The backwoods settlement--Crusoe's parentage, and early
history--The agonizing pains and sorrows of his puppyhood,
and other interesting matters.
The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not,
courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously,
and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told you
that." You know very well that you have often seen a
man above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion,
with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of an
eagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard others
say, "It is scarcely possible to believe that such a man
was once a squalling baby." If you had seen our hero
in all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood,
you would have experienced 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,
squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blind
as a bat.
But we draw particular attention to the fact of
Crusoe's having once been a pup, because in connection
with the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale.
This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had two
tails--one in connection with his body, the other with
his career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing,
and as it is intimately connected with Crusoe's subsequent
history we will relate it here. But before doing
so we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond the
civilized portions of the United States of America--beyond
the frontier settlements of the "far west," into
those wild prairies which are watered by the great
Missouri River--the Father of Waters--and his numerous
tributaries.
Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawarers,
the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of Red
Indians, who are gradually retreating step by step towards
the Rocky Mountains as the advancing white
man cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies.
Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, the
deer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutes
alike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernable
passion can make them, and free as the wind that
sweeps over their mighty plains.
There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot on
the banks of one of the tributaries above referred
to--long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, with
a magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom--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 is still a frontier settlement
round which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously,
and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away.
At the period of which we write the valley had just
been taken possession of by several families of squatters,
who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the then
frontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the far
west to seek a new home for themselves, where they
could have "elbow room," regardless alike of the
dangers they might encounter in unknown lands and of
the Redskins who dwelt there.
The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, and
ammunition. Most of the women were used to dangers
and alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the power
of their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them;
and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart men
than these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness.
Each had been trained to the use of the rifle and the
axe from infancy, and many of them had spent so much
of their lives in the woods that they were more than a
match for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits of
hunting and war. When the squatters first issued from
the woods bordering the valley, an immense herd of
wild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain.
These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white men
than, uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowing
manes in the breeze and dashed away like a whirlwind.
This incident procured the valley its name.
The new-comers gave one satisfied glance at their
future home, and then set to work to erect log huts
forthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing through
the forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, while
the occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunters
were catering successfully for the camp. In course of
time the Mustang Valley began to assume the aspect of
a thriving settlement, with cottages and waving fields
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 animals with them, which
they exchanged with the white men for knives, and
beads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. But
they hated the "Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, because
their encroachments had at this time materially curtailed
the extent of their hunting-grounds, and nothing
but the numbers and known courage of the squatters
prevented these savages from butchering and scalping
them all.
The leader of this band of pioneers was a Major
Hope, a gentleman whose love for nature in its wildest
aspects determined him to exchange barrack 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 the prime of life, and being a bachelor, was
unencumbered with a family. His first act on reaching
the site of the new settlement was to commence the
erection of a block-house, to which the people might
retire in case of a general attack by the Indians.
In this block-house Major Hope took up his abode
as the guardian of the settlement. And here the dog
Crusoe was born; here he sprawled in the early morn
of life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged his
shaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood; and
from the wooden portals of this block-house he bounded
forth to the chase in all the fire, and strength, and
majesty of full-grown doghood.
Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders.
There was no doubt as to their being of
the genuine breed, for Major Hope had received them
as a parting gift from a brother officer, who had brought
them both from Newfoundland itself. The father's
name was Crusoe, the mother's name was Fan. Why
the father had been so called no one could tell. The
man from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained the
pair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had never
heard of the celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. All
he knew was that Fan had been named after his own
wife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend,
who had got him from another friend, whose cousin had
received him as a marriage-gift from a friend of his;
and that each had said to the other that the dog's name
was "Crusoe," without reasons being asked or given on
either side. On arriving at New York the major's
friend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs.
