Kitobni o'qish: «The Dog Crusoe and his Master», sahifa 18

Chapter Twenty Five.
Dangers of the prairie—Our travellers 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 Blackfeet, who found them too watchful to be caught napping, when, about daybreak one morning they encountered a roving band of Camanchee Indians, who wore such a warlike aspect that Joe deemed it prudent to avoid them if possible.

“They don’t see us yit, I guess,” said Joe, as he and his companions drove the horses into a hollow between the grassy waves of the prairie, “any if we only can escape their sharp eyes till we’re in yonder clump o’ willows, we’re safe enough.”

“But why don’t you ride up to them, Joe,” inquired Dick, “and make peace between them and the Pale-faces, as you ha’ done with other bands?”

“Because it’s o’ no use to risk our scalps for the chance o’ makin’ peace wi’ a rovin’ war-party. Keep yer head down, Henri! If they git only a sight o’ the top o’ yer cap, they’ll be down on us like a breeze o’ wind.”

“Hah! let dem come!” said Henri.

“They’ll come without askin’ yer leave,” remarked Joe drily.

Notwithstanding his defiant expression, Henri 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 Henri, Joe was not quite sure about it, and Dick hoped for the best.

In the course of half an hour the last of the Camanchees 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’t, 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 travellers with a superstitious feeling of dread, as they sat looking at each other in surprise.

“Come, 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 twenty or thirty 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 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, and from the blood-bespattered and trampled sward 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 Camanchees 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 travellers 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 Camanchees, who had observed the trio, and 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 travellers now approached.

The Indians adopted this course instead of the easier method of simply pursuing so weak a 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 détour thus taken was so extensive that the shades of evening were beginning to descend before they could put their plan into execution. The forest 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 o’ game here,” said Dick Varley, pointing to a herd of buffaloes which rose at their approach, and fled away towards the wood.

“I think we’ll ha’ thunder soon,” remarked Joe. “I never feel it onnatteral hot like this without looking out for a plump.”

“Hah! den ve better look hout for one goot tree to get b’low,” suggested Henri. “Voilà!” he added, pointing with his finger towards the plain; “dere am a lot of wild hosses.”

A troop of about thirty wild horses appeared, as he spoke, on the brow of a ridge, and advanced slowly towards them.

“Hist!” exclaimed Joe, reining up; “hold on, lads. Wild horses! my rifle to a pop-gun there’s wilder men on t’other side o’ them.”

“What mean you, Joe?” inquired Dick, riding close up.

“D’ye see the little lumps on the shoulder o’ each horse?” said Joe. “Them’s Injun’s feet; an’ if we don’t want to lose our scalps we’d better make for the forest.”

Joe proved himself to be in 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 Camanchee 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 accomplish this feat is very singular, and implies great activity and strength of muscle on the part of the savages.

The Camanchees 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 surprise 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 horses’ backs, or even under their necks.

This apparently magical feat is accomplished by means of a halter of horsehair, 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 hunters’ 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 arrow range, but reserved his shaft until they were close on the margin of the wood, when, being almost alongside of Henri, he fitted an arrow to his bow. Henri’s eye was upon him, however; letting go the line of the pack-horse which he was leading, he threw forward his rifle, but at the same moment the savage disappeared behind his horse, and an arrow whizzed past the hunter’s ear.

Henri fired at the horse, which dropped instantly, hurling the astonished Camanchee upon 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 the 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 led horses gave them so much trouble, and retarded their flight so much, that the Indians were gradually and visibly gaining on them.

“We’ll ha’ to let the packs go,” said Joe, somewhat bitterly, as he looked over his shoulder. “Our scalps ’ll pay for’t if we don’t.”

Henri uttered a peculiar and significant hiss between his teeth, as he said, “P’raps ve better 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 the 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 rein 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 overspreading the sky to the southward. The air was oppressively still and hot.

“What can’t be?” inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed with concern, at the southern sky.

“Dunno, boy. I’ve bin more in the woods than in the clearin’ in my day, but I niver heerd the likes o’ that.”

“It am like t’ondre,” said Henri; “mais it nevair 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 scythe. 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 battle-field.

