The Dog Crusoe and His Master/Chapter 16
Chapter XVI.—In the Rocky Mountains.
THERE is a proverb, or a saying, or at least somebody has told us, that some Irishman once said, “Be aisy; or, if ye can’t be aisy, be as aisy as ye can.”
Now, we count that good advice, and strongly recommend it to all and sundry. Had we been at the side of Dick Varley on the night after his taming of the wild horse, we would have strongly urged that advice upon him. Whether he would have listened to it or not is quite another question; we rather think not. Can a man feel as if his joints were wrenched out of their sockets, and listen to advice, be that advice good or bad? Can he—but no! why pursue the subject? Poor Dick spent that night in misery, and the greater part of the following day in sleep, to make up for it. When he got up to breakfast in the afternoon he felt much better, but shaky.
“Now, pup,” he said, stretching himself, “we'll go and see our horse. Ours, pup; yours and mine: didn’t you help to catch him, eh, pup?”
Crusoe acknowledged the fact with a wag and a playful “bow-wow!” and followed his master to the place where the horse had been picketed. It was quiet.
Dick went boldly up to it, and patted its head and stroked its nose, for nothing is so likely to alarm a horse as timidity on the part of those who approach them.
After treating it thus for a short time, he stroked down its neck, and then its shoulders—the horse eyeing him all the time nervously. Gradually he stroked its back and limbs gently, and walked quietly round and round it once or twice, sometimes approaching and sometimes going away, but never either hesitating or doing anything abruptly. This done, he went down to the stream and filled his cap with water and carried it to the horse, which snuffed suspiciously and backed a little; so he laid the cap down, and went up and patted him. Presently he took up the cap and carried it to his nose. The moment he understood what was in the cap, he sucked it up.
This was a great point gained: he had accepted a benefit at the hands of his new master; he had become a debtor to man, and no doubt he felt the obligation. Dick filled the cap and the horse emptied it again, and again, and again, until its burning thirst was slaked. Then Dick went up to his shoulder, patted him, undid the line that fastened him, and vaulted lightly on his back.
At this unexpected act the horse plunged and reared a good deal, and seemed inclined to go through the performance of the day before over again; but Dick patted and stroked him into quiescence, and having done so, urged him into a gallop over the plains, causing the dog to gambol round, in order that he might get accustomed to him. This tried his nerves a good deal, for if he took Crusoe for a wolf, he must have thought him a very giant of the pack.
By degrees they broke into a furious gallop, and after breathing him well, Dick returned and tied him to the tree. Then he rubbed him down again, and gave him another drink. This time the horse smelt his new master all over, and Dick felt that he had conquered him by kindness. No doubt the tremendous run of the day before could scarcely be called kindness, but without this he never could have brought kindness to bear on so wild a steed.
Next day Dick gave the wild horse his second lesson, and his name. He called him “Charlie,” after a much-loved companion in the Mustang Valley, And long and heartily did Dick Varley laugh as he told the horse his future designation in the presence of Crusoe, for it struck him as somewhat ludicrous that a mustang which, two days ago, pawed the earth in all the pride of freedom, should come down to carry a hunter and be named Charlie.
The next piece of instruction began by Crusoe being led up under Charlie’s nose, and while Dick patted the dog with his right hand, he patted the horse with his left. It backed a good deal at first and snorted, but Crusoe walked slowly and quietly in front of him several times, each time coming nearer, until he again stood under his nose; then, the horse smelt him nervously, and gave a sigh of relief when he found that Crusoe paid no attention to him whatever. Dick then ordered the dog to lie down at Charlie’s feet, and went to the camp to fetch his rifle, and buffalo robe, and pack of meat. These and other things were presented for inspection, one by one, to the horse, who arched his neck, and put forward his ears, and eyed them, but smelt them and seemed more easy in his mind.
Next the buffalo robe was rubbed over his nose, then over his eyes and head, then down his neck and shoulder, and lastly was placed on his back. Then it was taken off and flung on; after that it was strapped on, and the various little items of the camp were attached to it. This done, Dick took up his rifle and let him smell it; then he put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder, vaulted on and rode away.
Charlie’s education was completed, and our hero’s journey began again with prospect of its speedy termination.
In this course of training through which Dick put his wild horse he had been at much greater pains and had taken far longer time than is usually the case among the Indians, who will catch, and “break,” and ride a wild horse into camp in less than three hours. But Dick wanted to do the thing well, which the Indians are not careful to do.
Dick now followed the trail of his lost companions at a rapid pace, yet not so rapidly as he might have done, being averse to exhausting his good dog and his new companion. In a few days Charlie became so tame that he seemed quite reconciled to his new life. There can be no doubt whatever that he had a great dislike to solitude; for on one occasion, when Dick and Crusoe went off a mile or so from the camp, where Charlie was tied, and disappeared from his view, he was heard to neigh so loudly that Dick ran back, thinking the wolves must have attacked him. He was all right, however, and exhibited evident satisfaction when they returned. On another occasion his fear of being left alone was more clearly demonstrated.
Dick had been unable to find wood or water that day, so he was obliged to encamp upon the open plain. The want of water was not seriously felt, however, for he had prepared a bladder in which he always carried enough to give him one pannikin of hot sirup, and leave a mouthful for Crusoe and Charlie. Dried buffalo dung formed a substitute for fuel. Spreading his buffalo robe, he lit his fire, put on his pannikin to boil, and stuck up a piece of meat to roast, to the delight of Crusoe, who sat looking on with interest.
Suddenly Charlie, who was picketed a few hundred yards off, broke his halter close by the headpiece, and with a snort bounded away, prancing and kicking up his heels.
