 Chapter 22 of The Dog Crusoe and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Dog Crusoe and His Master by R. M. Valentine. Chapter 22, Charlie's Adventures with Favages and Bears, Trapping Life. It is one thing to chase a horse. It is another thing to catch it. Little consideration and less sigosity is required to convince us of the truth of that fact. The reader may perhaps venture to think this rather a trifling fact. We are not so sure of that. In this world of fancies, to have any fact incontestably proved and established is a comfort. And whatever is a source of comfort to mankind is worthy of notice. Surely our reader won't deny that. Perhaps he will, so we can only console ourself with a remark that there are people in this world who would deny anything, who would deny that there was a nose on their face if you said there was. Well, to return to the point which was the chase of a horse in the abstract from which we were rapidly diverged to the chase of Dick Varley's horse in particular. This noble charger having been ridden by savages until all his old fire and blood and metal were worked up to a red heat. No sooner discovered that he was pursued than he gave a snort of defiance, which he accompanied with a frantic shake of his mane and a fling of contempt in addition to a magnificent wave of his tail. Then he thundered up the valley at a pace which would speedily have left Joe Blunt and Henry out of sight behind. If I, that's the word, if. What a word that if is. What a world of ifs we live in. There never was anything that wouldn't have been something else if something hadn't intervened to prevent it. Yes, we repeat, Charlie would have left his two friends miles and miles behind in what is called no time if he had not run straight into a gorge which was surrounded by inaccessible precipices and out of which there was no exit except by the entrance, which was immediately barred by Henry while Joe advanced to catch the runaway. For two hours at least, did Joe Blunt essay to catch Charlie and during that space of time he utterly failed. The horse seemed to have made up his mind for what his vulgarly termed a lark. It won't do, Henry, said Joe, advancing towards his companion and wiping his forehead with the cuff of his leather coat. I can't catch him. The winds almost blowed out of me body. Dot, I'm vexatial bull, replied Henry in a tone of commiseration. Suppose I was make try. In that case, I suppose you would fail, but go ahead and do what you can. I'll hold your horse. So Henry began by a rush and a flourish of legs and arms that nearly frightened the horse out of his wits. For half an hour, he went through all the complications of running and twisting of which he was capable. Without success, when Joe Blunt suddenly uttered a stentorian yell that rooted him to the spot on which he stood. To account for this, we must explain that in the heights of the Rocky Mountains, vast accumulations of snow take place among the crevices and gorges during the winter. Such of these masses as form on steep slopes are loosened by occasional falls and are precipitated in the form of avalanches into the valleys below, carrying trees and stones along with them in their thundering descent. In the gloomy gorge where Dick's horse had taken refuge, the precipices were so steep that many avalanches had occurred, as was evident from the mounds of heaped snow that lay at the foot of most of them. Neither stones nor trees were carried down here, however, for the cliffs were nearly perpendicular and the snow slipping over their edges had fallen on the grass below. Such an avalanche was now about to take place and it was this that caused Joe to utter his cry of alarm and warning. Henry and the horse were directly under the cliff over which it was about to be hurled, the latter close to the wall of rock, the other at some distance away from it. Joe cried again, back Henry! When the mass flowed over and fell with a roar like prolonged thunder, Henry sprang back in time to save his life, though he was knocked down and almost stunned, but poor Charlie was completely buried under the avalanche, which now presented the appearance of a hill of snow. The instant Henry recovered sufficiently, Joe and he mounted their horses and galloped back to the camp as fast as possible. Meanwhile, another spectator stepped forward upon the scene they had left and surveyed the snow hill with a critical eye. This was no less than a grizzly bear which had an observed, then a spectator and which immediately proceeded to dig into the mound with the purpose, no doubt, of disentuming the carcass of the horse for purposes of his own. While he was thus actively engaged, the two hunters reached the camp where they found that Pied and his party had just arrived. The men sent out in search of them had scarcely advanced a mile when they found them trudging back to the camp in a very disconsolate manner. But all their sorrows were put to flight on hearing of the curious way in which the horses had been returned to them with interest. Scarcely had Dick Varley, however, congratulated himself on the recovery of his gallant steed when he was thrown into despair by the sudden arrival of Joe with tidings of the catastrophe we have just related. Of course, there was a general rush to the rescue. Only a few men were ordered to remain to guard the camp while the remainder mounted their horses and galloped toward the gorge where Charlie had been entombed. On arriving, they found that Bruin had worked with such laudable zeal that nothing but the tip of his tail was seen sticking out of the hole, which he had dug. The hunters could not refrain from laughing as they sprang to the ground and standing in a semi-circle in front of the hole prepared to fire. But Crusoe resolved to have the honor of leading the assault. He seized fast hold of Bruin's flink and caused his teeth to meet therein. Caleb backed out at once and turned round, but before he could recover from his surprise, a dozen bullets pierced his heart and brain. Now lads, cried Cameron, setting to work with a large wooden shovel. Work like me grows. If there's any life left in the horse, it'll soon be smothered out unless we set him free. The men needed no urging, however. They worked as if their lives depended on their exertions. Dick Varley, in particular, labored like a young Hercules, and Henry hurled masses of snow about in a most surprising manner. Crusoe, too, entered heartily into the spirit of the work and, scraping with his forepaws, sent such a continuous shower of snow behind him that he was speedily lost to view in a hole of his own excavating. In the course of half an hour, a cavern was dug in the mound, almost close up to the cliff, and the men were beginning to look about for the crushed body of Dick's steed when an exclamation from Henry attracted their attention. Ha, me, me, he, I, be, one, whole. The truth of this could not be doubted, for the eccentric trapper had thrust his shovel through the wall of snow into what appeared to be a cavern beyond and immediately followed up his remark by thrusting his head and shoulders. He drew them out in a few seconds with a look of intense amazement. Voila, Joe Blunt, looking down, and you shall see that you will behold. Why, it's the horse I do believe, cried Joe. Go ahead, lads. So saying, he resumed his shoveling vigorously, and in a few minutes, the hole was opened up sufficiently to enable a man to enter. Dick sprang in, and there stood Charlie close beside the cliff, looking as sedate and unconcerned as if all that had been going on had no reference to him, whatever. The cause of his safety was simple enough. The precipice beside which he stood when the avalanche occurred overhung its base at that point considerably so that when the snow descended, a clear space of several feet wide was left all along its base. Here, Charlie remained in perfect comfort until his friends dug him out. Congratulating themselves not a little on having saved the charger and bagged a grizzly bear, the trappers remounted and returned to the camp. For some time after this, nothing worthy of particular note occurred. The trapping operations went on prosperously and without interruption from the Indians who seemed to have left the locality altogether. During this period, Dick and Crusoe and Charlie had many excursions together and a silver rifle full many a time sent death to the heart of a bear and elk and buffalo. While indirectly, it sent joy to the heart of man, woman and child in camp in the shape of juicy stakes and marrow bones. Joe and Henry devoted themselves almost exclusively to trapping beaver in which pursuit they were so successful that they speedily became wealthy men according to backwood notions of wealth. With the beaver that they caught, they purchased from Cameron's store powder and shot enough for a long hunting expedition and a couple of spare horses to carry their packs. They also purchased a large assortment of goods and trinkets as would prove acceptable to Indians and supplied themselves with new blankets and a few pairs of strong moccasins of which they stood much in need. Thus they went on from day to day until symptoms of the approach of winter warned them that it was time to return to the Mustang Valley. About this time, an event occurred which totally changed the aspect of affairs in these remote valleys of the Rocky Mountains and precipitated the departure of our four friends, Dick, Joe, Henry and Crusoe. This was the sudden arrival of a whole tribe of Indians as their advent was somewhat remarkable. We shall devote to it the commencement of a new chapter. End of chapter 22, chapter 23 of A Doll Crusoe and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Doll Crusoe and His Master by R. M. Valentine, chapter 23. Savage sports, living cataract, an alarm. Indians in their doings, the stampede, Charlie again. One day, Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the Rocky Gorge where his horse had received temporary burial a week or two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a tree and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff from the top of which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that hemmed it in. Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him so that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky. Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark caverns and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt there when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe attracted him. What is it, pup? Said he, laying his hand on the dog's broad back. Crusoe looked the answer. I don't know, Dick, but it's something. You may depend on it. Else I would not have disturbed you. Dick lifted his rifle from the ground and laid it in the hollow of his left arm. There must be something in the wind, remarks Dick. As wind is known to be composed of two distinct gases, Crusoe felt perfectly safe in replying, yes, with his tail. Immediately after, he added, hello, did you hear that? With his ears. Dick did hear it and sprang hastily to his feet as they sound like yet unlike distant thunder came faintly down upon the breeze in a few seconds. The sound increased to a roar in which was mingled the wild cries of men. Neither Dick nor Crusoe moved for the sounds came from behind the heights in front of them. And they felt that the only way to solve the question what can the sounds be was to wait till the sounds should solve it themselves. Suddenly, the muffled sounds gave place to the distinct bellowing of cattle, the clatter of innumerable hooves, the yells of savage men. While at the same moment, the edges of the opposite cliffs became alive with Indians and buffaloes rushing about in frantic haste. The former almost mad with savage excitement, the latter with blind rage and terror. On reaching the edge of the dizzy precipice, the buffaloes turned abruptly and tossed their ponderous heads as they coursed along the edge. Yet a few of them unable to check their headlong course fell over and were dashed to pieces on the rocks below. Such falls, Dick observed, were held with shouts of delight by the Indians whose sole object evidently was to enjoy the sport of driving the terrified animals over the precipice. The wily savages had chosen their ground well for this purpose. The cliff immediately opposite to Dick Varley was a huge projection from the precipice that hemmed in the gorge or species of cape or promontory several hundred yards wide at the base and narrowing abruptly to a point. The sides of this wedge-shaped projection were quite perpendicular. Indeed, in some places, the top overhung the base and they were at least 300 feet high, broken and jagged rocks. Of that peculiarly chaotic character which probably suggested the name to this part of the great American chain projected from and were scattered all around the cliffs. Over these, the Indians whose numbers increased every moment strove to drive the luckless herd of buffaloes that had chance to fall in their way. The task was easy. The unsuspecting animals of which there were hundreds rushed in a dense mass upon the cape referred to. On they came with irresistible impetuosity, bellowing furiously while their hooves thundered on the turf with muffled continuous roar of a distant but mighty cataract. The Indians, meanwhile, urging them on by a hideous yell and frantic gesture. The advance guard came bounding madly to the edge of the precipice. Here they stopped short, engaged afrighted at the gulf below. It was but for a moment. The irresistible momentum of the flying mass behind pushed them over. Down they came, absolutely a living cataract upon the rocks below. Some struck on the projecting rocks in the descent, and their bodies were dashed almost in pieces while their blood spurted out in showers. Others leaped from rock to rock with awful bounds until, losing their foothold, they fell headlong while others descended sheer down into the sweltering mass that lay shattered at the base of the cliffs. Dick Varley and his dog remained rooted to the rock as they gazed at the sickening sight as if petrified. Scarce fifty of that noble herd of buffaloes escaped the awful leap, but they escaped only to fall before the arrows of their ruthless pursuers. Dick had often heard of this tendency of the Indians, where buffaloes were very numerous to drive them over precipices in mere wanton sport and cruelty, but he had never seen it until now, and the sight filled his soul with horror. It was not until the din and tumult of the perishing herd and the shrill yells of the Indians had almost died away that he turned to quit the spot, but the instant he did so, another shout was raised. The savages had observed him, and were seen galloping along the cliffs towards the head of the gorge with the obvious intention of gaining the other side and capturing him. Dick sprang on Charlie's back, and the next incident was flying down the valley towards the camp. He did not, however, fear being overtaken, for the gorge could not be crossed, and the way round the head of it was long and rugged, but he was anxious to alarm the camp as quickly as possible so that they might have time to call in the more distant trappers and make preparations for defense. We're away now, youngster, inquired Cameron, emerging from his tent as Dick, taking the brook that flowed in front at a flying leap came crashing through the bushes into the midst of the fur packs at full speed. And John's ejaculated Dick, raining up and vaulting out of the saddle. Hundreds of them, things incarnate, everyone. Are they near? Yes, an hour old bring them down on us. Are Joe and Henry far from camp today? At Ten Mile Creek, replied Cameron with an expression of bitterness as he caught his gun up and shouted to several men who hurried up on seeing our heroes burst into camp. Ten Mile Creek, muttered Dick, I'll bring them in, though, he continued glancing at several of the camp horses that grazed close at hand. In another moment, he was on Charlie's back, the line of one of the best horses was in his hand, and almost before Cameron knew what he was about, he was flying down the valley like the wind. Charlie often stretched out at full speed to please his young master, but seldom had he been urged forward as he was upon this occasion. The lead horse, being light and wild, kept well up and in a marvelously short space of time, they were at Ten Mile Creek. Hello, Dick, what's to do? Inquired Joe Blunt, who was up to his knees in the water, setting a trap at the moment his friend galloped up. And John's, where's Henry? Demanded Dick, at the head of the dam there. Dick was off in a moment and almost instantly returned with Henry galloping beside him. No word was spoken. In a time of action, these men did not waste words. During Dick's momentary absence, Joe Blunt had caught up his rifle and examined the priming, so that when Dick pulled up beside him, he merely laid his hands on the saddle, saying, all right, as he vaulted on Charlie's back behind his young companion. In another moment, they were away at full speed. The Mustangs seemed to feel that unwanted exertions were required of him. Double-weighted though he was, he kept well up with the other horse. And in less than two hours after Dick's leaving the camp, the three hunters came inside of it. Meanwhile, Cameron had collected nearly all his forces and put his camp in a state of defense before the Indians arrived, which they did suddenly and as usual at full gallop to the amount of at least 200. They did not at first seem disposed to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers, but assembled in a semi-circle around the camp in a menacing attitude while one of their chiefs stepped forward to hold a paliver. For some time, the conversation on both sides was polite enough, but by degrees the Indian chief assumed an imperious tone and demanded gifts from the trappers, taking care to enforce his request by hinting that thousands of his countrymen were not far distant. Cameron stoutly refused and the palaver threatened to come to an abrupt and unpleasant termination just at the time that Dick and his friends appeared on the scene of action. The brook was cleared at a bound. The three hunters leaped from their steeds and sprang to the front with a degree of energy that had a visible effect on the savages. And Cameron, seizing the moment, proposed that the two parties should smoke a pipe and hold a council. The Indians agreed and in a few minutes they were engaged in animated and friendly intercourse. The speeches were long and the compliments paid on either side were inflated and we fear undeserved. But the result of the interview was that Cameron made the Indians a present of tobacco and a few trinkets and sent them back to their friends to tell them that he was willing to trade with them. Next day, the whole tribe arrived in the valley and pitched their deerskin tents on the plain opposite to the camp of the white men. Their numbers far exceeded Cameron's expectation and it was with some anxiety that he proceeded to strengthen his fortifications as much as circumstances and the nature of the ground would admit. The Indian camp, which numbered upwards of a thousand souls was arranged with great regularity and was divided into three distinct sections, each section being composed of a separate tribe. The great snake nation at that time embraced three tribes or divisions, namely the Shireedikas or dog eaters, the Wararikas