The Dog Crusoe and His Master/Chapter 13
Chapter XIII.—Alone.
DICK VARLEY had spent so much of his boyhood in sporting about among the waters of the rivers and lakes near which he had been reared, and especially during the last two years had spent so much of his leisure time in rolling and diving with his dog Crusoe in the lake of the Mustang Valley, that he had become almost as expert in the water as a South Sea Islander; so that when he found himself whirling down the rapid river, he was more impressed with a feeling of gratitude to God for his escape from the Indians than anxiety about getting ashore.
He was not altogether blind or indifferent to the danger into which he might be hurled if the channel of the river should be found lower down to be broken with rocks, or should a waterfall unexpectedly appear. After floating down a sufficient distance to render pursuit out of the question, he struck into the bank opposite to that from which he had plunged, and clambering up to the greensward above, stripped oft the greater part of his clothing and hung it on the branches of a bush to dry. Then he sat down on a fallen tree to consider what course he had best pursue.
These circumstances were by no means calculated to inspire him with hope or comfort. He was in the midst of an unknown wilderness, hundreds of miles from any white man’s settlement; surrounded by savages; without food or blanket; his companions gone, he knew not whither—perhaps taken and killed by the Indians; his horse dead; and his dog, the most trusty and loving of all his friends, lost to him, probably for ever! A more veteran heart might have quailed in the midst of such accumulated evils; but Dick Varley possessed a strong, buoyant constitution, which, united with a hopefulness of disposition that almost nothing could overcome, enabled him to cast aside the gloomy view of his case and turn to its brighter aspects.
He still grasped his good rifle—that was some comfort; and as his eye fell upon it, he turned with anxiety to examine into the condition of his powder-horn and the few things that he had about his person.
The horn in which western hunters carry their powder is usually that of an ox. It is closed up at the large end with a piece of hard wood fitted tightly into it, and the small end is closed with a wooden peg or stopper. It is therefore completely water-tight, and may be for hours immersed without the powder getting wet, unless the stopper should chance to be knocked out. Dick found, to his great satisfaction, that the stopper was fast and the powder perfectly dry. Moreover, he had by good fortune filled it full two days before from the package that contained the general stock of ammunition, so that there were only two or three charges out of it. His percussion caps, however, were completely destroyed; and even though they had not been, it would have mattered little, for he did not possess more than half a dozen. But this was not so great a misfortune was at first it might seem, for he had the spare flint locks and the little screwdriver necessary for fixing and unfixing them stowed in his shot pouch.
To examine his supply of bullets was his next care, and slowly he counted them out, one by one, to the number of thirty. This was a pretty fair supply, and with careful economy would last him many days. Having relieved his mind he carefully examined every corner of his dress to ascertain the exact amount and value of his wealth.
Besides the leather leggings, moccasins, deerskin hunting-shirt, cap, and belt which composed his costume, he had a short heavy hunting-knife, a piece of tinder, a little tin pannikin, which he had been in the habit of carrying at his belt, and a large cake of maple sugar. This last is a species of sugar which is procured by the Indians from the maple-tree. Several cakes of it had been carried off from the Pawnee village, and Dick usually carried one in the breast of his coat. Besides these things, he found that the little Bible, for which his mother had made a small inside breast-pocket, was safe. Dick’s heart smote him when he took it out and undid the clasp, for he had not looked at it until that day. It was firmly bound with a brass clasp, so that, although the binding and the edges of the leaves were soaked, the inside was quite dry. On opening the book to see if it had been damaged, a small paper fell out. Picking it up quickly, he read, in his mother’s handwriting: “Call upon me in the time of trouble; and I will deliver thee, and thou shall glorify me. My son, give me thine heart.”
Dick’s eyes filled with tears while the sound, as it were, of his mother’s voice thus reached him unexpectedly in that onely wilderness. Like too many whose hearts are young and gay, Dick had regarded religion, if not as a gloomy, at least as not a cheerful thing. But he felt the comfort of these words at that moment, and he resolved seriously to peruse his mother’s parting gift in time to come.