Not being much of a dog fancier, 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 never heard 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 also born in
company with a brother and two sisters, all of whom
drowned themselves accidentally, in the first month of
their existence, by falling into the river which flowed
past the block-house--a calamity which occurred,
doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out without
their mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with his
brother and sisters at the time, and fell in along with
them, but was saved from sharing their fate by his
mother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed with
an agonized howl into the water, and, seizing him in
her mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition.
She afterwards brought the 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 proper understanding of which the foregoing
dissertation was needful.
One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season of
the American year called the Indian summer, there
came a family of Sioux Indians to the Mustang Valley,
and pitched their tent close to the block-house. A
young 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 preparing supper.
A fire had been kindled on the greensward in front of
the tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which depended
a large tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favoured
Indian woman, or squaw, who, besides attending
to the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs and
kicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playing
with several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire.
The master of the family and his two sons reclined on
buffalo robes, smoking their stone pipes or calumets in
silence. There was nothing peculiar in their appearance.
Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse in
expression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, which
formed a striking contrast to the countenance of the
young hunter, who seemed an amused spectator of their
proceedings.
The youth referred to was very unlike, in many
respects, to what we are accustomed to suppose a backwoods
hunter should be. He did not possess that quiet
gravity and staid demeanour which often characterize
these men. True, he was tall and strongly made, but
no one would have called him stalwart, and his frame
indicated grace and agility rather than strength. But
the point about him which rendered him different from
his companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow of
spirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitary
wandering in the woods. None seemed so well fitted
for social enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, or
expressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet for
days together he went off alone into the forest, and
wandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silent
as an Indian warrior.
After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. The
boy followed implicitly the dictates of nature within
him. He was amiable, straightforward, sanguine, and
intensely earnest. When he laughed, he let it out, as
sailors have it, "with a will." When there was good
cause to be grave, no power on earth could make him
smile. We have called him boy, but in truth he was
about that uncertain period of life when a youth is said
to be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking
(every earnest, candid face is) and masculine;
his hair was reddish-brown and his eye bright-blue.
He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins,
and leathern shirt common to the western hunter.
"You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley,"
said a man who at that moment issued from the blockhouse.
"That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied the
youth, turning with a broad grin to his companion.
"Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much.
They soon take offence; an' them Redskins never forgive."
"But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned the
youth, pointing to the child, which, with a mixture of
boldness and timidity, was playing with a pup, wrinkling
up its fat visage into a smile when its playmate
rushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-black
eyes in grave anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop.
"It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley,
"to see such a queer pictur' o' itself."
He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered his
face as he saw the Indian woman stoop quickly down,
catch the pup by its hind-leg with one hand, seize a
heavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several
violent blows on the throat. Without taking the
trouble to kill the poor animal outright, the savage then
held its still writhing body over the fire in order to
singe off the hair before putting it into the pot to be
cooked.
The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more
closely to the pup, and it flashed across his mind that
this could be no other than young Crusoe, which neither
he nor his companion had before seen, although they had
often heard others speak of and describe it.
Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate
Indian curs, the two hunters would probably have
turned from the sickening sight with disgust, feeling
that, however much they might dislike such cruelty,
it would be of no use attempting to interfere with
Indian usages. But the instant the idea that it was
Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger,
and sprang towards the woman with a bound that
caused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp
their tomahawks.
Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward
his rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance,
that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipes
with an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at having been
startled out of their propriety by a trifle; while Dick
Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and
painful position, scowled angrily in the woman's face,
and turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holding
the pup tenderly in his arms.
Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn
expression of countenance till he disappeared; then he
looked at the ground, and shook his head.
Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods
hunters, both in appearance and in fact--broad, tall,
massive, lion-like; gifted with the hunting, stalking,
running, and trail-following powers of the savage, and
with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting
powers, the daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. He
was grave, too--seldom smiled, and rarely laughed.
His expression almost at all times was a compound 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, and muttered to himself, "The boy's
bold enough, but he's too reckless for a hunter. There
was no need for that yell, now--none at all."
Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his
rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and
strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction,
and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the
brogue in his tone, which seemed to have been handed
down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched
tail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off to
a point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks as
the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to the
care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no
one can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of
a few weeks, Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat as
ever.
A shooting-match and its consequences--New friends
introduced to the reader--Crusoe and his mother
change masters.
Shortly after the incident narrated in the last
chapter the squatters of the Mustang Valley lost
their leader. Major Hope suddenly announced his intention
of quitting the settlement and returning to the
civilized world. Private matters, he said, required his
presence there--matters which he did not choose to
speak of, but which would prevent his returning again
to reside among them. Go he must, and, being a man
of determination, go he did; but before going he distributed
all his goods and chattels among the settlers.
He even gave away his rifle, and Fan and Crusoe.
These last, however, he resolved should go together;
and as they were well worth having, he announced that
he would give them to the best shot in the valley. He
stipulated that the winner should escort him to the
nearest settlement eastward, after which he might return
with the rifle on his shoulder.
Accordingly, a long level piece of ground on the
river's bank, with a perpendicular cliff at the end of
it, was selected as the shooting-ground, and, on the
appointed day, at the appointed hour, the competitors
began to assemble.
"Well, lad, first as usual," exclaimed Joe Blunt, as he
reached the ground and found Dick Varley there before
him.
"I've bin here more than an hour lookin' for a new
kind o' flower that Jack Morgan told me he'd seen.
And I've found it too. Look here; did you ever see
one like it before?"
Blunt leaned his rifle against a tree, and carefully
examined the flower.
"Why, yes, I've seed a-many o' them up about the
Rocky Mountains, but never one here-away. It seems
to have gone lost itself. The last I seed, if I remimber
rightly, wos near the head-waters o' the Yellowstone
River, it wos--jest where I shot a grizzly bar."
"Was that the bar that gave you the wipe on the
cheek?" asked Varley, forgetting the flower in his
interest about the bear.
"It wos. I put six balls in that bar's carcass, and
stuck my knife into its heart ten times, afore it gave
out; an' it nearly ripped the shirt off my back afore I
wos done with it."
"I would give my rifle to get a chance at a grizzly!"
exclaimed Varley, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm.
"Whoever got it wouldn't have much to brag of," remarked
a burly young backwoodsman, as he joined them.
His remark was true, for poor Dick's weapon was
but a sorry affair. It missed fire, and it hung fire; and
even when it did fire, it remained a matter of doubt in
its owner's mind whether the slight deviations from
the direct line made by his bullets were the result of
his or its bad shooting.
Further comment upon it was checked by the arrival
of a dozen or more hunters on the scene of action.
They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold, fearless men,
and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove
more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in
open fight. A few minutes after, the major himself
came on the ground with the prize rifle on his shoulder,
and Fan and Crusoe at his heels--the latter tumbling,
scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy,
and happy as possible, having evidently quite forgotten
that it had been nearly roasted alive only a few weeks
before.
Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits
were discussed with animation.
And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece
had never before been seen on the western frontier. It
was shorter in the barrel and larger in the bore than
the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides
being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted.
But the grand peculiarity about it, and that which
afterwards rendered it the mystery of mysteries to the
savages, was that it had two sets of locks--one percussion,
the other flint--so that, when caps failed, by
taking off the one set of locks and affixing the others,
it was converted into a flint rifle. The major, however,
took care never to run short of caps, so that the flint
locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need.
"Now, lads," cried Major Hope, stepping up to the
point whence they were to shoot, "remember the terms.
He who first drives the nail obtains the rifle, Fan, and
her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest settlement.
Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for
the chance."
"Agreed," cried the men.
"Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri
will fix the nail. Here it is."