or fish eaters and the Banatis or robbers. These were the most numerous and powerful Indians on the west side of the Rocky Mountains. The Shireedikas dwelt in the plains and hunted the buffaloes. Dressed well, were clean, rich in horses, bold, independent and good warriors. The Wararikas lived chiefly by fishing and were found on the banks of the rivers and lakes throughout the country. They were more corpulent, slovenly and indolent than the Shireedikas and more peaceful. The Banatis, as we have before mentioned, were the robbers of the mountains. They were a wild and contemptible race and at enmity with everyone. In summer they went about merely naked. In winter they clothed themselves in the skin of rabbits and wolves. Being excellent mimics, they could imitate the howling of wolves, the neighing of horses and the cries of birds, by which means they could approach travelers, rob them and then fly to their rocky fastnesses in the mountains where pursuit was vain. Such were the men who now assembled in front of the camp of the fur traders and Cameron soon found that the news of his presence in the country had spread far and wide among the natives, bringing them to the neighborhood of his camp in immense crowds, so that during the next few days, their numbers increased to thousands. Several long palavers quickly ensued between the red men and the white and the two great chiefs who seemed to hold despotic rule over the assembled tribes were extremely favorable to the idea of universal peace, which was propounded to them. In several set speeches of great length and very considerable power, these natural orators explained their willingness to enter into amicable relations with all the surrounding nations as well as with the white men. But, said P.I.M., the chief of the Shiri daikas, a man above six feet high end of immense muscular strength. But my tribe cannot answer for the Banatis who are robbers and cannot be punished because they dwell in scattered families along the mountains. The Banatis abide, they cannot be trusted. None of the Banatis were present at the council when this was said, and if they had been, it would have mattered little, for they were neither fierce nor courageous, although bold enough in their own haunts to murder and rob the unwary. The second chief did not quite agree with P.I.M. He said that it was impossible for them to make peace with their natural enemies, the pagans and the blackfeet on the east side of the mountains. It was very desirable, he admitted, but neither of these tribes would consent to it. He felt sure. Upon this, Joe Blunt rose and said, The great chief of the war are recuts as wise and knows that enemies cannot be reconciled unless deputies are sent to make proposals of peace. The pale face does not know the blackfeet, answered the chief, who will go into the lands of the blackfeet. My young men have been sent out once again and their scalps are now fringes into the leggings of their enemies. The wararricas do not cross the mountains, but for the purpose of making war. The chief speaks the truth, return, Joe. Yeah, there are three men around the council, five who will go to the blackfeet and the pagans with a message of peace from the snakes if they wish it. Joe pointed to himself, Henry and Dick as he spoke and added, We three do not belong to the camp of the far traders. We only lodge with them for a time. The great chief of the white men has sent us to make peace with the red men and to tell them that he desires to trade with them to exchange hatchets and guns and blankets for farce. This declaration interested the two chiefs greatly and after a good deal of discussion, they agreed to take advantage of Joe Blunt's offer and appoint him as a deputy to the court of their enemies. Having arranged these matters to their satisfaction, Cameron bestowed a red flag and a blue shirt out with brass buttons on each of the chiefs and a variety of smaller articles on the other members of the council and sent them away in a particularly amiable frame of mind. PIM burst the blue shirt out at the shoulders and elbows and putting it on. As it was much too small for his gigantic frame, but never having seen such an article of apparel before, he either regarded this as the natural and proper consequence of putting it on or was totally indifferent to it for he merely looked at the rents with a smile of satisfaction while his squall surrepetitiously cut off the two back buttons and thrust them into her bosom. By the time the council closed, the night was far advanced and a bright moon was shedding a flood of soft light over the picturesque and busy scene. I'll go to the engine camp, said Joe to Walter Cameron as the chiefs rose to depart. The season is far enough advanced already. It's time to be off. And if I'm to speak for the redskins and the Blackfeet council, I need to know what to say. Please yourself, Master Blunt, answered Cameron, I like your company and that of your friends. And if it suited you, I would be glad to take you along with us to the coast of the Pacific. But your mission among the Indians is a good one and I'll help it on all I can. I suppose you will go also. He added, turning to Dick Varley, who was still seated beside the council fire caressing Crusoe. Wherever Joe goes, I go, answered Dick. Crusoe's tail, ears and eyes demonstrated high approval of the sentiment involved in this speech. And your friend Henry? He goes too, answered Joe. It's as well that the redskins should see the three of us before we start by the east side of the mountains. Oh, Henry, come in lad. Henry obeyed and in a few seconds, the three friends crossed the brook to the Indian camp and were guided to the principal lodge by PIM. Here a great council was held and the proposed attempt at negotiations for peace with their ancient enemies fully discussed. While they were thus engaged and just as PIM had, in the energy of an enthusiastic peroration burst the blue sirt out almost up to the collar, a distant rushing sound was heard which caused every man to spring to his feet, run out of the tent and seize his weapons. What can it be, Joe? Whispered Dick as they stood at the tent door, leaning on their rifles, listening intently. Dunno, answered Joe shortly. Most of the numerous fires of the camp had gone out but the bright moon revealed the dusky forms of thousands of Indians whom the unwanted sound had startled, moving rapidly about. The mystery was soon explained. The Indian camp was pitched on an open plain of several miles in extent which took a sudden bend half a mile distant where a spur of the mountains shut out the farther end of the valley from view. From beyond this point, the dull rumbling sound proceeded. Suddenly, there was a roar as if a mighty cataract had been let loose upon the scene. At the same moment, a countless herd of wild horses came thundering around the base of the mountain and swept over the plain straight towards the Indian camp. A stampede-o! cried Joe, springing to the assistance of PIM whose favorite horses were picketed near the tent. On they came like a living torrent and the thunder of a thousand hooves was soon mingled with the howling of hundreds of dogs in the camp in the yelling of Indians as they vainly endeavored to restrain the rising excitement of their steeds. Henry and Dick stood rooted to the ground, gazing in silent wonder at the fierce and uncontrollable gallop of the thousands of panic-stricken horses that bore down upon the camp with the tumultuous violence of a mighty cataract. As the maddening troop drew nigh, the camp horses began to snort and tremble violently and when the rush of the wild steeds was almost upon them, they became ungovernable with terror, broke their halters and hobbles and dashed wildly about. To add to the confusion at that moment, a cloud passed over the moon and threw the whole scene into deep obscurity. Blind with terror, which was probably increased by the den of their own mad flight, the galloping troop came on and with a sound like the continuous roar of thunder that for an instant drowned the yell of dog and man, they burst upon the camp, trampling over packs and skins and dried meat, et cetera, in their headlong speed and overturning several of the smaller tents. In another moment, they swept out upon the plain beyond and were soon lost in the darkness of the night while the yelping of dogs, as they vainly pursued them, mingled and gradually died away with the distant thunder of their retreat. This was a stampedeau, one of the most extraordinary scenes that can be witnessed in the Western wilderness. -"Lend a hand, Henry," shouted Joe, who was struggling with a powerful horse. -"What's come over your brains, man? This brutal get off it if you don't look sharp." Dick and Henry both answered to the summons and they succeeded in throwing the struggling animal on its side and holding it down until its excitement was somewhat abated. P.I.M. had also been successful in securing his favorite hunter, but nearly every other horse belonging to the camp had broken loose and joined the whirlwind gallop. But they gradually dropped out and before morning, the most of them were secured by their owners. As there were at least 2,000 horses and an equal number of dogs in the part of the Indian camp, which had thus been overrun by the wild mustangs, the turmoil, as may be imagined, was prodigious. Yet strange to say, no accident of a serious nature occurred beyond the loss of several chargers. In the midst of this exciting scene, there was one heart there which beat with a nervous vehemence that well-nigh burst it. This was the heart of Dick Varley's horse, Charlie. Well-known to him was that distant rumbling sound that floated on the night air into the fur trader's camp