Next morning Dick rose with the sun, and started
without breakfast, preferring to take his chance of finding
a bird or animal of some kind before long, to feeding
again on sour berries. He was disappointed, however,
in finding the tracks of his companions. The ground
here was hard and sandy, so that little or no impression
of a distinct kind was made on it; and as buffaloes
had traversed it in all directions, he was soon utterly
bewildered. He thought it possible that, by running
out for several miles in a straight line, and then taking
a wide circuit round, he might find the tracks emerging
from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was
again disappointed, for the buffalo tracks still continued,
and the ground became less capable of showing a footprint.
Soon Dick began to feel so ill and weak from eating
such poor fare, that he gave up all hope of discovering
the tracks, and was compelled to push forward at his
utmost speed in order to reach a less barren district,
where he might procure fresh meat; but the farther he
advanced the worse and more sandy did the district
become. For several days he pushed on over this arid
waste without seeing bird or beast, and, to add to his
misery, he failed at last to find water. For a day and
a night he wandered about in a burning fever, and his
throat so parched that he was almost suffocated. Towards
the close of the second day he saw a slight line
of bushes away down in a hollow on his right. With
eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing
near, beheld--blessed sight!--a stream of water glancing
in the beams of the setting sun.
Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat
refused to give utterance to the voice. It mattered
not. Exerting all his remaining strength he rushed
down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged headforemost
into the stream.
The first mouthful sent a thrill of horror to his heart;
it was salt as brine!
The poor youth's cup of bitterness was now full to
overflowing. Crawling out of the stream, he sank down
on the bank in a species of lethargic torpor, from which,
he awakened next morning in a raging fever. Delirium
soon rendered him insensible to his sufferings. The
sun rose like a ball of fire, and shone down with scorching
power on the arid plain. What mattered it to
Dick? He was far away in the shady groves of the
Mustang Valley, chasing the deer at times, but more
frequently cooling his limbs and sporting with Crusoe
in the bright blue lake. Now he was in his mother's
cottage, telling her how he had thought of her when
far away on the prairie, and what a bright, sweet word
it was she had whispered in his ear--so unexpectedly,
too. Anon he was scouring over the plains on horseback,
with the savages at his heels; and at such times
Dick would spring with almost supernatural strength
from the ground, and run madly over the burning plain;
but, as if by a species of fascination, he always returned
to the salt river, and sank exhausted by its side, or
plunged helplessly into its waters.
These sudden immersions usually restored him for a
short time to reason, and he would crawl up the bank
and gnaw a morsel of the maple sugar; but he could not
eat much, for it was in a tough, compact cake, which
his jaws had not power to break. All that day and
the next night he lay on the banks of the salt stream,
or rushed wildly over the plain. It was about noon of
the second day after his attack that he crept slowly
out of the water, into which he had plunged a few
seconds before. His mind was restored, but he felt an
indescribable sensation of weakness, that seemed to him
to be the approach of death. Creeping towards the
place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted beside it,
and laid his cheek on the Bible, which had fallen out
of his pocket there.
While his eyes were closed in a dreamy sort of half-waking
slumber, he felt the rough, hairy coat of an animal
brush against his forehead. The idea of being torn
to pieces by wolves flashed instantly across his mind,
and with a shriek of terror he sprang up--to be almost
overwhelmed by the caresses of his faithful dog.
Yes, there he was, bounding round his master, barking
and whining, and giving vent to every possible
expression of canine joy!
Crusoe's return, and his private adventures among the Indians--Dickat a very low ebb--Crusoe saves him
.
The means by which Crusoe managed to escape
from his two-legged captors, and rejoin his master,
require separate and special notice.
In the struggle with the fallen horse and Indian,
which Dick had seen begun but not concluded, he was
almost crushed to death; and the instant the Indian
gained his feet, he sent an arrow at his head with
savage violence. Crusoe, however, had been so well
used to dodging the blunt-headed arrows that were
wont to be shot at him by the boys of the Mustang
Valley, that he was quite prepared, and eluded the
shaft by an active bound. Moreover, he uttered one of
his own peculiar roars, flew at the Indian's throat, and
dragged him down. At the same moment the other
Indians came up, and one of them turned aside to the
rescue. This man happened to have an old gun, of
the cheap sort at that time exchanged for peltries by
the fur-traders. With the butt of this he struck
Crusoe a blow on the head that sent him sprawling on
the grass.
The rest of the savages, as we have seen, continued
in pursuit of Dick until he leaped into the river; then
they returned, took the saddle and bridle off his dead
horse, and rejoined their comrades. Here they held a
court-martial on Crusoe, who was now bound foot and
muzzle with cords. Some were for killing him; others,
who admired his noble appearance, immense size, and
courage, thought it would be well to carry him to their
village and keep him. There was a pretty violent dispute
on the subject, but at length it was agreed that
they should spare his life in the meantime, and perhaps
have a dog-dance round him when they got to their
wigwams.
