Robert Michael Ballantyne
The Dog Crusoe and his Master
Chapter Six.
The great prairies of the “far west”—A remarkable colony discovered, and a miserable night endured
Of all the hours of the night or day the hour that succeeds the dawn is the purest, the most joyous and the best. At least so think we; and so think hundreds and thousands of the human family; and so thought Dick Varley, as he sprung suddenly into a sitting posture next morning, and threw his arms with an exulting feeling of delight round the neck of Crusoe, who instantly sat up to greet him.
This was an unusual piece of enthusiasm on the part of Dick, but the dog received it with marked satisfaction, rubbed his big hairy cheek against that of his young master, and arose from his sedentary position in order to afford free scope for the use of his tail.
“Ho! Joe Blunt! Henri! Up, boys, up! The sun will have the start o’ us. I’ll catch the nags.”
So saying Dick bounded away into the woods with Crusoe gambolling joyously at his heels. Dick soon caught his own horse and Crusoe caught Joe’s. Then the former mounted and quickly brought in the other two.
Returning to the camp he found everything packed and ready to strap on the back of the pack-horse.
“That’s the way to do it, lad,” cried Joe. “Here Henri, look alive and git yer beast ready. I do believe yer goin’ to take another snooze!”
Henri was indeed, at that moment, indulging in a gigantic stretch and a cavernous yawn, but he finished both hastily, and rushed at his poor horse as if he intended to slay it on the spot. He only threw the saddle on its back, however, and then threw himself on the saddle.
“Now then, all ready?”
“Ay,—oui, yis!”
And away they went at full stretch again on their journey.
Thus day after day they travelled, and night after night they laid them down to sleep under the trees of the forest, until at length they reached the edge of the Great Prairie.
It was a great, a memorable day in the life of Dick Varley, that on which he first beheld the prairie,—the vast boundless prairie. He had heard of it, talked of it, dreamed about it, but he had never,—no, he had never realised it. ’Tis always thus. Our conceptions of things that we have not seen are almost invariably wrong. Dick’s eyes glittered, and his heart swelled, and his cheeks flushed, and his breath came thick and quick.
“There it is,” he gasped, as the great rolling plain broke suddenly on his enraptured gaze; “that’s it—oh!—”
Dick uttered a yell that would have done credit to the fiercest chief of the Pawnees, and, being unable to utter another word, he swung his cap in the air and sprang like an arrow from a bow over the mighty ocean of grass. The sun had just risen to send a flood of golden glory over the scene; the horses were fresh, so the elder hunters, gladdened by the beauty of all around them, and inspired by the irresistible enthusiasm of their young companion, gave the reins to the horses and flew after him. It was a glorious gallop, that first headlong dash over the boundless prairie of the “far west!”
The prairies have often been compared, most justly, to the ocean. There is the same wide circle of space bounded on all sides by the horizon; there is the same swell, or undulation, or succession of long low unbroken waves that marks the ocean when it is calm; they are canopied by the same pure sky, and swept by the same untrammelled breezes. There are islands, too—clumps of trees and willow-bushes,—which rise out of this grassy ocean to break and relieve its uniformity; and these vary in size and numbers as do the isles of ocean—being numerous in some places, while in others they are so scarce that the traveller does not meet one in a long day’s journey. Thousands of beautiful flowers decked the green sward, and numbers of little birds hopped about among them.
“Now, lads,” said Joe Blunt, reining up, “our troubles begin to-day.”
“Our troubles! our joys, you mean!” exclaimed Dick Varley.
“P’raps I don’t mean nothin’ o’ the sort,” retorted Joe. “Man wos never intended to swaller his joys without a strong mixtur’ o’ troubles. I s’pose he couldn’t stand ’em pure. Ye see we’ve got to the prairie now—”
“One blind hoss might see dat!” interrupted Henri.
“An’ we may or may not diskiver buffalo. An’ water’s scarce, too, so we’ll need to look out for it pretty sharp, I guess, else we’ll lose our horses, in which case we may as well give out at once. Besides, there’s rattlesnakes about in sandy places—we’ll ha’ to look out for them; an’ there’s badger holes—we’ll need to look sharp for them lest the horses put their feet in ’em; an’ there’s Injuns, who’ll look out pretty sharp for us if they once get wind that we’re in them parts.”
“Oui, yis, mes boys, and there’s rain, and tunder, and lightin’,” added Henri, pointing to a dark cloud which was seen rising on the horizon ahead of them.
“It’ll be rain,” remarked Joe, “but there’s no thunder in the air jist now; we’ll make for yonder clump o’ bushes and lay by till it’s past.”
