The Dog Crusoe and His Master: A Story of Adventure in the Western Prairies, - [books for new readers .TXT] 📗

the Indians towards their camp. On the
way they met hundreds of women and children going
to the scene of the great hunt, for it was their special
duty to cut up the meat and carry it into camp. The
men, considering that they had done quite enough in
killing it, returned to smoke and eat away the fatigues
of the chase.

As they rode along, Dick Varley observed that some
of the "braves," as Indian warriors are styled, were
eating pieces of the bloody livers of the buffaloes in a
raw state, at which he expressed not a little disgust.

"Ah, boy! you're green yet," remarked Joe Blunt in
an undertone. "Mayhap ye'll be thankful to do that
same yerself some day."

"Well, I'll not refuse to try when it is needful," said
Dick with a laugh; "meanwhile I'm content to see the
Redskins do it, Joe Blunt."



CHAPTER VIII.


Dick and his friends visit the Indians and see many
wonders--Crusoe, too, experiences a few surprises, and teaches
Indian dogs a lesson--An Indian dandy--A foot-race.

The Pawnee village, at which they soon arrived, was
situated in the midst of a most interesting and
picturesque scene.

It occupied an extensive plain which sloped gently
down to a creek,[*] whose winding course was marked
by a broken line of wood, here and there interspersed
with a fine clump of trees, between the trunks of which
the blue waters of a lake sparkled in the distance.
Hundreds of tents or "lodges" of buffalo-skins covered
the ground, and thousands of Indians--men, women,
and children--moved about the busy scene. Some
were sitting in their lodges, lazily smoking their pipes.
But these were chiefly old and infirm veterans, for all
the young men had gone to the hunt which we have just
described. The women were stooping over their fires,
busily preparing maize and meat for their husbands
and brothers; while myriads of little brown and naked
children romped about everywhere, filling the air with
their yells and screams, which were only equalled, if not
surpassed, by the yelping dogs that seemed innumerable.

[Footnote *: In America small rivers or rivulets are termed "creeks."]

Far as the eye could reach were seen scattered herds
of horses. These were tended by little boys who were
totally destitute of clothing, and who seemed to enjoy
with infinite zest the pastime of shooting-practice with
little bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians
become expert bowmen. There were urchins there,
scarce two feet high, with round bullets of bodies and
short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off
the trees at every shot, and cut the heads off the taller
flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need,
too, for the utmost proficiency they could attain, for the
very existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends
on their success in hunting the buffalo.

There are hundreds and thousands of North American
savages who would undoubtedly perish, and their tribes
become extinct, if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies
or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential
to their existence, they pursue and slay them with
improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of
them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues, and
the marrow bones. In the bloody hunt described in the
last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not
wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with
food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had
been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the
blackbirds shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned
had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus
precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men,
who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling
in superabundance.

But to return to our story. At one end of this village
the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade
and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom
of which was studded with small islands. Here were
thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl
which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared
away by the noise of the camp. And here, too, dozens
of children were sporting on the beach, or paddling
about in their light bark canoes.

"Isn't it strange," remarked Dick to Henri, as they
passed among the tents towards the centre of the village--"isn't
it strange that them Injuns should be so
fond o' fightin', when they've got all they can want--a
fine country, lots o' buffalo, an', as far as I can see,
happy homes?"

"Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. Bot dey do more
love war to peace. Dey loves to be excit-ed, I s'pose."

"Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little
agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that
must he the chiefs tent, by the look o't."

Dick was right. The horsemen pulled up and dismounted
opposite the principal chief's tent, which was
a larger and more elegant structure than the others.
Meanwhile an immense concourse of women, children,
and dogs gathered round the strangers, and while the
latter yelped their dislike to white men, the former
chattered continuously, as they discussed the appearance
of the strangers and their errand, which latter soon
became known. An end was put to this by San-it-sa-rish
desiring the hunters to enter the tent, and spreading
a buffalo robe for them to sit on. Two braves
carried in their packs, and then led away their horses.

All this time Crusoe had kept as close as possible to
his master's side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the
midst of such a strange crowd, the more especially that
the ill-looking Indian curs gave him expressive looks
of hatred, and exhibited some desire to rush upon him
in a body, so that he had to keep a sharp look-out
all round him. When therefore Dick entered the tent,
Crusoe endeavoured to do so along with him; but he
was met by a blow on the nose from an old squaw, who
scolded him in a shrill voice and bade him begone.

Either our hero's knowledge of the Indian language
was insufficient to enable him to understand the order,
or he had resolved not to obey it, for instead of retreating,
he drew a deep gurgling breath, curled his nose,
and displayed a row of teeth that caused the old woman
to draw back in alarm. Crusoe's was a forgiving spirit.
The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury,
and was meekly advancing, when Dick held up his
finger.

"Go outside, pup, and wait."

Crusoe's tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned
and left the tent. He took up a position near the entrance,
however, and sat down resignedly. So meek,
indeed, did the poor dog look that six mangy-looking
curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a
rush at him with boisterous yells.

