can be witnessed in the western wilderness.

“Lend a hand, Henri,” shouted Joe, who was struggling with a powerful horse.  “Wot’s comed over yer brains, man?  This brute’ll git off if you don’t look sharp.”

Dick and Henri both answered to the summons, and they succeeded in throwing the struggling animal on its side and holding it down until its excitement was somewhat abated.  Pee-eye-em had also been successful in securing his favourite hunter:  but nearly every other horse belonging to the camp had broken loose and joined the whirlwind gallop.  But they gradually dropped out, and before morning the most of them were secured by their owners.  As there were at least two thousand horses and an equal number of dogs in the part of the Indian camp which had been thus overrun by the wild mustangs, the turmoil, as may be imagined, was prodigious!  Yet, strange to say, no accident of a serious nature occurred beyond the loss of several chargers.

In the midst of this exciting scene there was one heart which beat with a nervous vehemence that well-nigh burst it.  This was the heart of Dick Varley’s horse, Charlie.  Well known to him was that distant rumbling sound that floated on the night air into the fur-traders’ camp, where he was picketed close to Cameron’s tent.  Many a time had he heard the approach of such a wild troop, and often, in days not long gone by, had his shrill neigh rung out as he joined and led the panic-stricken band.  He was first to hear the sound, and by his restive actions to draw the attention of the fur-traders to it.  As a precautionary measure they all sprang up and stood by their horses to soothe them, but as a brook with a belt of bushes and quarter of a mile of plain intervened between their camp and the mustangs as they flew past, they had little or no trouble in restraining them.  Not so, however, with Charlie.  At the very moment that his master was congratulating himself on the supposed security of his position, he wrenched the halter from the hand of him who held it, burst through the barrier of felled trees that had been thrown round the camp, cleared the brook at a bound, and with a wild hilarious neigh resumed his old place in the ranks of the free-born mustangs of the prairie.

Little did Dick think, when the flood of horses swept past him, that his own good steed was there, rejoicing in his recovered liberty.  But Crusoe knew it.  Ay, the wind had borne down the information to his acute nose before the living storm burst upon the camp; and when Charlie rushed past, with the long tough halter trailing at his heels, Crusoe sprang to his side, seized the end of the halter with his teeth, and galloped off along with him.

It was a long gallop and a tough one, but Crusoe held on, for it was a settled principle in his mind never to give in.  At first the check upon Charlie’s speed was imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic dog began to tell, and after a time they fell a little to the rear; then by good fortune the troop passed through a mass of underwood, and the line getting entangled brought their mad career forcibly to a close; the mustangs passed on, and the two friends were left to keep each other company in the dark.

How long they would have remained thus is uncertain, for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a complicated entanglement.  Fortunately, however, in his energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe’s sharp teeth partially severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie caused it to part.  Before he could escape, Crusoe again seized the end of it, and led him slowly but steadily back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside until he had placed the line in Dick Varley’s hand.

“Hallo, pup! where have ye bin?  How did ye bring him here?” exclaimed Dick, as he gazed in amazement at his foam-covered horse.

Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, “Be thankful that you’ve got him, Dick, my boy, and don’t ask questions that you know I can’t answer.”

“He must ha’ broke loose and jined the stampede,” remarked Joe, coming out of the chief’s tent at the moment; “but tie him up, Dick, and come in, for we want to settle about startin’ to-morrow or nixt day.”

Having fastened Charlie to a stake, and ordered Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where the council had reassembled, and where Pee-eye-em—­having, in the recent struggle, split the blue surtout completely up to the collar, so that his backbone was visible throughout the greater part of its length—­was holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient enemies of the Shirry-dikas, in particular.