The Dog Crusoe and His Master: A Story of Adventure in the Western Prairies by - (read me like a book .txt) 📕

into
a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance
of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in
driving it home. On the present occasion the major
resolved to test their shooting by making the distance
seventy yards.

Some of the older men shook their heads.

"It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to
snuff the nose o' a mosquito."

"Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said
another.

The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed
fellow, with a cross-grained expression of countenance.
He used the long, heavy Kentucky rifle, which, from
the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle.
Jim was no favourite, and had been named
Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance.

In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the
shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of
his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then,
placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the
stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured
out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet.
This was the regular measure among them. Little
time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang"
on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised
to the object, and the instant the sight covered it the
ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was
encircled by bullet holes, scarcely two of which were
more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired
by Joe Blunt--entered the tree close beside it.

"Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would
have carried off the prize."

"So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of
his head. "Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred
yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never could hit the nail.
It's too small to see."

"That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs,
with a sneer, as he stepped forward.

All tongues were now hushed, for the expected
champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the
rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head
on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.

"That wins if there's no better," said the major,
scarce able to conceal his disappointment. "Who comes
next?"

To this question Henri answered by stepping up to
the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary
movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an
intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the
mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter
and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for
a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance,
and looking round at his companions, he
said,--"Ha! mes boys, I can-not behold de nail at all!"

"Can ye 'behold' the tree?" shouted a voice, when
the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat
abated.

"Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see
him, an' a goot small bit of de forest beyond."

"Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the
rifle--leastways ye ought to get the pup."

Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without
taking aim.

The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise,
for the bullet was found close beside the nail.

"It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked
Jim Scraggs.

"Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated
to the rear and wiped out his rifle; "mais I
have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck."

"Bravo, Henri!" said Major Hope as he passed;
"you deserve to win, anyhow. Who's next?"

"Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley?
Come on, youngster, an' take yer shot."

The youth came forward with evident reluctance.
"It's of no manner o' use," he whispered to Joe Blunt
as he passed, "I can't depend on my old gun."

"Never give in," whispered Blunt, encouragingly.

Poor Varley's want of confidence in his rifle was
merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock
missed fire.

"Lend him another gun," cried several voices.

"'Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope," said
Scraggs.

"Well, so it is; try again."

Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that
the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of
the lead sticking to its edge.

Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud
dispute began as to which was the better shot of the
two.

"There are others to shoot yet," cried the major.
"Make way. Look out."

The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not
yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer
the mark.

It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley,
being the two best shots, should try over again, and it
was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt's
rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it
fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat
hastily, and fired.

"Hit again!" shouted those who had run forward to
examine the mark. "Half the bullet cut off by the
nail head!"

Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick's friends
cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave
and silent, for they knew Jim's powers, and felt that he
would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to
the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward
his rifle.

At that moment our friend Crusoe, tired of tormenting
his mother, waddled stupidly and innocently
into the midst of the crowd of men, and in so doing
received Henri's heel and the full weight of his elephantine
body on its fore paw. The horrible and electric
yell that instantly issued from his agonized throat could
only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, "to the
last dyin' screech o' a bustin' steam biler!" We cannot
say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen
had been born and bred in the midst of alarms,
and were so used to them that a "bustin' steam biler"
itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs,
would not have startled them. But the effect, such as
it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim
Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the
nail by a hair's-breadth.

'Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a
kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would
certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that
remarkable dog on the spot; but quick as lightning
Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim's shin
met it with a violence that caused him to howl with
rage and pain.

"Oh! pardon me, broder," cried Henri, shrinking
back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and
glee.

Jim's discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his
valour; he turned away with a coarse expression of
anger and left the ground.

Meanwhile the major handed the silver rifle to young
Varley. "It couldn't have fallen into better hands," he
said. "You'll do it credit, lad, I know that full well;
and let me assure you it will never play you false.
Only keep it clean, don't overcharge it, aim true, and it
will never miss the mark."

While the hunters crowded round Dick to congratulate
him and examine the piece, he stood with a mingled
feeling of bashfulness and delight at his unexpected good
fortune. Recovering himself suddenly, he seized his old
rifle, and dropping quietly to the outskirts of the crowd,
while the men were still busy handling and discussing
the merits of the prize, went up, unobserved, to a boy
of about thirteen years of age, and touched him on the
shoulder.

"Here, Marston, you know I often said ye should
have the old rifle when I was rich enough to get a new
one. Take it now, lad. It's come to ye sooner than
either o' us expected."