The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward
to receive the nail was a rare and remarkable
specimen of mankind. Like his comrades, he was half
a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he was
clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more,
he was gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy,
awkward, loose-jointed, and a bad shot. Nevertheless
Henri was an immense favourite in the settlement, for
his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw
him frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as
he was sometimes compelled to do in self-defence, he
went at them with a sort of jovial rage that was almost
laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of his
chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather
afraid of him on the war-trail or in the hunt, where
caution and frequently soundless motion were essential
to success or safety. But when Henri had a comrade
at his side to check him he was safe enough, being
humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he
must have been born under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding
his natural inaptitude for all sorts of backwoods
life, he managed to scramble through everything
with safety, often with success, and sometimes with
credit.
To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's
journey. Joe Blunt used to say he was "all jints
together, from the top of his head to the sole of his
moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most
inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way,
sometimes on hands and knees, sometimes flat, through
bush and brake, as if there was not a bone in his body,
and without the slightest noise. This sort of work was
so much against his plunging nature that he took long
to learn it; but when, through hard practice and the loss
of many a fine deer, he came at length to break himself
in to it, he gradually progressed to perfection, and
ultimately became the best stalker in the valley. This,
and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being
short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards,
except a buffalo or a barn-door.
Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though
totally unhinged, could no more be bent, when the
muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one
wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back
broken. Few could equal and none could beat him
at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When
Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for
arms and legs went like independent flails. When he
leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of
violence that seemed to insure a somersault; yet he
always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging
was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the
settlement when unoccupied, with his hands behind his
back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act,
he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could
only make up for it by plunging. This habit got him
into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power
as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian,
and a particularly bad speaker of the English
language.
We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction
of Henri, for he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever
lived, and deserves special notice.
But to return. The sort of rifle practice called
"driving the nail," by which this match was to be
decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the
hunters of the far west. It consisted in this: an
ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into
a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance
of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in
driving it home. On the present occasion the major
resolved to test their shooting by making the distance
seventy yards.
Some of the older men shook their heads.
"It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to
snuff the nose o' a mosquito."
"Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said
another.
The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed
fellow, with a cross-grained expression of countenance.
He used the long, heavy Kentucky rifle, which, from
the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle.
Jim was no favourite, and had been named
Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance.
In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the
shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of
his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then,
placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the
stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured
out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet.
This was the regular measure among them. Little
time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang"
on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised
to the object, and the instant the sight covered it the
ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was
encircled by bullet holes, scarcely two of which were
more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired
by Joe Blunt--entered the tree close beside it.
"Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would
have carried off the prize."
"So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of
his head. "Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred
yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never could hit the nail.
It's too small to see."
"That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs,
with a sneer, as he stepped forward.
All tongues were now hushed, for the expected
champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the
rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head
on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.
"That wins if there's no better," said the major,
scarce able to conceal his disappointment. "Who comes
next?"
To this question Henri answered by stepping up to
the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary
movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an
intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the
mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter
and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for
a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance,
and looking round at his companions, he
said,--"Ha! mes boys, I can-not behold de nail at all!"
"Can ye 'behold' the tree?" shouted a voice, when
the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat
abated.
"Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see
him, an' a goot small bit of de forest beyond."
"Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the
rifle--leastways ye ought to get the pup."
Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without
taking aim.
The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise,
for the bullet was found close beside the nail.
"It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked
Jim Scraggs.
"Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated
to the rear and wiped out his rifle; "mais I
have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck."
"Bravo, Henri!" said Major Hope as he passed;
"you deserve to win, anyhow. Who's next?"
"Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley?
Come on, youngster, an' take yer shot."
The youth came forward with evident reluctance.
"It's of no manner o' use," he whispered to Joe Blunt
as he passed, "I can't depend on my old gun."
"Never give in," whispered Blunt, encouragingly.
Poor Varley's want of confidence in his rifle was
merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock
missed fire.
"Lend him another gun," cried several voices.
"'Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope," said
Scraggs.
"Well, so it is; try again."
Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that
the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of
the lead sticking to its edge.
Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud
dispute began as to which was the better shot of the
two.
"There are others to shoot yet," cried the major.
"Make way. Look out."
The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not
yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer
the mark.
