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

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 lookin' out
for a plump."

"Ha! den ve better look hout for one goot tree to
get b'low," suggested Henri. "Voil�!" 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 wood 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 the horses' backs, or even under their
necks.

This apparently magical feat is accomplished by
means of a halter of horse-hair, 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'r'aps 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 it be?" inquired Dick, looking at Joe, who
was gazing with an expression of wonder, not unmixed
with concern, at the southern sky.

"Dun'no', 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 the 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 XXVI.


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 lying 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'r'aps 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 reassure the widow.

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

"But what if he's been 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