Crusoe did not rise. He did not even condescend to
turn his head toward them; but he looked at them out
of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled--very slightly--the
skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs,
and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet,
deep-toned gurgling. It wasn't much,
but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who
paused and snarled violently.

It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe's gentle nature that,
the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression
of nonchalant gravity. The expression on this
occasion was misunderstood, however; and as about two
dozen additional yelping dogs had joined the ranks of
the enemy, they advanced in close order to the attack.

Crusoe still sat quiet, and kept his head high; but he
looked at them again, and exhibited four fangs for their
inspection. Among the pack there was one Indian dog
of large size--almost as large as Crusoe himself--which
kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser
dogs on. The little dogs didn't object, for little dogs
are generally the most pugnacious. At this big dog
Crusoe directed a pointed glance, but said nothing.
Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with a
mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent,
and coming upon Crusoe in rear, snapped at his tail
sharply, and then fled shrieking with terror and surprise,
no doubt, at its own temerity.

Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually
either said nothing, or gave utterance to a prolonged
roar of indignation of the most terrible character, with
barks, as it were, mingled through it. It somewhat
resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder,
the prolonged roll of which is marked at short
intervals in its course by cannon-like cracks. It was
a continuous, but, so to speak, knotted roar.

On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth the roar
with a majesty and power that scattered the pugnacious
front rank of the enemy to the winds. Those that still
remained, half stupified, he leaped over with a huge
bound, and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big
dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of
an instant's duration, and the big dog lay dead upon
the plain!

It was an awful thing to do, but Crusoe evidently
felt that the peculiar circumstances of the case required
that an example should be made; and to say truth, all
things considered, we cannot blame him. The news
must have been carried at once through the canine portion
of the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with
again after that.

Dick witnessed this little incident; but he observed
that the Indian chief cared not a straw about it, and as
his dog returned quietly and sat down in its old place
he took no notice of it either, but continued to listen
to the explanations which Joe gave to the chief, of the
desire of the Pale-faces to be friends with the Red-men.

Joe's eloquence would have done little for him on
this occasion had his hands been empty, but he followed
it up by opening one of his packs and displaying the
glittering contents before the equally glittering eyes of
the chief and his squaws.

"These," said Joe, "are the gifts that the great chief
of the Pale-faces sends to the great chief of the Pawnees.
And he bids me say that there are many more things in
his stores which will be traded for skins with the Red-men,
when they visit him; and he also says that if the
Pawnees will not steal horses any more from the Pale-faces, they shall
receive gifts of knives, and guns, and
powder, and blankets every year."

"Wah!" grunted the chief; "it is good. The great
chief is wise. We will smoke the pipe of peace."

The things that afforded so much satisfaction to San-it-sa-rish
were the veriest trifles. Penny looking-glasses
in yellow gilt tin frames, beads of various colours, needles,
cheap scissors and knives, vermilion paint, and coarse
scarlet cloth, etc. They were of priceless value, however,
in the estimation of the savages, who delighted to
adorn themselves with leggings made from the cloth,
beautifully worked with beads by their own ingenious
women. They were thankful, too, for knives even of
the commonest description, having none but bone ones
of their own; and they gloried in daubing their faces
with intermingled streaks of charcoal and vermilion.
To gaze at their visages, when thus treated, in the little
penny looking-glasses is their summit of delight!

Joe presented the chief with a portion of these coveted
goods, and tied up the remainder. We may remark
here that the only thing which prevented the savages
from taking possession of the whole at once, without
asking permission, was the promise of the annual gifts,
which they knew would not be forthcoming were any
evil to befall the deputies of the Pale-faces. Nevertheless,
it cost them a severe struggle to restrain their
hands on this occasion, and Joe and his companions felt
that they would have to play their part well in order
to fulfil their mission with safety and credit.

"The Pale-faces may go now and talk with the
braves," said San-it-sa-rish, after carefully examining
everything that was given to him; "a council will be
called soon, and we will smoke the pipe of peace."

Accepting this permission to retire, the hunters immediately
left the tent; and being now at liberty to do
what they pleased, they amused themselves by wandering
about the village.

"He's a cute chap that," remarked Joe, with a sarcastic
smile; "I don't feel quite easy about gettin' away.
He'll bother the life out o' us to get all the goods we've
got, and, ye see, as we've other tribes to visit, we must
give away as little as we can here."

"Ha! you is right," said Henri; "dat fellow's eyes
twinkle at de knives and tings like two stars."

"Fire-flies, ye should say. Stars are too soft an'
beautiful to compare to the eyes o' yon savage," said
Dick, laughing. "I wish we were well away from
them. That rascal Mahtawa is an ugly customer."

"True, lad," returned Joe; "had he bin the great
chief our scalps had bin dryin' in the smoke o' a Pawnee
wigwam afore now. What now, lad?"

Joe's question was put in consequence of a gleeful
smile that overspread the countenance of Dick Varley,
who replied by pointing to a wigwam towards which
they were approaching.

"Oh! that's