The sun was hot, and a warm breeze gently shook the leaves, so that Dick’s garments were soon dry. A few minutes served to change the locks of his rifle, draw the wet charges, dry out the barrels, and reload. Then throwing it across his shoulder, he entered the wood and walked lightly away. And well he might, poor fellow, for at that moment he felt light enough in person if not in heart. His worldly goods were not such as to oppress him; but the note had turned his thought towards home, and he felt comforted.
Traversing the belt of woodland that marked the course of the river, Dick soon emerged on the wide prairie beyond, and paused in uncertainty as to how he should proceed.
He was too good a backwoodsman, albeit so young, to feel perplexed as to the points of the compass. He knew pretty well what hour it was, so that the sun showed him the general bearings of the country, and he knew that when night came he could correct his course by the pole star. Dick’s knowledge of astronomy was limited; he knew only one star by name, but that one was an inestimable treasure of knowledge. His perplexity was owing to his uncertainty as to the direction in which his companions and their pursuers had gone; for he had made up his mind to follow their trail if possible, and render all the succour his single arm might afford. To desert them, and make for the settlement, he held, would be a cowardly act.
While they were together Joe Blunt had often talked to him about the route he meant to pursue to the Rocky Mountains; so that, if they had escaped the Indians, he thought there might be some chance of finding them at last. But, to set against this, there was the probability that they had been taken and carried away in a totally different direction; or they might have taken to the river, as he had done, and gone farther down without his observing them. Then, again, if they had escaped, they would be sure to return and search the country round for him, so that if he left the spot he might miss them.
“Oh for my dear pup Crusoe!” he exclaimed aloud in this dilemma; but the faithful ear was shut now, and the deep silence that followed his cry was so oppressive that the young hunter sprang forward at a run over the plain, as if to fly from solitude. He soon became so absorbed, however, in his efforts to find the trail of his companions, that he forgot all other considerations, and ran straight forward for hours together with his eyes eagerly fixed on the ground. At last he felt so hungry, having tasted no food since suppertime the previous evening, that he halted for the purpose of eating a morsel of maple sugar. A line of bushes in the distance indicated water, so he sped on again, and was soon seated beneath a willow, drinking water from the cool stream. No game was to be found here, but there were wild grapes and plums growing in abundance. With these and some sugar he made a meal, though not a good one, for the berries were quite green and intensely sour.
All that day Dick Varley followed up the trail of his companions, which he discovered at a ford in the river. They had crossed, therefore, in safety, though still pursued; so he ran on at a regular trot, and with a little more hope than he had felt during the day. Towards night, however, Dick’s heart sank again, for he came upon innumerable buffalo tracts, among which those of the horses soon became mingled up, so that he lost them altogether. Hoping to find them more easily by daylight, he went to the nearest clump of willows he could find, and encamped for the night.
Remembering the use formerly made of the tall willows, he set to work to construct a covering to protect him from, the dew. As he had no blanket or buffalo skin, he used leaves and grass instead, and found it a better shelter than he had expected, especially when the fire was lighted, and a pannikin of hot sugar and water smoked at his feet; but as no game was to be found, he was again compelled to sup off unripe berries. Before lying down to rest he remembered his resolution, and pulling out the little Bible, read a portion of it by the fitful blaze of the fire, and felt great comfort in its blessed words. It seemed to him like a friend with whom he could converse in his loneliness.
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 in a straight line, and then taking a wide circuit, he might find the tracks emerging from the confusion made by the buffaloes. But he was disappointed, for the buffalo tracts 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. With eager steps he staggered towards them, and, on drawing near, beheld—blessed sight!—a stream of water glancing in the beams of the sun.
Dick tried to shout for joy, but his parched throat refused to give utterance to the voice. Exerting all his remaining strength he rushed down the bank, dropped his rifle, and plunged 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 over-flowing. 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, and sank exhausted, 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 the approach of death. Creeping towards the place where his rifle lay, he fell exhausted, 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, whining, and giving vent to every expression of canine joy.