It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley,
being the two best shots, should try over again, and it
was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt's
rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it
fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat
hastily, and fired.
"Hit again!" shouted those who had run forward to
examine the mark. "Half the bullet cut off by the
nail head!"
Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick's friends
cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave
and silent, for they knew Jim's powers, and felt that he
would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to
the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward
his rifle.
At that moment our friend Crusoe, tired of tormenting
his mother, waddled stupidly and innocently
into the midst of the crowd of men, and in so doing
received Henri's heel and the full weight of his elephantine
body on its fore paw. The horrible and electric
yell that instantly issued from his agonized throat could
only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, "to the
last dyin' screech o' a bustin' steam biler!" We cannot
say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen
had been born and bred in the midst of alarms,
and were so used to them that a "bustin' steam biler"
itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs,
would not have startled them. But the effect, such as
it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim
Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the
nail by a hair's-breadth.
'Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a
kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would
certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that
remarkable dog on the spot; but quick as lightning
Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim's shin
met it with a violence that caused him to howl with
rage and pain.
"Oh! pardon me, broder," cried Henri, shrinking
back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and
glee.
Jim's discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his
valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of
anger and left the ground.
Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young
Varley. "It couldn't have fallen into better hands," he
said. "You'll do it credit, lad, I know that full well;
and let me assure you it will never play you false.
Only keep it clean, don't overcharge it, aim true, and it
will never miss the mark."
While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate
him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled
feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good
fortune. Recovering himself suddenly, he seized his old
rifle, and dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd,
while the men were still busy handling and discussing
the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy
of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the
shoulder.
"Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should
have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new
one. Take it now, lad. It's come to ye sooner than
either o' us expected."
"Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand
warmly, "ye're true as heart of oak. It's good of 'ee;
that's a fact."
"Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an
old gun that I've no use for, an's worth little, but it
makes me right glad to have the chance to do it."
Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could
walk; but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor
indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did
not at that moment experience as much joy in handling
the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.
A difficulty now occurred which had not before been
thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal
of Dick Varley's canine property to follow him. Fan
had no idea of changing masters without her consent
being asked or her inclination being consulted.
"You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said
the major.
"No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like
human natur'!"
Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed
him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting-shirt,
and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his
shoulder.
Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute,
gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the
major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in
another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable
in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a
melancholy howl. The mother's love instantly prevailed.
For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound,
and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new
master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin
of the lake.
Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree--An
old woman--Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts--The dog
Crusoe's education begun.
It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble
face. On such a face did Richard Varley look
every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs.
Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes
of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her
husband. Love for her only brother induced her to
forsake the peaceful village of Maryland and enter upon
the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother
was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was
stamped with a species of beauty which never
fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow
and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man
for a time, but the loving look alone can forge that
adamantine chain that time, age, eternity shall never
break.
Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt
to analyze this look which characterized Mrs. Varley.
A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even
when one is in a hurry. The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two. By a loving
look we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a
beloved object. That is common enough; and thankful
should we be that it is so common in a world that's
overfull of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile
and look of intense affection with which some people--good
people too--greet friend and foe alike, and by
which effort to work out their beau ideal of the expression
of Christian love they do signally damage their
cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay.
Much less do we mean that perpetual smile of good-will
which argues more of personal comfort and self-love
than anything else. No; the loving look we speak of
is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very
much on the face through which it beams. And it
cannot be counterfeited. Its ring defies imitation. Like
the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of
sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze
in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it
can gleam in depths of woe;--but it is always the same,
modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to
others, according to the natural amiability of him or her
who bestows it. No one can put it on; still less can
any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces
all mankind, though, of course, it is intensified on a few
favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed
heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.
Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was
of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort.
It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other
cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and
a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was sub-divided by a
thin partition, the inner room being Mrs. Varley's bedroom,
the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was
a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as
a parlour.
