by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take
leave of their host and return to the camp of the fur-traders.
The remainder of that night was spent in
making preparations for setting forth on the morrow;
and when, at gray dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down
to snatch a few hours' repose, the yells and howling
in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as
ever.
The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping
the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy
peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and
gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when
Dick and Joe and Henri mounted their gallant steeds,
and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses
trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward,
and bade adieu to the Indian camp.
Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well
aware that he and his companions were on their way
home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering
over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of
Dick Varley's cottage, and of Dick's mild, kind-hearted
mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own
mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did
so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been
unworthy the title of hero if he hadn't. Perchance he
thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure.
We rather think, upon the whole, that he did.
Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction
of
home
. Sweet word! Those who have never left it
cannot, by any effort of imagination, realize the full import
of the word "home." Dick was a bold hunter; but
he was young, and this was his first long expedition.
Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing
dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he
thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn
to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however,
when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly,
and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the
chase; but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became
thoroughly home-sick, and while admitting the fact to
himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades.
He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor
Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human
nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even
Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master,
although he could not exactly make out what it was.
But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his
memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his
master's new disease with the care and minute exactness
of a physician, and, we doubt not, ultimately added the
knowledge of the symptoms of home-sickness to his
already well-filled stores of erudition.
It was not till they had set out on their homeward
journey that Dick Varley's spirits revived, and it was
not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern
slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the
greensward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick
ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.
"D'ye know, Joe," he said confidentially, reining up
his gallant steed after a sharp gallop--"d'ye know I've
bin feelin' awful low for some time past."
"I know it, lad," answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in
which there was a dash of something that implied he
knew more than he chose to express.
Dick felt surprised, but he continued, "I wonder what
it could have bin. I never felt so before."
"'Twas home-sickness, boy," returned Joe.
"How d'ye know that?"
"The same way as how I know most things--by
experience an' obsarvation. I've bin home-sick myself
once, but it was long, long agone."
Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by
such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy
having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to
the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious
partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking
part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical,
and were hard to be understood. Most conversations
that were not connected with eating and hunting were
of this nature to Henri.
"Hom'-sik," he cried, "veech mean bein' sik of hom'!
Hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de
expedition. Oui, vraiment."
"I always packs up," continued Joe, paying no attention
to Henri's remark--"I always packs up an' sets
off for home when I gits home-sick. It's the best cure;
an' when hunters are young like you, Dick, it's the only cure. I've
knowed
fellers a'most die o' home-sickness,
an' I'm told they
do
go under altogether
sometimes."
"Go onder!" exclaimed Henri; "oui, I vas all but
die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom'. If I
have not git away, I not be here to-day."
Henri's idea of home-sickness was so totally opposed
to theirs that his comrades only laughed, and refrained
from attempting to set him right.
"The fust time I wos took bad with it wos in a
country somethin' like that," said Joe, pointing to the
wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted with clusters
of trees and meandering streamlets, that lay before them.
"I had bin out about two months, an' was makin' a
good thing of it, for game wos plenty, when I began to
think somehow more than usual o' home. My mother
wos alive then."
Joe's voice sank to a deep, solemn tone as he said
this, and for a few minutes he rode on in silence.
"Well, it grew worse and worse. I dreamed o' home
all night an' thought of it all day, till I began to shoot
bad, an' my comrades wos gittin' tired o' me; so says I
to them one night, says I, 'I give out, lads; I'll make
tracks for the settlement to-morrow.' They tried to
laugh me out of it at first, but it was no go, so I packed
up, bid them good-day, an' sot off alone on a trip o' five
hundred miles. The very first mile o' the way back I
began to mend, and before two days I wos all right
again."
Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden
appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an
eminence not half-a-mile distant. The three friends
instantly drove their pack-horses behind a clump of
trees; but not in time to escape the vigilant eye of the
Red-man, who uttered a loud shout, which brought up
a band of his comrades at full gallop.
"Remember, Henri," cried Joe Blunt, "our errand is
one of
peace
."
The caution was needed, for in the confusion of the
moment Henri was making preparation to sell his life
as dearly as possible. Before another word could be
uttered, they were surrounded by a troop of about
twenty yelling Blackfeet Indians. They were, fortunately,
not a war party, and, still more fortunately, they
were peaceably disposed, and listened to the preliminary
address of Joe Blunt with exemplary patience; after
which the two parties encamped on the spot, the council fire was
lighted,
and every preparation made for a long palaver.