“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 round the world; and, although the edge of devastation was not five hundred 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 the Camanchee 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 travelled onward in its might, and was lost in distance. Whence it came and whither 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 levelled everything with the dust; the very grass was beaten flat, the trees were torn, shivered, snapped across, and crushed; and the earth itself in many places was ploughed 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 awe-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 towards the Mustang Valley.

Chapter Twenty Six.
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 ye say, my boy, that they were all killed?” inquired Mrs Varley, awaking from her reverie with a deep sigh.

“Every one,” replied Marston. “Jim Scraggs, who brought the news, said they wos all lyin’ dead with their scalps off. They wos a party o’ 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 a 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 fain leave unsaid, Mrs Varley continued:—

“Was it far off where the bloody deed was done?”

“Yes; three weeks off, I believe. And Jim Scraggs said that he found a knife that looked like the one wot belonged to—to—” the lad hesitated.

“To whom, my boy? Why don’t ye go on?”

“To your son Dick.”

The widow’s hands dropped by her side, and she would have fallen had not Marston caught her.

“O 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 laboured with anxious dread.

“Tell me all,” she said at last, recovering a little. “Did Jim see—Dick?”

“No,” answered the boy. “He looked at all the bodies, but did not find his; so he sent me over here to tell ye that p’raps he’s escaped.”

Mrs Varley breathed more freely, and earnestly thanked God; but her fears soon returned when she thought of his being a prisoner, and recalled the tales of terrible cruelty often related of the savages.

While she was still engaged in closely questioning the lad, Jim Scraggs himself entered the cottage, and endeavoured in a gruff sort of way to re-assure the widow.

“Ye see, mistress,” he said, “Dick is a oncommon tough customer, an’ if he could only git fifty yards start, there’s not a Injun in the west as could git hold o’ him agin; so don’t be takin’ on.”

“But what if he’s bin taken prisoner?” said the widow.

“Ay, that’s jest wot I’ve comed about. Ye see it’s not onlikely he’s bin took; so about thirty o’ the lads o’ the valley are ready jest now to start away and give the red riptiles chase, an’ I come to tell ye; so keep up heart, 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 block-house. Here thirty of the young hunters of the Mustang Valley were assembled, actively engaged in supplying themselves with powder and lead, and tightening their girths, 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, and to the deep threats of vengeance that were uttered ever and anon 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.

Backwoodsmen’s preparations are usually of the shortest and simplest. In a few minutes the cavalcade 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 towards 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.

“Hist!—hallo!—hold on, ye cat-a-mounts! There’s Injuns 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 this 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 sees pack-horses among them,” cried young Marston in an excited tone; “an’ there’s three riders; but there’s somethin’ else, only wot it be I can’t tell.”

“Ye’ve sharp eyes, younker,” remarked one of the men, “an’ I do b’lieve yer 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 cavalcade 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 somethin’ 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. “Crusoe!” he shouted, while at the same moment he brought his whip heavily down on the flank 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 voluminous mane of his magnificent horse.

“Hah! ho!” gasped Marston in a low tone to himself, as he flew along. “Crusoe! I’d know ye, dog, among a thousand! A buffalo calf! Ha! git on with ye!”

This last part of the remark was addressed to his horse, and was followed by a whack that increased the pace considerably.

The space between two such riders was soon devoured.

“Hallo! Dick,—Dick Varley!”

“Eh! why, Marston, my boy!”

The friends reined up so suddenly, that one might have fancied they had met like the knights of old in the shock of mortal conflict.

“Is’t yerself, 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 ye go, Dick! I’ll take ye to yer 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 ye 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 Crusoe; 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 glad as his own. Another mother of the Mustang Valley was rejoicing over a long-lost son.

Crusoe and his mother Fan were scampering round each other in a manner that evinced powerfully the strength of their mutual affection.

Talk of holding converse! Every hair 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 inmost 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 Fan’s, 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 in 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—exceeding 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 in his elephantine gambols, he gave him a passing touch with his nose, which always knocked him head over heels; whereat 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, ye small bundle o’ hair?”

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 its 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—I only want to sit near Crusoe, please, but if you wish it I’ll go away, sad and lonely, with my tail very much between my legs—indeed I will, only say the word, but—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 cannon ball 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 round 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.