where he was picketed close to Cameron's tent. Many a time he had heard the approach of such a wild troop and often, in days not long gone by, had his shrill-nay rung out as he joined and led the panic-stricken band. He was first to hear the sound and by his rest of actions to draw the attention of the fur traders to it. As a precautionary measure, they all sprang up and stood by their horses to soothe them. But as a brook with a belt of bushes and a quarter of a mile of plain intervened between their camp and the Mustangs as they flew past, they had little or no trouble in restraining them. Not so, however, with Charlie. At the very moment that his master was congratulating himself on the supposed security of his position, he wrenched the halter from the hand of him who held it, burst through the barrier of felled trees that had been thrown round the camp, cleared the brook at a bound and, with a wild, hilarious nay, resumed his old place in the ranks of the free-born Mustangs of the prairie. Little did Dick think when the flood of horses swept past him that his own good steed was there, rejoicing in his recovered liberty. But Crusoe knew it. Aye, the wind had borne down the information to his acute nose before the living storm burst upon the camp. And when Charlie rushed past with the long, tough halter trailing at his heels, Crusoe sprang to his side, seized the end of the halter with his teeth and galloped off along with him. It was a long gallop and a tough one, but Crusoe held on, for it was a settled principle in his mind never to give in. At first, the check upon Charlie's speed was imperceptible, but by degrees the weight of the gigantic dog began to tell. And after a time, they fell a little to the rear. Then, by good fortune, the troop passed through a mass of underwood, and the line, getting entangled, brought their mad career forcibly to a close. The Mustangs passed on, and the two friends were left to keep each other company in the dark. How long they would have remained thus is uncertain, for neither of them had sagacity enough to undo a complicated entanglement. Fortunately, however, in his energetic tugs at the line, Crusoe's sharp teeth partially severed it, and a sudden start on the part of Charlie caused it to part. Before he could escape, Crusoe again seized to the end of it and led him slowly but steadily back to the Indian camp, never halting or turning aside until he had placed the line in Dick Varley's hand. Hello, pup, where have you been? How did you bring him here? exclaimed Dick as he gazed in amazement at his foam-covered horse. Crusoe wagged his tail, as if to say, be thankful you've got him, Dick, my boy, and don't ask questions that you know I can't answer. He must have broke loose and gender-stumped-o, remarked Joe coming out of the chief's tent at the moment. But time up, Dick, and come in, for we want to settle about starting tomorrow or the next day. Having fastened Charlie to a stake and ordered Crusoe to watch him, Dick re-entered the tent where the council had re-assembled and where P.I.M., having, in the recent struggle, split the blue shirt out completely up to the collar so that his backbone was visible throughout the greater part of its length, was holding forth in eloquent strains on the subject of peace in general and peace with the Blackfeet, the ancient enemies of the Shirdiqas in particular. End of chapter 23. Chapter 24 of the Dog, Crusoe, and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Dog, Crusoe, and His Master by R.M. Valentine. Chapter 24, Plans and Prospects. Dick becomes homesick and Henry metaphysical. The Indians attack the camp. A blow-up. On the following day, the Indians gave themselves up to unlimited feasting in consequence of the arrival of a large body of hunters with an immense supply of buffalo meat. It was a regular day of rejoicing. Upwards of 600 buffaloes had been killed. And as the supply of meat before their arrival had been ample, the camp was now overflowing with plenty. Feasts were given by the chiefs and the medicine men went about the camp, uttering loud cries which were meant to express gratitude to the great spirit for the bountiful supply of food. They also carried a portion of meat to the aged and infirm who were unable to hunt for themselves and had no young men in their family circle to hunt for them. This arrival of the hunters was a fortunate circumstance as it put the Indians in great good humor and inclined them to hold friendly intercourse with the trappers who for some time continued to drive a brisk trade in furs. Having no market for the disposal of their furs, the Indians of course had more than they knew what to do with and were therefore glad to exchange those of the most beautiful and valuable kind for a mere trifle so that the trappers laid aside their traps for a time and devoted themselves to traffic. Meanwhile, Joe Blunt and his friends made preparations for their return journey. You see? Remarks Joe to Henry and Dick as they sat beside the fire in PIM's lodge and feasted on a pot full of grasshopper soup which the great chief squall had just placed before them. You see, my calculations is as follows. What, with trapping beavers and hunting, we three have made enough to sod us up and it likes us in the Mustang Valley. Ha, interrupted Dick remitting for a few seconds to the use of his teeth in order to exercise his tongue. Ha, Joe, but it don't like me. What, give up a hunter's life and become a farmer? I should think not. Blunt, ejaculated Henry, but whether the remark had a reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment we cannot tell. Well, continued Joe commencing to devour a large buffalo steak with a hunter's appetite. You'll please yourselves lad as to that. But as I was saying, we've got a powerful lot of fuzz and a big pack of odds and ends for the engines we chance to meet with by the way and powder and lead to last us a 12 month. Besides, five good horses to carry us and our packs over the plains. So if it's agreeable with you, I mean to make a beeline for the Mustang Valley. We're pretty sure to meet with black feet on the way and if we do, we'll try to make peace between them and the snakes. I expect it'll be pretty well on for six weeks before we get home. So we'll start tomorrow. D'attisfat villidou velville, said Henry. Will you please don't ask me one petite morsel of steak? I'm ready for anything, Joe, cried Dick. You're a leader, just point the way and I'll answer for two of us following you. Hey, won't we cruise so? We will, remarked the dog quietly. How comes it, inquired Dick, that these Indians don't care for our tobacco? They like their own bed, I suppose, answered Joe. Most auto-western engines do. They make it out of the dried leaves of the Schumack and the anabaca, the red willow, chopped very small and mixed together. They call this the knack-knack, but they like to mix about a fourth of our tobacco with it. So P.I.M. tells me, and he's a good judge, the amount that red-skinned mortal smokes is uncommon. What are they doing yonder? Inquired Dick, pointing to a group of men who had been feasting for some time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio. Gonna sing, I think, replied Joe. As he spoke, six young warriors were seen to work their bodies about in a very remarkable way and give utterance to still more remarkable sounds which gradually increased until the singers burst out into that terrific yell or war-woop for which American savages have long been famous. Its effect would save them appalling to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones while their action corresponded there too. Suddenly the furious style was revived and the men wrought themselves into a conditioned little short of madness while their yells rung wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary canine nature to withstand so all the dogs in the neighborhood joined in the horrible chorus. Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities of Indians in their curves with dignified contempt. He paid no attention to this serenade but lay sleeping by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take leave of their host and returned 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 Grey Dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down to snatch a few hours repost, 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 somber and mysterious by contrast when Dick and Joe and Henry mounted their gallant steeds and with Crusoe gambling before in 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 Barley's cottage and of Dick's mild kind-hearted mother. Undoubtedly too, he thought of his own mother, fan, and felt a glow of affection as he did so. Of this, we feel quite certain he would have been unworthy the title of hero if he hadn't. For chance, 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, he had 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 laterally, his efforts were in vain. He became thoroughly homesick and while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavored 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. Henry 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 notebook 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 homesickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition. It was not until they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley's spirits revived. And it was not until they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains and galloped over the green sward towards the Mustang Valley that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been. Do you know, Joe? He said confidently, reigning up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop. Do you know I've been feeling 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 been. I never felt so before. It was homesickness, boy. Returned Joe. How do you know that? The same way as I know most things, by experience and observation. I've been homesick myself once, but it was long, long ago. 