The backwoods settlement--Crusoe's parentage, and earlyhistory--The agonizing pains and sorrows of his puppyhood,and other interesting matters. The dog Crusoe was once a pup. Now do not,courteous reader, toss your head contemptuously,and exclaim, "Of course he was; I could have told youthat." You know very well that you have often seen aman above six feet high, broad and powerful as a lion,with a bronzed shaggy visage and the stern glance of aneagle, of whom you have said, or thought, or heard otherssay, "It is scarcely possible to believe that such a manwas once a squalling baby." If you had seen our heroin all the strength and majesty of full-grown doghood,you would have experienced a vague sort of surprisehad we told you--as we now repeat--that the dogCrusoe was once a pup--a soft, round, sprawling,squeaking pup, as fat as a tallow candle, and as blindas a bat.
But we draw particular attention to the fact ofCrusoe's having once been a pup, because in connectionwith the days of his puppyhood there hangs a tale.
This peculiar dog may thus be said to have had twotails--one in connection with his body, the other withhis career. This tale, though short, is very harrowing,and as it is intimately connected with Crusoe's subsequenthistory we will relate it here. But before doingso we must beg our reader to accompany us beyond thecivilized portions of the United States of America--beyondthe frontier settlements of the "far west," intothose wild prairies which are watered by the greatMissouri River--the Father of Waters--and his numeroustributaries.
Here dwell the Pawnees, the Sioux, the Delawarers,the Crows, the Blackfeet, and many other tribes of RedIndians, who are gradually retreating step by step towardsthe Rocky Mountains as the advancing whiteman cuts down their trees and ploughs up their prairies.
Here, too, dwell the wild horse and the wild ass, thedeer, the buffalo, and the badger; all, men and brutesalike, wild as the power of untamed and ungovernablepassion can make them, and free as the wind thatsweeps over their mighty plains.
There is a romantic and exquisitely beautiful spot onthe banks of one of the tributaries above referredto--long stretch of mingled woodland and meadow, witha magnificent lake lying like a gem in its green bosom--whichgoes by the name of the Mustang Valley.
This remote vale, even at the present day, is but thinlypeopled by white men, and is still a frontier settlementround which the wolf and the bear prowl curiously,and from which the startled deer bounds terrified away.
At the period of which we write the valley had justbeen taken possession of by several families of squatters,who, tired of the turmoil and the squabbles of the thenfrontier settlements, had pushed boldly into the farwest to seek a new home for themselves, where theycould have "elbow room," regardless alike of thedangers they might encounter in unknown lands and ofthe Redskins who dwelt there.
The squatters were well armed with axes, rifles, andammunition. Most of the women were used to dangersand alarms, and placed implicit reliance in the powerof their fathers, husbands, and brothers to protect them;and well they might, for a bolder set of stalwart menthan these backwoodsmen never trod the wilderness.
Each had been trained to the use of the rifle and theaxe from infancy, and many of them had spent so muchof their lives in the woods that they were more than amatch for the Indian in his own peculiar pursuits ofhunting and war. When the squatters first issued fromthe woods bordering the valley, an immense herd ofwild horses or mustangs were browsing on the plain.
These no sooner beheld the cavalcade of white menthan, uttering a wild neigh, they tossed their flowingmanes in the breeze and dashed away like a whirlwind.
This incident procured the valley its name.
The new-comers gave one satisfied glance at theirfuture home, and then set to work to erect log hutsforthwith. Soon the axe was heard ringing throughthe forests, and tree after tree fell to the ground, whilethe occasional sharp ring of a rifle told that the hunterswere catering successfully for the camp. In course oftime the Mustang Valley began to assume the aspect ofa thriving settlement, with cottages and waving fieldsclustered together in the midst of it.