The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each
side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance
of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind
have literally got a sort of expression on--if we may
use the word--their countenances. Square windows
give the appearance of easy-going placidity; longish
ones, that of surprise. Mrs. Varley's was a surprise
cottage; and this was in keeping with the scene in
which it stood, for the clear lake in front, studded with
islands, and the distant hills beyond, composed a scene
so surprisingly beautiful that it never failed to call forth
an expression of astonished admiration from every new
visitor to the Mustang Valley.
"My boy," exclaimed Mrs. Varley, as her son entered
the cottage with a bound, "why so hurried to-day?
Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"
"Won it, mother!"
"Won it, my son?"
"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail almost, and
would ha' druve it altogether had I bin more used to
Joe Blunt's rifle."
Mrs. Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed
with pride as she gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on
the table for her inspection, while he rattled off an
animated and somewhat disjointed account of the
match.
"Deary me! now that was good, that was cliver.
But what's that scraping at the door?"
"Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan!
Come in, good dog," he cried, rising and opening the
door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
"My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?"
"Won her too, mother!"
"Won her, my son?"
"Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and
he plucked Crusoe from his bosom.
Crusoe having found his position to be one of great
comfort had fallen into a profound slumber, and on
being thus unceremoniously awakened he gave forth a
yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic
sympathy to his side.
"There you are, Fan; take it to a corner and make
yourself at home.--Ay, that's right, mother, give her
somethin' to eat; she's hungry, I know by the look o'
her eye."
"Deary me, Dick!" said Mrs. Varley, who now proceeded
to spread the youth's mid-day meal before him,
"did ye drive the nail three times?"
"No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought 'em
all down at one shot--rifle, Fan, an' pup!"
"Well, well, now that was cliver; but--." Here the
old woman paused and looked grave.
"But what, mother?"
"You'll be wantin' to go off to the mountains now, I
fear me, boy."
"Wantin' now!" exclaimed the youth earnestly; "I'm
always wantin'. I've bin wantin' ever since I could
walk; but I won't go till you let me, mother, that I
won't!" And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly
that the platters rung again.
"You're a good boy, Dick; but you're too young yit
to ventur' among the Redskins."
"An' yit, if I don't ventur' young, I'd better not ventur'
at all. You know, mother dear, I don't want to
leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody
in them parts is a hunter, and I can't hunt in the
kitchen you know, mother!"
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a
sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize
his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.
"Hist, mother! that's like horses' hoofs," he whispered,
opening the door and gazing intently in the
direction whence the sound came.
Louder and louder it came, until an opening in the
forest showed the advancing cavalcade to be a party of
white men. In another moment they were in full view--a
band of about thirty horsemen, clad in the leathern
costume and armed with the long rifle of the far west.
Some wore portions of the gaudy Indian dress, which
gave to them a brilliant, dashing look. They came on
straight for the block-house, and saluted the Varleys
with a jovial cheer as they swept past at full speed.
Dick returned the cheer with compound interest, and
calling out, "They're trappers, mother; I'll be back in an
hour," bounded off like a deer through the woods, taking
a short cut in order to reach the block-house before
them. He succeeded, for, just as he arrived at the
house, the cavalcade wheeled round the bend in the
river, dashed up the slope, and came to a sudden halt
on the green. Vaulting from their foaming steeds they
tied them to the stockades of the little fortress, which
they entered in a body.
Hot haste was in every motion of these men. They
were trappers, they said, on their way to the Rocky
Mountains to hunt and trade furs. But one of their
number had been treacherously murdered and scalped
by a Pawnee chief, and they resolved to revenge his
death by an attack on one of the Pawnee villages. They
would teach these "red reptiles" to respect white men,
they would, come of it what might; and they had
turned aside here to procure an additional supply of
powder and lead.
In vain did the major endeavour to dissuade these
reckless men from their purpose. They scoffed at the
idea of returning good for evil, and insisted on being
supplied. The log hut was a store as well as a place of
defence, and as they offered to pay for it there was no
refusing their request--at least so the major thought.