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 Henry, 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 Henry. Homesick, he cried. Beach mean being sick of home? Ha, that is fat. I am always bee, when I goes out on a day expedition. Weave, I meant. I always packed up, continued Joe, paying no attention to Henry's remark. I always packed up and sought soft for home when I get homesick. It's the best cure. And when Hunters are young like you, Dick, it's the only cure. I know fellas almost die of homesickness, and I'm told that they do go under altogether sometimes. Quanda, exclaimed Henry. Weave, I was all but die myself when I first tried to get away from home. If I have not get away, I not be here today. Henry's idea of homesickness was so totally opposed to theirs that his comrades only laughed and refrained from attempting to set him right. The first time I was took bad with it was in a country something like that. Said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie dotted with clusters of trees and wandering streamlets that lay before them. I had been out about two months and was making a good thing of it. For game was plenty. When I began to think somehow more than usual at home, my mother was alive then. Joe's voice sank to a deep solemn tone, as he said this. And for a few minutes, he wrote on in silence. Well, it grew worse and worse. I dreamed a home all night and thought of it all day till I began to shoot bad. And my comrades was getting tired of me. So I says to dim one night says, I give out lads. I'll make tracks for the settlement tomorrow. They tried to laugh me out of it at first, but it was a no-go. So I packed up, bid them good day and sought off alone on a trip by a hundred miles. The very first mile of the way back, I began to mend. And before two days, I was all right again. Joe was interrupted at this point by the sudden appearance of a solitary horseman on the brow of an eminence, not a half-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, Henry, cried Joe Blunt, our errand is one of peace. The caution was needed, for in the confusion of the moment, Henry 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 20 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 was made for a long plover. 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 goodwill. 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 travelers escaped. It was at the close of a beautiful day that a war party of black feet 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 bells 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 Henry Second did Joe's effort 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 travelers peeping over the edge with their rifles cocked while the savages, about 30 in number, came sweeping down towards them. I'll try to get them to the palaver, said Joe Blunt. But keep your eye on them, Dick. And if they behave ill, shoot the horse of the leading chief out through up my hand as a signal. Mind lad, don't hit human flesh till my second signal is given and see that Henry don't draw till I get back to ya. 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 black feet 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 hundred arrows when he turned round and cried. The black feet must not advance a single step. The first that moves his horse shall die. The second that moves himself shall die. To this the black foot 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 him. 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, Henry and Crusoe bounded over the packs with frantic gestures. At this, the gaping savages wheeled their steeds round and 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 Henry, holding his hands tight over his face. Oh, we great damage, mocha damage, me too eyes be blowed out of their holes. Not quite so bad as that, I hope, said Dick, who was very slightly singed and forgot his own hurts and anxiety about his comrade. Let me see. My eye, exclaimed Joe Blunt while a broad grin overspread his countenance. He not improved your looks, Henry. This was true. The worthy hunter's hair was singed to such an extent that his entire countenance presented the appearance of a universal frizzle. Fortunately, the skin, although much blackened, was quite un-injured, a fact which, when he ascertained it beyond a doubt, afforded so much satisfaction to Henry that he capered about shouting with delight as if some piece of good fortune had befallen him. The accident had happened in consequence of Henry having omitted to replace the stopper of his powder horn. And when, in his anxiety for Joe, he fired at random amongst the Indians, despite dicks and treaties to wait, a spark communicated with the powder horn and blew him up. Dick and Crusoe were only a little singed, but the former was not disposed to quarrel with an accident which had sent their enemies so promptly to the right of out. This band followed them for some nights in hope of being able to still their horses while they slept, but they were not brave enough to venture a second time within range of the death-dealing rifle. End of chapter 24. Chapter 25 of The Doll Crusoe and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Doll Crusoe and His Master by R. M. Ballantine. Chapter 25, Dangers of the Prairie. Our travelers attacked by Indians and delivered in a remarkable manner. There are periods in the life of almost all men when misfortunes seem to crowd upon them in rapid succession, when they escape from one danger only to encounter another, and when, to use a well-known expression, they succeed in leaping out of the frying pan at the expense of plunging into the fire. So was it with our three friends upon this occasion, they were scarcely rid of the black feet who found them too watchful to be caught napping. When, about daybreak one morning, they encountered a roving band of Comanche Indians who wore such a war-like aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible. They don't see us yet, I guess, said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie. And if we can only escape the sharp eyes to we in yonder clump of willows, we'm safe enough. But why don't you ride up to them, Joe, inquired Dick, and make peace with them in the pale faces as you had done with other bands? Because it's a no-use to risk our scalps for the chance of making peace with a roving war party. Keep your head down, Henry, if they get only a sight at the top of your cap, they'll be down on us like a breeze o' wind. Ha, let them come, said Henry. They'll come without asking your leave, remarked Joe dryly. Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henry had sufficient prudence to induce him to bend his head and shoulders, and in a few minutes, they reached the shelter of the willows, unseen by the savages, at least, so thought Henry. Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best. In the course of half an hour, the last of the command she was seen to hover for a second on the horizon, like a speck of black against the sky, and then to disappear. Immediately, the three hunters bolted on their steeds and resumed their journey. But before that evening closed, they had sad evidence of the savage nature of the band from which they had escaped. On passing the brow of a slight eminence, Dick, who rode first, observed that Crusoe stopped and snuffed the breeze in an anxious, inquiring manner. "'What is it, pup?' said Dick, drawing up, for he knew that his faithful dog never gave a false alarm. Crusoe replied by a short, uncertain bark, and then, bounding forward, disappeared behind a little wooded knoll. In another moment, a long, dismal howl floated over the plains. There was a mystery about the dog's conduct, which, coupled with his melancholy cry, struck the travelers with a superstitious feeling of dread as they sat looking at each other in surprise. "'Come on, let's clear it up!' cried Joe Blunt, shaking the reins of his steed and galloping forward. A few strides brought them to the other side of the knoll, where, scattered upon the torn and bloody turf, they discovered the scalped and mangled remains of about 20 or 30 human beings. Their skulls had been cleft by the tomahawk, and their breasts pierced by the scalping knife, and from the position in which many of them lay, it was evident that they had been slain while asleep. Joe's brow flushed, and his lips became tightly compressed as he muttered between his set teeth. Their skins are white. A short examination sufficed to show that the men who had thus been barbarously murdered while they had slept had been a band of trappers, or hunters, but what their errand had been, or whence they came, they could not discover. Everything of value had been carried off, and all the scalps had been taken. Most of the bodies, although much mutilated, lay in a posture that led our hunters to believe they had been killed while asleep, but one or two were cut almost to pieces from the blood bespattered and trampled sword around, it seemed as if they had struggled long and fiercely for life. Whether or not any of the savages had been slain, it was impossible to tell, for if such had been the case, their comrades, doubtless, had carried away their bodies. That they had been slaughtered by the party of Comanches who had been seen at daybreak was quite clear to Joe, but his burning desire to revenge the death of the white men had to be stifled as his party was so small. Long afterwards, it was discovered that this was a band of trappers