The Dog Crusoe and his Master by R. M. Ballantyne (small books to read .txt) 📕

There is nothing that prepares one so well for the enjoyment of rest, both mental and physical, as a long-protracted period of excitement and anxiety, followed up by bodily fatigue. Excitement alone banishes rest; but, united with severe physical exertion, it prepares for it. At least, courteous reader, this is our experience, and certainly this was the experience of our three hunters as they lay on their backs beneath the branches of a willow bush, and gazed serenely up at the twinkling stars, two days after their escape from the Indian village.

They spoke little; they were too tired for that; also, they were too comfortable. Their respective suppers of fresh antelope steak, shot that day, had just been disposed of; their feet were directed towards the small fire on which the said steaks had been cooked, and which still threw a warm, ruddy glow over the encampment. Their blankets were wrapped comfortably round them, and tucked in as only hunters and mothers know how to tuck them in. Their respective pipes delivered forth, at stated intervals, three richly yellow puffs of smoke, as if a three-gun battery were playing upon the sky from that particular spot of earth. The horses were picketted and hobbled in a rich grassy bottom close by, from which the quiet munch of their equine jaws sounded pleasantly, for it told of healthy appetites, and promised speed on the morrow. The fear of being overtaken during the night was now past, and the faithful Crusoe, by virtue of sight, hearing, and smell, guaranteed them against sudden attack during the hours of slumber. A perfume of wild flowers mingled with the loved odours of the “weed,” and the tinkle of a tiny rivulet fell sweetly on their ears. In short, the “Pale-faces” were supremely happy, and disposed to be thankful for their recent deliverance and their present comforts.

“I wonder what the stars are,” said Dick, languidly taking the pipe out of his mouth.

“Bits o’ fire,” suggested Joe.

“I tink dey are vorlds,” muttered Henri, “an’ have peepels in dem. I have hear men say dat.”

A long silence followed, during which, no doubt, the star-gazers were working out various theories in their own minds.

“Wonder,” said Dick again, “how far off they be.”

“A mile or two, maybe,” said Joe.

Henri was about to laugh sarcastically at this; but, on further consideration, he thought it would be more comfortable not to, so he lay still. In another minute he said—“Joe Blunt, you is ver’ igrant. Don’t you know dat de books say de stars be hondreds, tousands,—oh! milleryons of mile away to here, and dat de is more bigger dan dis vorld?”

Joe snored lightly, and his pipe fell out of his mouth at this point, so the conversation dropped. Presently Dick asked, in a low tone, “I say, Henri, are ye asleep?”

“Oui,” replied Henri, faintly. “Don’t speak, or you vill vaken me.”

“Ah! Crusoe, you’re not asleep, are you, pup?” No need to ask that question. The instantaneous wag of that speaking fail, and the glance of that wakeful eye, as the dog lifted his head and laid his chin on Dick’s arm, showed that he had been listening to every word that was spoken. We cannot say whether he understood it, but beyond all doubt he heard it. Crusoe never presumed to think of going to sleep until his master was as sound as a top; then he ventured to indulge in that light species of slumber which is familiarly known as “sleeping with one eye open.” But, comparatively, as well as figuratively speaking, Crusoe slept usually with one eye and a-half open, and the other half was never very tightly shut.

Gradually Dick’s pipe fell out of his mouth, an event which the dog, with an exercise of instinct almost, if not quite, amounting to reason, regarded as a signal for him to go off. The campfire went slowly out, the stars twinkled down at their reflections in the brook, and a deep breathing of wearied men was the only sound that rose in harmony with the purling stream.

Before the sun rose next morning, and while many of the brighter stars were still struggling for existence with the approaching day, Joe was up and buckling on the saddle-bags, while he shouted to his unwilling companions to rise.

“If it depended on you,” he said, “the Pawnees wouldn’t be long afore they got our scalps. Jump, ye dogs, an’ lend a hand, will ye!”

A snore from Dick and a deep sigh from Henri was the answer to this pathetic appeal. It so happened, however, that Henri’s pipe, in falling from his lips, had emptied the ashes just under his nose, so that the sigh referred to drew a quantity thereof into his throat, and almost choked him. Nothing could have been a more effective awakener. He was up in a moment coughing vociferously. Most men have a tendency to vent ill-humour on some one, and they generally do it on one whom they deem to be worse than themselves. Henri, therefore, instead of growling at Joe for rousing him, scolded Dick for not rising.

“Ha, mauvais dog! bad chien, vill you dare to look to me?”

Crusoe did look with amiable placidity, as though to say, “Howl away, old boy, I won’t budge till Dick does.”

With a mighty effort Giant Sleep was thrown off at last, and the hunters were once more on their journey, cantering lightly over the soft turf.

“Ho! let’s have a run,” cried Dick, unable to repress the feelings aroused by the exhilarating morning air.

“Have a care, boy,” cried Joe, as they stretched out at full gallop. “Keep off the ridge; it’s riddled wi’ badger—Hah! I thought so.”

At that moment Dick’s horse put its foot into a badger hole, and turned completely over, sending its rider through the air in a curve that an East Indian acrobat would have envied. For a few seconds Dick lay flat on his back; then he jumped up and laughed, while his comrades hurried up anxiously to his assistance.

“No bones broke?” inquired Joe.

Dick gave a hysterical gasp. “I—I think not.”

“Let’s have a look. No, nothin’ to speak o’, be good luck. Ye should niver go slap through a badger country like that, boy; always keep i’ the bottoms, where the grass is short. Now then, up ye go. That’s it!”

Dick remounted, though not with quite so elastic a spring as usual, and they pushed forward at a more reasonable pace.

Accidents of this kind are of common occurrence in the prairies. Some horses, however, are so well trained that they look sharp out for these holes, which are generally found to be most numerous on the high and dry grounds. But in spite of all the caution both of man and horse, many ugly falls take place, and sometimes bones are broken.

They had not gone far after this accident, when an antelope leaped from a clump of willows and made for a belt of woodland that lay along the margin of a stream not half a mile off.

“Hurrah!” cried Dick, forgetting his recent fall. “Come along, Crusoe.” And away they went again full tilt, for the horse had not been injured by its somersault.

The antelope which Dick was thus wildly pursuing was of the same species as the one he had shot some time before, namely, the prong-horned antelope. These graceful creatures have long, slender limbs, delicately formed heads, and large, beautiful eyes. The horns are black, and rather short; they have no branches like the antlers of the red-deer, but have a single projection