This dance, of which Crusoe was to be the chief
though passive performer, is peculiar to some of the
tribes east of the Rocky Mountains, and consists in
killing a dog and cutting out its liver, which is afterwards
sliced into shreds or strings and hung on a pole
about the height of a man's head. A band of warriors
then come and dance wildly round this pole, and each
one in succession goes up to the raw liver and bites a
piece off it, without, however, putting his hands near
it. Such is the dog-dance, and to such was poor Crusoe
destined by his fierce captors, especially by the one
whose throat still bore very evident marks of his teeth.
But Crusoe was much too clever a dog to be disposed
of in so disgusting a manner. He had privately resolved
in his own mind that he would escape; but the
hopelessness of his ever carrying that resolution into
effect would have been apparent to any one who could
have seen the way in which his muzzle was secured,
and his four paws were tied together in a bunch, as
he hung suspended across the saddle of one of the
savages!
This particular party of Indians who had followed
Dick Varley determined not to wait for the return of
their comrades who were in pursuit of the other two
hunters, but to go straight home, so for several days
they galloped away over the prairie. At nights, when
they encamped, Crusoe was thrown on the ground like
a piece of old lumber, and left to lie there with a mere
scrap of food till morning, when he was again thrown
across the horse of his captor and carried on. When
the village was reached, he was thrown again on the
ground, and would certainly have been torn to pieces in
five minutes by the Indian curs which came howling
round him, had not an old woman come to the rescue
and driven them away. With the help of her grand-son--a
little naked creature, just able to walk, or rather
to stagger--she dragged him to her tent, and, undoing
the line that fastened his mouth, offered him a bone.
Although lying in a position that was unfavourable
for eating purposes, Crusoe opened his jaws and took it.
An awful crash was followed by two crunches--and it
was gone! and Crusoe looked up in the old squaw's
face with a look that said plainly, "Another of the same,
please, and as quick as possible." The old woman gave
him another, and then a lump of meat, which latter
went down with a gulp; but he coughed after it! and
it was well he didn't choke. After this the squaw left
him, and Crusoe spent the remainder of that night
gnawing the cords that bound him. So diligent was
he that he was free before morning and walked deliberately
out of the tent. Then he shook himself, and
with a yell that one might have fancied was intended
for defiance he bounded joyfully away, and was soon
out of sight.
To a dog with a good appetite which had been on short
allowance for several days, the mouthful given to him by
the old squaw was a mere nothing. All that day he
kept bounding over the plain from bluff to bluff in
search of something to eat, but found nothing until
dusk, when he pounced suddenly and most unexpectedly
on a prairie-hen fast asleep. In one moment its life
was gone. In less than a minute its body was gone
too--feathers and bones and all--down Crusoe's ravenous
throat.
On the identical spot Crusoe lay down and slept like
a top for four hours. At the end of that time he
jumped up, bolted a scrap of skin that somehow had
been overlooked at supper, and flew straight over the
prairie to the spot where he had had the scuffle with
the Indian. He came to the edge of the river, took
precisely the same leap that his master had done before
him, and came out on the other side a good deal higher
up than Dick had done, for the dog had no savages to
dodge, and was, as we have said before, a powerful
swimmer.
It cost him a good deal of running about to find the
trail, and it was nearly dark before he resumed his
journey; then, putting his keen nose to the ground, he
ran step by step over Dick's track, and at last found
him, as we have shown, on the banks of the salt creek.
It is quite impossible to describe the intense joy
which filled Dick's heart on again beholding his favourite.
Only those who have lost and found such an one
can know it. Dick seized him round the neck and
hugged him as well as he could, poor fellow! in his
feeble arms; then he wept, then he laughed, and then
he fainted.
This was a consummation that took Crusoe quite
aback. Never having seen his master in such a state
before he seemed to think at first that he was playing
some trick, for he bounded round him, and barked, and
wagged his tail. But as Dick lay quite still and
motionless, he went forward with a look of alarm;
snuffed him once or twice, and whined piteously; then
he raised his nose in the air and uttered a long melancholy
wail.
The cry seemed to revive Dick, for he moved, and
with some difficulty sat up, to the dog's evident relief.
There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe learned an
erroneous lesson that day, and was firmly convinced
thenceforth that the best cure for a fainting fit is a
melancholy yell. So easy is it for the wisest of dogs
as well as men to fall into gross error!
"Crusoe," said Dick, in a feeble voice, "dear good
pup, come here." He crawled, as he spoke, down to
the water's edge, where there was a level patch of dry
sand.
"Dig," said Dick, pointing to the sand.
Crusoe looked at him in surprise, as well he might,
for he had never heard the word "dig" in all his life
before.
Dick pondered a minute then a thought struck him.
He turned up a little of the sand with his fingers, and,
pointing to the hole, cried, "
Seek him out, pup
!"
Ha! Crusoe understood
that
. Many and many a
time had he unhoused rabbits, and squirrels, and other
creatures at that word of command; so, without a moment's
delay, he commenced to dig down into the sand,
every now and then stopping for a moment and shoving
in his nose, and snuffing interrogatively, as if he fully
expected to find a buffalo at the bottom of it. Then he
would resume again, one paw after another so fast that
you could scarce see them going--"hand over hand," as
sailors would have called it--while the sand flew out