who, like those mentioned at the beginning of this volume, had set out to avenge the death of a comrade, but God, who has retained the right of vengeance in his own hand, saw fit to frustrate their purpose by giving them into the hands of the savages whom they had set forth to slay. As it was impossible to bury so many bodies, the travelers resumed their journey and left them to bleach there in the wilderness, but they rode the whole of that day almost without uttering a word. Meanwhile, the Comanches, who had observed the trio, had ridden away at first for the purpose of deceiving them into the belief that they had passed unobserved, doubled on their track and took a long sweep in order to keep out of sight until they could approach under the shelter of a belt of woodland towards which the travelers now approached. The Indians adopted this course instead of the easier method of simply pursuing so we could party because the plains at this part were bordered by a long stretch of forest into which the hunters could have plunged and rendered pursuit more difficult, if not almost useless. The detour, thus taken, was so extensive and the shades of evening were beginning to descend before they could put their plan into execution. The forests lay about a mile to the right of our hunters, like some dark mainland of which the prairie was the sea and the scattered clumps of wood, the islands. There's no lack a game here, said Dick Varley, pointing to a herd of buffaloes which rose at their approach and fled away towards the woods. I never feel it on natural hot like this without looking out for a plump. Ha, didn't we better look out for one good tree to get blow, suggested Henry. Voila, he added, pointing with his finger towards the plain, dear, I'm a lot of wild horses. A troop of about 30 wild horses appeared as he spoke on the brow of a ridge and advanced slowly toward them. Hissed, exclaimed Joe, reigning up, hold on lads, wild horses, my rifle to pop gun, there's wild men on the other side of them. What a humane Joe, inquired Dick, writing close up. Do you see the little lumps on the shoulder of each horse, said Joe, dims engine's feet. And if we don't want to lose our scalps, we'd better make for the forest. Joe proved himself to be an earnest by wheeling round and making straight for the thick woods as fast as his horse could run. The others followed, driving the pack horses before them. The effect of this sudden movement on the so-called wild horses was very remarkable. And to one unacquainted with the habits of the Comanche Indians, must have appeared almost supernatural. In the twinkling of an eye, every steed had a rider on its back. And before the hunters had taken five strides in the direction of the forest, the whole band were in hot pursuit, yelling like furies. The manner in which these Indians accomplished this feat is very singular and implies great activity and strength of muscle on the part of the savages. The Comanches are low in stature and usually are rather corpulent. In their movements on foot, they are heavy and ungraceful and they are on the whole a slovenly and unattractive race of men. But the instant they mount their horses, they seem to be entirely changed and surprised the spectator with the ease and elegance of their movements. Their great and distinctive peculiarity as horsemen is the power they have acquired of throwing themselves suddenly on either side of their horse's body and clinging on in such a way that no part of them is visible from the other side, save the foot by which they cling. In this manner, they approach their enemies at full gallop and without rising again to the saddle, discharge their arrows at them over their horse's backs or even under their necks. This apparently magical feat is accomplished by means of a halter or horse chair which is passed round under the neck of the horse and both ends braided into the mane on the withers, thus forming a loop which hangs under the neck and against the breast. This being caught by the hand makes a sling into which the elbow falls, taking the weight of the body on the middle of the upper arm. Into this loop, the rider drops suddenly and fearlessly leaving his heel to hang over the horse's back to steady him and also to restore him to his seat when desired. By this stratagem, the Indians had approached on the present occasion almost within rifle range before they were discovered and it required the utmost speed of the hunter's horses to enable them to avoid being overtaken. One of the Indians who was better mounted than his fellows gained on the fugitives so much that he came within error range but reserved his shaft until they were close on the margin of the wood when being almost alongside of Henry, he fitted an arrow to his bow. Henry's eye was upon him, however, letting go the line of the pack horse which he was leading and he threw forward his rifle. But at the same moment, the savage disappeared behind his horse in an arrow whizzed past the hunter's ear. Henry fired at the horse which dropped instantly, hurling the astonished command ship on the ground where he lay for some time insensible. In a few seconds, pursued and pursuers entered the wood where both had to advance with caution in order to avoid being swept off by overhanging branches of the trees. Meanwhile, the sultry heat of which Joe had formerly spoken increased considerably and a rumbling noise as if of distant thunder was heard but the flying hunters paid no attention to it for the lead horses gave them so much trouble and retarded their flight so much that the Indians were gradually invisibly gaining on them. We'll have to let the packs go, said Joe, somewhat bitterly as he looked over his shoulder. Our scalps will pay for it if we don't. Henry uttered a peculiar and significant hiss between his teeth as he said, perhaps we've had to stop and fight. Dick said nothing, being resolved to do exactly what Joe Blunt bid him. And Crusoe, for reasons best known to himself, also said nothing but bounded along beside his master's horse, casting an occasional glance upwards to catch any signal that might be given. They had passed over a considerable space of ground and were forcing their way at the imminent hazard of their necks through a densely clothed part of wood when the sound above referred to increased, attracting the attention of both parties. In a few seconds, the air was filled with a steady and continuous rumbling sound like the noise of a distant cataract. Pursuers and fugitives drew rain instinctively and came to a dead stand while the rumbling increased to a roar and evidently approached them rapidly, though as yet nothing to cause it could be seen, except that there was a dense dark cloud over spreading the sky to the southward. The air was oppressively still and hot. Boy, can't be, inquired Dick, looking at Joe who was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed with concern at the southern sky. Don't know, boy, I've been more into woods than into clearing of my day, but I never hear the likes of that. It's I'm like Tondre, said Henry, my, said, never do stop. This was true. The sound was similar to continuous uninterrupted thunder. On it came with a magnificent roar that shook the very earth and revealed itself at last in the shape of a mighty whirlwind. In a moment, the distant woods bent before it and fell like grass before the sky. It was a whirling hurricane accompanied by a deluge of rain, such as none of the party had ever before witnessed. Steadily, fiercely, irresistibly it bore down upon them while the crash of falling, snapping and uprooting trees mingled with the dire artillery of that sweeping storm like the musketry on a battlefield. Follow me, lads, shouted Joe, turning his horse and dashing at full speed towards a rocky eminence that offered shelter, but shelter was not needed. The storm was clearly defined. Its limits were as distinctly marked by its creator as if it had been a living intelligence sent forth to put a belt of desolation around the world. And although the edge of devastation was not 500 yards from the rock behind which the hunters were stationed, only a few drops of ice cold rain fell upon them. It passed directly between Comanche Indians and their intended victims, placing between them a barrier which it would have taken days to cut through. The storm blew for an hour. Then it traveled onward in its might and was lost in distance. Once it came and whether it went, none could tell. But far as the eye could see on either hand, an avenue a quarter of a mile wide was cut through the forest. It had leveled everything with dust and the very grass was beaten flat. The trees were torn, shivered, snapped across and crushed. And the earth itself in many places was plowed up and furrowed with deep scars. The chaos was indescribable and it is probable that centuries will not quite obliterate the work of that single hour. While it lasted, Joe and his comrades remained speechless and all stricken. When it passed, no Indians were to be seen. So our hunters remounted their steeds and with feelings of gratitude to God for having delivered them alike from savage foes and from the destructive power of the whirlwind resumed their journey toward the Mustang Valley. End of chapter 25, chapter 26 of The Dog, Crusoe and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Dog, Crusoe and His Master. By R.M. Valentine, chapter 26. Anxious fears followed by a joyful surprise. Safe home at last and happy hearts. One fine afternoon, a few weeks after the storm of which we have given an account in the last chapter, old Mrs. Varley was seated beside her own chimney corner in the little cottage by the lake gazing at the glowing logs with the earnest expression of one whose thoughts were far away. Her kind face was paler than usual and her hands rested idly on her knee grasping the knitting wires to which was attached a half-finished stocking. On a stool near to her sat young Marston, the lad to whom, on the day of the shooting match, Dick Varley had given his old rifle. The boy had an anxious look about him as he lifted his eyes from time to time to the widow's face. Did she say, my boy, that they were all killed? Inquired Mrs. Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh. Everyone, replied Marston. Jim Skraggs, who bought the news, said they was all I did with the scalps off. They was a party of white men. Mrs. Varley sighed again and her face assumed an expression of anxious pain as she thought of her son Dick being exposed to his similar fate. Mrs. Varley was not given to nervous fears, but as she listened to the boy's recital of the slaughter of a party of white men, news of which had just reached the valley, her heart sank and she prayed inwardly to him, who is the husband of the widow, that her dear one might be protected from the ruthless hand of the savage. After a short pause during which young Marston fidgeted about and looked concerned, as if he had something to say which he would feign leave unsaid, Mrs. Varley continued. Was it far off where the bloody deed was done? Yes, three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Skraggs said he found a knife that looked like the one that belonged to, to the lad hesitated. To whom, my boy? Why don't she go on? To your son Dick. The widow's hands dropped by her side and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her. Oh, mother dear, don't take on like that. He cried, smoothing down the widow's hair as her head rested on his breast. For some time, Mrs. Varley suffered the boy to fondle her in silence while her breast labored with anxious dread. Tell me all. She said at last, recovering a little. Did, did Jim see Dick? No, inch of the boy. He looked at all the bodies, but he didn't find his, so he sent me over here to tell you that perhaps he escaped. Mrs. Varley breathed more freely and earnestly, thank God. But her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related at the savages. While she was still engaged and closely questioning the lad, Jim Skraggs himself entered the cottage and endeavored in a gruff sort of way to reassure the widow. You see, Mistress, he said, Dick is an uncommon tough customer, and if he could only get 50-odd stock, there's not an engine in the west as could get hold of him again, so don't be taking on. But what if he's being taken prisoner, said the widow. Aye, that's just what I've come about. You see, it's not unlikely he's being took, so about 30 other lads of the valley are ready just now to start away and give the red reptiles chase, and I come to tell you, so keep up hot, Mistress. With this parting word of comfort, Jim withdrew and Marston soon followed, leaving the widow to weep and pray in solitude. Meanwhile, an animated scene was going on near the blockhouse. Here, 30 of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening their girth's preparatory to setting out in pursuit of the Indians who had murdered the white men, while hundreds of boys and girls, and not a few matrons, crowded round and listened to the conversation into the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever and on by the younger men. Major Hope, too, was among them. The worthy Major, unable to restrain his roving propensities, determined to revisit the Mustang Valley and had arrived only two days before. That woodsman's preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest. In a few minutes, the calificate was ready and away they went towards the prairies with the bold Major at their head, but their journey was destined to come to an abrupt and unexpected close. A couple of hours gallop brought them to the edge of one of those open plains which sometimes break up the woodland near the verge of the great prairies. It stretched out like a green lake toward the horizon, on which, just as the band of horsemen reached it, the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. With a shout of enthusiasm, several of the younger members of the party sprang forward into the plain at a gallop, but the shout was mingled with one of a different tone from the older men. East, hello, hold on you catamounts, there's engines ahead. The whole band came to a sudden halt at this cry and watched eagerly and for some time in silence, the motions of a small party of horsemen who were seen in the far distance, like black specks on the golden sky. They come this way, I think, said Major Hope, after gazing steadfastly at them for some minutes. Several of the old hands signified their assent to the suggestion by a grunt, although, to unaccustomed eyes, the objects in question looked more like crows than horsemen and their motion was for some time scarcely perceptible. I see his pack horses among them, cried young Marston in an excited tone. And there's three riders, but there's something else. Only, what it be, I can't tell. Yeave sharp eyes, yonker, remarked one of the men, and I do believe you're right. Presently the horsemen approached and soon there was a brisk fire of guessing as to who they could be. It was evident that the strangers observed the calvocate of white men and regarded them as friends, for they did not check the headlong speed at which they approached. In a few minutes, they were clearly made out to be a party of three horsemen driving pack horses before them and something which some of the hunters guessed was a buffalo calf. Young Marston guessed too, but his guess was different. Moreover, it was uttered with a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest of all the savages. Cruzo, he shouted, while at the same moment he brought his whip down heavily on the flink of his little horse and sprang over the prairie like an arrow. One of the approaching horsemen was far ahead of his comrades and seemed as if encircled with the flying and falling voluminous mane of his magnificent horse. Ha-ha-ho, grasped Marston in a low tone to himself as he flew along. Cruzo, I know you, dog, one thousand, a buffalo calf, ha, get on with you. This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse and was followed by a wack that increased the pace considerably. The space between two such riders was soon devoured. Hello, Dick, Dick Varley. Hey, why Marston, my boy? The friends rained up so suddenly that one might have fancy. They had met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict. Is it yourself, Dick Varley? Dick held out his hand and his eyes glistened, but he could not find words. Marston seized it and pushing his horse close up vaulted nimbly off and alighted on Charlie's back behind his friend. Off you go, Dick. I'll take you to your mother. Without reply, Dick shook the reins and in another minute was in the midst of the hunters. To the numberless questions that were put to him, he only waited to shout aloud, we're all safe, they'll tell you all about it. He added, pointing to his comrades who were now close at hand. And then dashing onward made straight for home with little Marston clinging to his waist like a monkey. Charlie was fresh and so was Cruzo. So you may be sure it was not long before they all drew up opposite the door of the widow's cottage. Before Dick could dismount, Marston had slipped off and was already in the kitchen. Here's Dick, mother. The boy was an orphan and loved the widow so much that he had come at last to call her mother. Before another word could be uttered, Dick Varley was in the room. Marston immediately stepped out and softly shut the door. Reader, we shall not open it. Having shut the door, as we have said, Marston ran down to the edge of the lake and yelled with delight, usually terminating each paroxysm with the Indian war whoop with which he was well acquainted. Then he danced and then he sat down on a rock and became suddenly aware that there were other hearts there close beside him as Gladys his own. Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long lost son. Crusoe and his mother fan were scampering around each other in a manner that events powerfully the strength of their mutual affection. Talk of holding converse. Every hero on Crusoe's body, every motion of his limbs was eloquent with silent language. He gazed into his mother's mild eyes as if he would read her in most soul, supposing that she had one. He turned his head to every possible angle and cocked his ears to every conceivable elevation and rubbed his nose against fans and barked softly in every imaginable degree of modulation and varied these proceedings by bounding away at full speed over the rocks of the beach and and among the bushes and out again but always circling round and round fan and keeping her in view. It was a sight worth seeing and young Marston sat down on a rock deliberately and enthusiastically to gloat over it but perhaps the most remarkable part of it has not yet been referred to. There was yet another heart there that was glad, exceedingly glad that day. It was a little one too but it was big for the body that held it. Grumps was there and all that Grumps did was to sit on his haunches and stare at fan and Crusoe and wag his tail as well as he could in so awkward a position. Grumps was evidently bewildered with delight and had lost nearly all power to express it. Crusoe's conduct towards him too was not calculated to clear his faculties. Every time he chanced to pass near Grumps and his elephantine gambles he gave him a passing touch with his nose which always knocked him head over heels where at Grumps invariably got up quickly and wagged his tail with additional energy. Before the feelings of those canine friends were calmed they were all three ruffled into a state of comparative exhaustion. Then young Marston called Crusoe to him and Crusoe, obedient to the voice of friendship, went, are you happy my dog? You're a stupid fellow to ask such a question. However, it's an amiable one. Yes, I am. What do you want, you bundle-head? This was addressed to Grumps who came forward innocently and sat down to listen to the conversation. On being thus sternly questioned the little dog put down his ears flat and hung its head, looking up at the same time with a deprecatory look as if to say. Oh dear, I beg pardon. I only want to sit in your Crusoe, please. But if you wish, I'll go away. Sad and lonely with my tail very much between my legs. Indeed, I will only say the word, but I'd rather stay if I might. Poor bundle, said Marston patting its head. You can stay then. Hooray, Crusoe, are you happy, I say? Does your heart bound in you like a cannonball that wants to find its way out and can't, eh? Crusoe put his snout against Marston's cheek and in the excess of his joy, the lad threw his arms around the dog's neck and hugged it vigorously, a piece of impulsive affection which that noble animal bore with characteristic meekness and which grumps regarded with idiotic satisfaction. End of chapter 26. Chapter 27 of the Dog Crusoe and His Master. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. This reading by Allison Hester of Athens, Georgia. The Dog Crusoe and His Master by R. M. Valentine. Chapter 27. Rejoicings, the feast at the blockhouse. Grumps and Crusoe come out strong. The closing scene. The day of Dick's arrival with his companions was a great day in the annals of the Mustang Valley and made your hope resolved to celebrate it by an impromptu festival at the old blockhouse. For many hearts in the valley had been made glad that day and he knew full well that under such circumstances, some safety valve must be devised for the escape of overflowing excitement. A messenger was sent round to invite the population to assemble without delay in front of the blockhouse. With backwoods like celerity, the summons was obeyed. Men, women, and children hurried towards the central point, wondering yet more than half suspecting what was the major's object in calling them together. They were not long in doubt. The first site that presented itself as they came trooping up the slope in front of the log hut was an ox roasting whole before a gigantic bonfire. Tables were being extemporized on the broad level plot in front of the gate. Other fires there were of smaller dimensions on which sundry steaming pots were placed and various joints of wild horse, bear, and venison roasted and sent forth a savory odor as well as a pleasant hissing noise. The inhabitants of the blockhouse were self-taught brewers and the results of their recent labors now stood displayed in a row of goodly casks of beer, the only beverage with which the dwellers in these far off regions were want to regale themselves. The whole scene as the cooks moved actively about upon the lawn and children romped around the fires and settlers came flocking through the forests might have recalled the revelry of Mary England in the olden time, though the costumes of the far west were perhaps somewhat different from those of old England. No one of all the band assembled there on that day of rejoicing required to ask what it was all about. Had anyone been in doubt for a moment, a glance at the center of the crowd assembled round the gate of the Western fortress would have quickly enlightened them. For there stood Dick Varley and his mild-looking mother and his loving dog, Crusoe. There, too, stood Joe Blunt, like a bronzed warrior returned from the fight, turning from one to another as question poured in upon question almost too rapidly to permit of a reply. There, too, stood Henry, making enthusiastic speeches to whoever chose to listen to him. Now glaring at the crowd with clenched fists and a growling voice as he told of how Joe and he had been tied hand and foot and lashed to poles and buried in leaves and threatened with a slow death by torture. At other times, bursting into a hilarious laugh as he held forth the predicament of Madawaw when the wily chief was treed by Crusoe and the prairie. Young Marston was there, too, hanging about Dick, whom he loved as a brother and regarded as a perfect hero. Grumps, too, was there and fan. Do you think, Reader, that Grumps looked at anyone but Crusoe? If you do, you are mistaken. Grumps, on that day, became a regular, incorrigible, utter, and perfect nuisance to everybody, not accepting himself, poor beast. Grumps was a dog of one idea and that idea was Crusoe. Out of that great idea, there grew one little secondary idea, and that idea was that the only joy on earth worth mentioning was to sit on his haunches exactly six inches from Crusoe's nose and gaze steadfastly into his face. Wherever Crusoe went, Grumps went. If Crusoe stopped, Grumps was down before him in an instant. If Crusoe bounded away, which in the exuberance of his spirits he often did, Grumps was after him like a bundle of mad hair. He was in everybody's way, in Crusoe's way, in being, so to speak, beside himself, was also in his own way. If people trod upon him accidentally, which they often did, Grumps uttered a solitary heart-rending yell, proportioned in intensity to the excruciating nature of the torture he endured, then instantly resumed his position and his fascinated stare. Crusoe generally held his head up and gazed over his little friend at what was going on around him. But if for a moment he permitted his eye to rest on the countenance of Grumps, that creature's tail became suddenly imbued with an amount of wriggling vitality that seemed to threaten its separation from the body. It was really quite interesting to watch this unblushing and disinterested and utterly reckless display of affection on the part of Grumps and the amiable way in which Crusoe put up with it. We say put up with it, advisedly, because it must have been a very great inconvenience to him, seeing that if he attempted to move, his satellite moved in front of him so that his only way of escaping temporarily was by jumping over Grumps' head. Grumps was everywhere all day. Nobody, almost, escaped trampling on part of him. He tumbled over everything, into everything, and against everything. He knocked himself, singed himself, and scalded himself, and in fact, forgot himself altogether. And when late that night, Crusoe went with Dick into his mother's cottage and the door was shut. Grumps stretched his ruffled, battered, ill-used and disheveled little body down on the doorstep, thrust his nose against the opening below the door, and lay in humble contentment all night, for he knew that Crusoe was there. Of course, such an occasion could not pass without a shooting match. Rifles were brought out after the feast was over, just before the sun went down into its bed on the Western prairies and the nail was soon surrounded by bullets, tipped by Joe Blunt and Jim Skrags. And of course, driven home by Dick Varley, whose silver rifle had now become, in its owner's hand, a never-failing weapon. Races, too, were started, and here again, Dick stood preeminent when the night spread her dark mantle over the scene. The two best fiddlers in the settlement were placed on empty bear casks and some danced by the light of the monster fires while others listened to Joe Blunt as he recounted their adventures on the prairies and among the Rocky Mountains. There were sweethearts and wives and lovers at the feast, but we questioned whether any heart there was so full of love and admiration and gratitude as that of the widow Varley as she watched her son Dick throughout that merry evening. Years rolled by and the Mustang Valley prospered. Missionaries went there and a little church was built. Into the blessings of a fertile land were added the far greater blessings of Christian light and knowledge. One sad blow fell on the widow Varley's heart. Her only brother, Daniel Hood, was murdered by the Indians. Deeply and long she mourned and it required all Dick's efforts and those of the pastor of the settlement to comfort her. But from the first, the widow's heart was sustained by the loving hand that dealt the blow and when time blunted the keen edge of her feelings her face became as sweet and mild, though not so lightsome as before. Joe Blunt and Henry became leading men in the councils of the Mustang Valley, but Dick Varley preferred the woods. Although, as long as his mother lived, he hovered around her cottage, going off sometimes for a day, sometimes for a week, but never longer. After her head was laid in the dust, Dick took all together to the woods with Crusoe and Charlie the Wild Horse as his only companions and his mother's Bible in the breast of his hunting shirt. And soon, Dick, the bold hunter and his dog, Crusoe, became renowned in the frontier settlements from the banks of the Yellowstone River to the Gulf of Mexico. Many a grizzly bear did the famous silver rifle lay low and many a wild, exciting chase and adventure did Dick go through, but during his occasional visits to the Mustang Valley, he was want to say to Joe Blunt and Henry with whom he always sojourned that nothing he ever failed or saw came up to his first grand dash over the Western prairies into the heart of the Rocky Mountains. And in saying this with enthusiasm in his eye and voice, Dick invariably appealed to and received a ready affirmative glance from his early companion and his faithful loving friend, the dog, Crusoe. End of The Dog, Crusoe and His Master. This has been a LibriVox recording read by Allison Hester. Finished in December, 2007.