Of course the savages soon found it out and paid itoccasional visits. These dark-skinned tenants of thewoods brought furs of wild animals with them, whichthey exchanged with the white men for knives, andbeads, and baubles and trinkets of brass and tin. Butthey hated the "Pale-faces" with bitter hatred, becausetheir encroachments had at this time materially curtailedthe extent of their hunting-grounds, and nothingbut the numbers and known courage of the squattersprevented these savages from butchering and scalpingthem all.
The leader of this band of pioneers was a MajorHope, a gentleman whose love for nature in its wildestaspects determined him to exchange barrack life for alife in the woods. The major was a first-rate shot, abold, fearless man, and an enthusiastic naturalist. Hewas past the prime of life, and being a bachelor, wasunencumbered with a family. His first act on reachingthe site of the new settlement was to commence theerection of a block-house, to which the people mightretire in case of a general attack by the Indians.
In this block-house Major Hope took up his abodeas the guardian of the settlement. And here the dogCrusoe was born; here he sprawled in the early mornof life; here he leaped, and yelped, and wagged hisshaggy tail in the excessive glee of puppyhood; andfrom the wooden portals of this block-house he boundedforth to the chase in all the fire, and strength, andmajesty of full-grown doghood.
Crusoe's father and mother were magnificent Newfoundlanders.
There was no doubt as to their being ofthe genuine breed, for Major Hope had received themas a parting gift from a brother officer, who had broughtthem both from Newfoundland itself. The father'sname was Crusoe, the mother's name was Fan. Whythe father had been so called no one could tell. Theman from whom Major Hope's friend had obtained thepair was a poor, illiterate fisherman, who had neverheard of the celebrated "Robinson" in all his life. Allhe knew was that Fan had been named after his ownwife. As for Crusoe, he had got him from a friend,who had got him from another friend, whose cousin hadreceived him as a marriage-gift from a friend of his;and that each had said to the other that the dog's namewas "Crusoe," without reasons being asked or given oneither side. On arriving at New York the major'sfriend, as we have said, made him a present of the dogs.
Not being much of a dog fancier, he soon tired of oldCrusoe, and gave him away to a gentleman, who tookhim down to Florida, and that was the end of him. Hewas never heard of more.
When Crusoe, junior, was born, he was born, ofcourse, without a name. That was given to him afterwardsin honour of his father. He was also born incompany with a brother and two sisters, all of whomdrowned themselves accidentally, in the first month oftheir existence, by falling into the river which flowedpast the block-house--a calamity which occurred,doubtless, in consequence of their having gone out withouttheir mother's leave. Little Crusoe was with hisbrother and sisters at the time, and fell in along withthem, but was saved from sharing their fate by hismother, who, seeing what had happened, dashed withan agonized howl into the water, and, seizing him inher mouth, brought him ashore in a half-drowned condition.
She afterwards brought the others ashore oneby one, but the poor little things were dead.
And now we come to the harrowing part of our tale,for the proper understanding of which the foregoingdissertation was needful.
One beautiful afternoon, in that charming season ofthe American year called the Indian summer, therecame a family of Sioux Indians to the Mustang Valley,and pitched their tent close to the block-house. Ayoung hunter stood leaning against the gate-post of thepalisades, watching the movements of the Indians, who,having just finished a long "palaver" or talk withMajor Hope, were now in the act of preparing supper.
A fire had been kindled on the greensward in front ofthe tent, and above it stood a tripod, from which dependeda large tin camp-kettle. Over this hung an ill-favouredIndian woman, or squaw, who, besides attendingto the contents of the pot, bestowed sundry cuffs andkicks upon her little child, which sat near to her playingwith several Indian curs that gambolled round the fire.
The master of the family and his two sons reclined onbuffalo robes, smoking their stone pipes or calumets insilence. There was nothing peculiar in their appearance.
Their faces were neither dignified nor coarse inexpression, but wore an aspect of stupid apathy, whichformed a striking contrast to the countenance of theyoung hunter, who seemed an amused spectator of theirproceedings.