"Dick," said the boy, grasping his friend's hand
warmly, "ye're true as heart of oak. It's good of 'ee;
that's a fact."

"Not a bit, boy; it costs me nothin' to give away an
old gun that I've no use for, an's worth little, but it
makes me right glad to have the chance to do it."

Marston had longed for a rifle ever since he could
walk; but his prospects of obtaining one were very poor
indeed at that time, and it is a question whether he did
not at that moment experience as much joy in handling
the old piece as his friend felt in shouldering the prize.

A difficulty now occurred which had not before been
thought of. This was no less than the absolute refusal
of Dick Varley's canine property to follow him. Fan
had no idea of changing masters without her consent
being asked or her inclination being consulted.

"You'll have to tie her up for a while, I fear," said
the major.

"No fear," answered the youth. "Dog natur's like
human natur'!"

Saying this he seized Crusoe by the neck, stuffed
him comfortably into the bosom of his hunting-shirt,
and walked rapidly away with the prize rifle on his
shoulder.

Fan had not bargained for this. She stood irresolute,
gazing now to the right and now to the left, as the
major retired in one direction and Dick with Crusoe in
another. Suddenly Crusoe, who, although comfortable
in body, was ill at ease in spirit, gave utterance to a
melancholy howl. The mother's love instantly prevailed.
For one moment she pricked up her ears at the sound,
and then, lowering them, trotted quietly after her new
master, and followed him to his cottage on the margin
of the lake.



CHAPTER III.


Speculative remarks with which the reader may or may not agree--An
old woman--Hopes and wishes commingled with hard facts--The dog
Crusoe's education begun.

It is pleasant to look upon a serene, quiet, humble
face. On such a face did Richard Varley look
every night when he entered his mother's cottage. Mrs.
Varley was a widow, and she had followed the fortunes
of her brother, Daniel Hood, ever since the death of her
husband. Love for her only brother induced her to
forsake the peaceful village of Maryland and enter upon
the wild life of a backwoods settlement. Dick's mother
was thin, and old, and wrinkled, but her face was
stamped with a species of beauty which never
fades--the beauty of a loving look. Ah! the brow of snow
and the peach-bloom cheek may snare the heart of man
for a time, but the loving look alone can forge that
adamantine chain that time, age, eternity shall never
break.

Mistake us not, reader, and bear with us if we attempt
to analyze this look which characterized Mrs. Varley.
A rare diamond is worth stopping to glance at, even
when one is in a hurry. The brightest jewel in the
human heart is worth a thought or two. By a loving
look we do not mean a look of love bestowed on a
beloved object. That is common enough; and thankful
should we be that it is so common in a world that's
overfull of hatred. Still less do we mean that smile
and look of intense affection with which some people--good
people too--greet friend and foe alike, and by
which effort to work out their beau ideal of the expression
of Christian love they do signally damage their
cause, by saddening the serious and repelling the gay.
Much less do we mean that perpetual smile of good-will
which argues more of personal comfort and self-love
than anything else. No; the loving look we speak of
is as often grave as gay. Its character depends very
much on the face through which it beams. And it
cannot be counterfeited. Its ring defies imitation. Like
the clouded sun of April, it can pierce through tears of
sorrow; like the noontide sun of summer, it can blaze
in warm smiles; like the northern lights of winter, it
can gleam in depths of woe;--but it is always the same,
modified, doubtless, and rendered more or less patent to
others, according to the natural amiability of him or her
who bestows it. No one can put it on; still less can
any one put it off. Its range is universal; it embraces
all mankind, though, of course, it is intensified on a few
favoured objects; its seat is in the depths of a renewed
heart, and its foundation lies in love to God.

Young Varley's mother lived in a cottage which was
of the smallest possible dimensions consistent with comfort.
It was made of logs, as, indeed, were all the other
cottages in the valley. The door was in the centre, and
a passage from it to the back of the dwelling divided it
into two rooms. One of these was sub-divided by a
thin partition, the inner room being Mrs. Varley's bedroom,
the outer Dick's. Daniel Hood's dormitory was
a corner of the kitchen, which apartment served also as
a parlour.

The rooms were lighted by two windows, one on each
side of the door, which gave to the house the appearance
of having a nose and two eyes. Houses of this kind
have literally got a sort of expression on--if we may
use the word--their countenances. Square windows
give the appearance of easy-going placidity; longish
ones, that of surprise. Mrs. Varley's was a