We will not trouble the reader with the details of
what was said on this occasion. The party of Indians
was a small one, and no chief of any importance was
attached to it. Suffice it to say that the pacific overtures
made by Joe were well received, the trifling gifts
made thereafter were still better received, and they
separated with mutual expressions of good-will.
Several other bands which were afterwards met with
were equally friendly, and only one war party was seen.
Joe's quick eye observed it in time to enable them to
retire unseen behind the shelter of some trees, where
they remained until the Indian warriors were out of
sight.
The next party they met with, however, were more
difficult to manage, and, unfortunately, blood was shed
on both sides before our travellers escaped.
It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war
party of Blackfeet were seen riding along a ridge on the
horizon. It chanced that the prairie at this place was
almost destitute of trees or shrubs large enough to conceal
the horses. By dashing down the grassy wave
into the hollow between the two undulations, and dismounting,
Joe hoped to elude the savages, so he gave
the word; but at the same moment a shout from the
Indians told that they were discovered.
"Look sharp, lads! throw down the packs on the
highest point of the ridge," cried Joe, undoing the lashings,
seizing one of the bales of goods, and hurrying to
the top of the undulation with it; "we must keep them
at arm's-length, boys--be alive! War parties are not to
be trusted."
Dick and Henri seconded Joe's efforts so ably that
in the course of two minutes the horses were unloaded,
the packs piled in the form of a wall in front of a
broken piece of ground, the horses picketed close beside
them, and our three travellers peeping over the
edge, with their rifles cocked, while the savages--about
thirty in number--came sweeping down towards them.
"I'll try to git them to palaver," said Joe Blunt;
"but keep yer eye on 'em, Dick, an' if they behave ill,
shoot the
horse
o' the leadin' chief. I'll throw up my
left hand, as a signal. Mind, lad, don't hit human flesh
till my second signal is given, and see that Henri don't
draw till I git back to ye."
So saying, Joe sprang lightly over the slight parapet
of their little fortress, and ran swiftly out, unarmed,
towards the Indians. In a few seconds he was close
up with them, and in another moment was surrounded.
At first the savages brandished their spears and rode
round the solitary man, yelling like fiends, as if they
wished to intimidate him; but as Joe stood like a
statue, with his arms crossed, and a grave expression of
contempt on his countenance, they quickly desisted, and,
drawing near, asked him where he came from, and what
he was doing there.
Joe's story was soon told; but instead of replying,
they began to shout vociferously, and evidently meant
mischief.
"If the Blackfeet are afraid to speak to the Pale-face,
he will go back to his braves," said Joe, passing suddenly
between two of the warriors and taking a few
steps towards the camp.
Instantly every bow was bent, and it seemed as if
our bold hunter were about to be pierced by a score of
arrows, when he turned round and
cried,--"The Blackfeet must not advance a single step. The
first that moves his
horse
shall die. The second that
moves
himself
shall die."
To this the Blackfeet chief replied scornfully, "The
Pale-face talks with a big mouth. We do not believe
his words. The Snakes are liars; we will make no
peace with them."
While he was yet speaking, Joe threw up his hand;
there was a loud report, and the noble horse of the
savage chief lay struggling in death agony on the ground.
The use of the rifle, as we have before hinted, was
little known at this period among the Indians of the
far west, and many had never heard the dreaded report
before, although all were aware, from hearsay, of its
fatal power. The fall of the chief's horse, therefore,
quite paralyzed them for a few moments, and they had
not recovered from their surprise when a second report
was heard, a bullet whistled past, and a second horse
fell. At the same moment there was a loud explosion
in the camp of the Pale-faces, a white cloud enveloped
it, and from the midst of this a loud shriek was heard,
as Dick, Henri, and Crusoe bounded over the packs
with frantic gestures.
At this the gaping savages wheeled their steeds
round, the dismounted horsemen sprang on behind two
of their comrades, and the whole band dashed away
over the plains as if they were chased by evil spirits.
Meanwhile Joe hastened towards his comrades in a
state of great anxiety, for he knew at once that one of
the powder-horns must have been accidentally blown up.
"No damage done, boys, I hope?" he cried on coming
up.
"Damage!" cried Henri, holding his hands tight
over his face. "Oh! oui, great damage--moche damage;
me two eyes be blowed out of dere holes."