Dick heaved a deep sigh, for he felt sure that his horse was gone. However, in a little Charlie stopped, and raised his nose high in the air, as if to look for his old equine companions. But they were gone; no answering neigh replied to his; and he felt, probably for the first time, that he was really alone in the world. Having no power of smell, whereby he might have traced them out as the dog would have done, he looked in a bewildered and excited state all round the horizon. Then his eye fell on Dick and Crusoe sitting by their little fire. Charlie looked at them, and then at the horizon; and then he took to feeding.
Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed.
Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand, so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again. But it was of no use. At last it occurred to Dick that he would try forsaking him. So he packed up his things, threw the buffalo robe and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked away.
“Come along, Crusoe!” he cried, after walking a few paces.
But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, “Hallo, man! what’s wrong? You’ve forgot Charlie! Hold on! Are you mad?”
“Come here, Crusoe!” cried his master in a decided tone.
Crusoe obeyed at once. Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master, but he perpetually turned his head as he went to look and wonder at Charlie.
When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong. He trotted to the brow of a slope, with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire, and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and seeing that everything was gone he began to neigh violently, and at last started off, and overtook his friends, and, wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf.
Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith. After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse.
At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross which marked the head of a grave. There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man. It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter. Had he been young or old when he fell? had he a mother in the distant settlement who watched and longed and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes? had he been murdered, or had he died and been buried by his comrades? These and a thousand questions passed through his mind as he gazed at the cross.
Suddenly he started. “Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?” For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old.
Dick turned away with a saddened heart; and that night, as he pored over the pages of his Bible, his mind was filled with many thoughts about eternity and the world to come. He, too, must come to the grave one day, and quit the beautiful prairies and his loved rifle. It was a sad thought; but while he meditated he thought upon his mother. “After all,” he murmured, “there must be happiness without the rifle, and youth, and health, and the prairie! My mother’s happy, yet she don’t shoot, or ride like wild-fire over the plains.” Then that word which had been sent so sweetly to him through her hand came again to his mind, “My son, give me thine heart;” and as he read God’s Book he met with the word, “Delight thyself in the Lord, and he shall give thee the desire of thine heart.” “The desire of thine hearth.” Dick repeated this, and pondered it till he fell asleep.
A misfortune soon after this befel Dick Varley which well-nigh caused him to give way to despair. For some time past he had been approaching the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains—those ragged, jagged, mighty hills which run through the whole continent from north to south in a continuous chain, and form, as it were, the backbone of America. One morning, as he threw the buffalo robe off his shoulders and sat up, he was horrified to find the whole earth covered with a mantle of snow. We say he was horrified, for this rendered it impossible to trace his companions either by scent or sight.
For some time he sat musing bitterly on his sad fate, while his dog laid his head sympathizingly on his arm.
“Ah, pup!” he said, “I know ye’d help me if ye could! But it’s all up now; there’s no chance of findin’ them.”
To this Crusoe replied by a low whine. He knew full well that something distressed his master, but he hadn’t yet ascertained what it was. As something had to be done, Dick put the buffalo robe on his steed, and mounting said, as he was in the habit of doing each morning, “Lead on, pup!”
Crusoe put his nose to the ground and ran forward a few paces, then he returned and ran about snuffing and scraping up the snow. At last he looked up and uttered a long melancholy howl.
“Ah! I knowed it,” said Dick, pushing forward. “Come on, pup; you’ll have to follow now. We must go on.”
The snow that had fallen was not deep enough to offer the slightest obstruction to their advance. It was, indeed, only one of those occasional showers common to that part of the country in the late autumn, which season had now crept upon Dick almost before he was aware of it, and he fully expected that it would melt away in a few days. In this hope he kept steadily advancing, until he found himself in the midst of those rocky fastnesses which divide the waters that flow into the Atlantic from those that flow into the Pacific Ocean. Still the slight crust of snow lay on the ground, and he had no means of knowing whether he was going in the right direction.
Game was abundant, and there was no lack of wood, so that his bivouac was not so cold as might have been expected.
Travelling, however, had become difficult, and even dangerous, owing to the rugged nature of the ground over which he proceeded. The scenery had completely changed in its character. Dick no longer coursed over the free open plains, but he passed through valleys filled with luxuriant trees, and hemmed in by mountains, whose sides rose upward until the snow-clad peaks pierced the clouds.
There was something awful in these dark solitudes, quite overwhelming to a youth of Dick’s temperament. His heart began to sink lower and lower every day, and the utter impossibility of making up his mind what to do became at length agonizing. To have turned and gone back the hundreds of miles over which he had travelled would have caused him some anxiety under any circumstances, but to do so while Joe and Henri were wandering about there or in the power of the savages was out of the question. Yet which way should he go? Whatever course he took might lead him farther from them.
In this dilemma he came to the determination of remaining there until the snow should leave the ground.
He felt great relief even when this hopeless course was decided upon, and set about making himself an encampment with some degree of cheerfulness. When he had completed this task, he took his rifle, and leaving Charlie picketed in the centre of a dell, where the long, rich grass rose high above the snow, went off to hunt.
On turning a rocky point his heart bounded into his throat, for not thirty yards distant, stood a huge grizzly bear!
Yes, there he was at last, the monster to meet which the young hunter had so often longed, the terrible size and fierceness of which he had heard so often spoken about by the old hunters. There it stood at last; but little did Dick Varley think that the first time he should meet with his foe should be when alone in the dark recesses of the Rocky Mountains, and with none to succour him in the event of the battle going against him. Yes, there was one. The faithful Crusoe stood by his side, with his hair bristling, all his formidable teeth exposed, and his eyes glaring in their sockets. Alas for poor Crusoe had he gone into that combat alone! One stroke of that monster’s paw would have hurled him dead upon the ground.