The youth referred to was very unlike, in manyrespects, to what we are accustomed to suppose a backwoodshunter should be. He did not possess that quietgravity and staid demeanour which often characterizethese men. True, he was tall and strongly made, butno one would have called him stalwart, and his frameindicated grace and agility rather than strength. Butthe point about him which rendered him different fromhis companions was his bounding, irrepressible flow ofspirits, strangely coupled with an intense love of solitarywandering in the woods. None seemed so well fittedfor social enjoyment as he; none laughed so heartily, orexpressed such glee in his mischief-loving eye; yet fordays together he went off alone into the forest, andwandered where his fancy led him, as grave and silentas an Indian warrior.
After all, there was nothing mysterious in this. Theboy followed implicitly the dictates of nature withinhim. He was amiable, straightforward, sanguine, andintensely earnest. When he laughed, he let it out, assailors have it, "with a will." When there was goodcause to be grave, no power on earth could make himsmile. We have called him boy, but in truth he wasabout that uncertain period of life when a youth is saidto be neither a man nor a boy. His face was good-looking(every earnest, candid face is) and masculine;his hair was reddish-brown and his eye bright-blue.
He was costumed in the deerskin cap, leggings, moccasins,and leathern shirt common to the western hunter.
"You seem tickled wi' the Injuns, Dick Varley,"said a man who at that moment issued from the blockhouse.
"That's just what I am, Joe Blunt," replied theyouth, turning with a broad grin to his companion.
"Have a care, lad; do not laugh at 'em too much.
They soon take offence; an' them Redskins never forgive.""But I'm only laughing at the baby," returned theyouth, pointing to the child, which, with a mixture ofboldness and timidity, was playing with a pup, wrinklingup its fat visage into a smile when its playmaterushed away in sport, and opening wide its jet-blackeyes in grave anxiety as the pup returned at full gallop.
"It 'ud make an owl laugh," continued young Varley,"to see such a queer pictur' o' itself."He paused suddenly, and a dark frown covered hisface as he saw the Indian woman stoop quickly down,catch the pup by its hind-leg with one hand, seize aheavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it severalviolent blows on the throat. Without taking thetrouble to kill the poor animal outright, the savage thenheld its still writhing body over the fire in order tosinge off the hair before putting it into the pot to becooked.
The cruel act drew young Varley's attention moreclosely to the pup, and it flashed across his mind thatthis could be no other than young Crusoe, which neitherhe nor his companion had before seen, although they hadoften heard others speak of and describe it.
Had the little creature been one of the unfortunateIndian curs, the two hunters would probably haveturned from the sickening sight with disgust, feelingthat, however much they might dislike such cruelty,it would be of no use attempting to interfere withIndian usages. But the instant the idea that it wasCrusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger,and sprang towards the woman with a bound thatcaused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasptheir tomahawks.
Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forwardhis rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance,that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipeswith an emphatic "Wah!" of disgust at having beenstartled out of their propriety by a trifle; while DickVarley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous andpainful position, scowled angrily in the woman's face,and turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holdingthe pup tenderly in his arms.
Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemnexpression of countenance till he disappeared; then helooked at the ground, and shook his head.
Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoodshunters, both in appearance and in fact--broad, tall,massive, lion-like; gifted with the hunting, stalking,running, and trail-following powers of the savage, andwith a superabundance of the shooting and fightingpowers, the daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon. Hewas grave, too--seldom smiled, and rarely laughed.
His expression almost at all times was a compound ofseriousness and good-humour. With the rifle he wasa good, steady shot, but by no means a "crack"one. His ball never failed to hit, but it often failedto kill.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt againshook his head, and muttered to himself, "The boy'sbold enough, but he's too reckless for a hunter. Therewas no need for that yell, now--none at all."Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw hisrifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, andstrode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction,and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of thebrogue in his tone, which seemed to have been handeddown to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretchedtail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off toa point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks asthe sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to thecare of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him noone can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course ofa few weeks, Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat asever.