The ammunition was therefore given to them, and in
half-an-hour they were away again at full gallop over
the plains on their mission of vengeance. "Vengeance
is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord." But these men
knew not what God said, because they never read his
Word and did not own his sway.
Young Varley's enthusiasm was considerably damped
when he learned the errand on which the trappers were
bent. From that time forward he gave up all desire
to visit the mountains in company with such men, but
he still retained an intense longing to roam at large
among their rocky fastnesses and gallop out upon the
wide prairies.
Meanwhile he dutifully tended his mother's cattle and
sheep, and contented himself with an occasional deer-hunt
in the neighbouring forests. He devoted himself
also to the training of his dog Crusoe--an operation
which at first cost him many a deep sigh.
Every one has heard of the sagacity and almost reasoning
capabilities of the Newfoundland dog. Indeed, some
have even gone the length of saying that what is called
instinct in these animals is neither more nor less than
reason. And in truth many of the noble, heroic, and
sagacious deeds that have actually been performed by
Newfoundland dogs incline us almost to believe that,
like man, they are gifted with reasoning powers.
But every one does not know the trouble and patience
that is required in order to get a juvenile dog to understand
what its master means when he is endeavouring
to instruct it.
Crusoe's first lesson was an interesting but not a very
successful one. We may remark here that Dick Varley
had presented Fan to his mother to be her watch-dog,
resolving to devote all his powers to the training of the
pup. We may also remark, in reference to Crusoe's
appearance (and we did not remark it sooner, chiefly
because up to this period in his eventful history he was
little better than a ball of fat and hair), that his coat
was mingled jet-black and pure white, and remarkably
glossy, curly, and thick.
A week after the shooting-match Crusoe's education
began. Having fed him for that period with his own
hand, in order to gain his affection, Dick took him out
one sunny forenoon to the margin of the lake to give
him his first lesson.
And here again we must pause to remark that,
although a dog's heart is generally gained in the first
instance through his mouth, yet, after it is thoroughly
gained, his affection is noble and disinterested. He can
scarcely be driven from his master's side by blows; and
even when thus harshly repelled, is always ready, on the
shortest notice and with the slightest encouragement, to
make it up again.
Well; Dick Varley began by calling out, "Crusoe!
Crusoe! come here, pup."
Of course Crusoe knew his name by this time, for it
had been so often used as a prelude to his meals that
he naturally expected a feed whenever he heard it.
This portal to his brain had already been open for
some days; but all the other doors were fast locked,
and it required a great deal of careful picking to open
them.
"Now, Crusoe, come here."
Crusoe bounded clumsily to his master's side, cocked
his ears, and wagged his tail,--so far his education was
perfect. We say he bounded clumsily, for it must be
remembered that he was still a very young pup, with
soft, flabby muscles.
"Now, I'm goin' to begin yer edication, pup; think
o' that."
Whether Crusoe thought of that or not we cannot
say, but he looked up in his master's face as he spoke,
cocked his ears very high, and turned his head slowly
to one side, until it could not turn any farther in that
direction; then he turned it as much to the other side;
whereat his master burst into an uncontrollable fit of
laughter, and Crusoe immediately began barking vociferously.
"Come, come," said Dick, suddenly checking his mirth,
"we mustn't play, pup, we must work."
Drawing a leathern mitten from his belt, the youth
held it to Crusoe's nose, and then threw it a yard away,
at the same time exclaiming in a loud, distinct tone,
"Fetch it."
Crusoe entered at once into the spirit of this part of
his training; he dashed gleefully at the mitten, and
proceeded to worry it with intense gratification. As
for "Fetch it," he neither understood the words nor
cared a straw about them.
Dick Varley rose immediately, and rescuing the
mitten, resumed his seat on a rock.
"Come here, Crusoe," he repeated.
"Oh! certainly, by all means," said Crusoe--no! he
didn't exactly saylooked
true
not doing it
with the mitten in his mouth
another