Turning a little to the right of the course they had been following, the hunters galloped along one of the hollows between the prairie waves before mentioned, in the direction of a clump of willows. Before reaching it however, they passed over a bleak and barren plain where there was neither flower nor bird. Here they were suddenly arrested by a most extraordinary sight—at least it was so to Dick Varley, who had never seen the like before. This was a colony of what Joe called “prairie-dogs.” On first beholding them Crusoe uttered a sort of half growl, half bark of surprise, cocked his tail and ears, and instantly prepared to charge, but he glanced up at his master first for permission. Observing that his finger and his look commanded “silence” he dropped his tail at once and stepped to the rear. He did not, however, cease to regard the prairie-dogs with intense curiosity.
These remarkable little creatures have been egregiously misnamed by the hunters of the west, for they bear not the slightest resemblance to dogs, either in formation or habits. They are, in fact, the marmot, and in size are little larger than squirrels, which animals they resemble in some degree. They burrow under the light soil and throw it up in mounds like moles.
Thousands of them were running about among their dwellings when Dick first beheld them, but the moment they caught sight of the horsemen rising over the ridge, they set up a tremendous hubbub of consternation; each little beast instantly mounted guard on the top of his house and prepared, as it were, to “receive cavalry.”
The most ludicrous thing about them was, that although the most timid and cowardly creatures in the world, they seemed the most impertinent things that ever lived! Knowing that their holes afforded them a perfectly safe retreat they sat close beside them, and as the hunters slowly approached, they elevated their heads, wagged their little tails, showed their teeth, and chattered at them like monkeys. The nearer they came the more angry and furious did the prairie-dogs become, until Dick Varley almost fell off his horse with suppressed laughter. They let the hunters come close up, waxing louder and louder in their wrath; but the instant a hand was raised to throw a stone or point a gun, a thousand little heads dived into a thousand holes, and a thousand little tails wriggled for an instant in the air—then, a dead silence reigned over the deserted scene.
“Bien, them’s have dive into de bo’-els of de eart’,” said Henri with a broad grin.
Presently a thousand noses appeared, and nervously disappeared like the wink of an eye. Then they appeared again, and a thousand pairs of eyes followed. Instantly, like Jack in the box, they were all on the top of their hillocks again, chattering and wagging their little tails as vigorously as ever. You could not say that you saw them jump out of their holes. Suddenly, as if by magic, they were out; then Dick tossed up his arms, and, suddenly, as if by magic, they were gone!
Their number was incredible, and their cities were full of riotous activity. What their occupations were the hunters could not ascertain, but it was perfectly evident that they visited a great deal and gossiped tremendously, for they ran about from house to house, and sat chatting in groups; but it was also observed that they never went far from their own houses. Each seemed to have a circle of acquaintance in the immediate neighbourhood of his own residence, to which in case of sudden danger he always fled.
But another thing about these prairie-dogs (perhaps, considering their size, we should call them prairie-doggies), another thing about them, we say, was that each doggie lived with an owl, or, more correctly, an owl lived with each doggie! This is such an extraordinary fact, that we could scarce hope that men would believe us, were our statement not supported by dozens of trustworthy travellers who have visited and written about these regions. The whole plain was covered with these owls. Each hole seemed to be the residence of an owl and a doggie, and these incongruous couples lived together apparently in perfect harmony.
We have not been able to ascertain from travellers why the owls have gone to live with these doggies, so we beg humbly to offer our own private opinion to the reader. We assume, then, that owls find it absolutely needful to have holes. Probably prairie-owls cannot dig holes for themselves. Having discovered, however, a race of little creatures that could, they very likely determined to take forcible possession of the holes made by them. Finding, no doubt, that, when they did so, the doggies were too timid to object, and discovering, moreover, that they were sweet, innocent little creatures, the owls resolved to take them into partnership, and so the thing was settled—that’s how it came about, no doubt of it!
There is a report that rattlesnakes live in these holes also; but we cannot certify our reader of the truth of this,—still it is well to be acquainted with a report that is current among the men of the backwoods. If it be true, we are of opinion that the doggie’s family is the most miscellaneous and remarkable on the face of—or, as Henri said, in the bo’-els—of the earth.
Dick and his friends were so deeply absorbed in watching these curious little creatures that they did not observe the rapid spread of the black clouds over the sky. A few heavy drops of rain now warned them to seek shelter, so wheeling round they dashed off at speed for the clump of willows, which they gained just as the rain began to descend in torrents.
“Now, lads, do it slick. Off packs and saddles,” cried Joe Blunt, jumping from his horse. “I’ll make a hut for ye, right off.”
“A hut, Joe! what sort o’ hut can ye make here?” inquired Dick.
“Ye’ll see, boy, in a minute.”
“Ach! lend me hand here, Dick; de bockle am tight as de hosse’s own skin. Ah! dere all right.”
“Hallo! what’s this?” exclaimed Dick, as Crusoe advanced with something in his mouth. “I declare, it’s a bird of some sort.”
“A prairie-hen,” remarked Joe, as Crusoe laid the bird at Dick’s feet; “capital for supper.”
“Ah! dat chien is superb! goot dog. Come here, I vill clap you.”
But Crusoe refused to be caressed. Meanwhile, Joe and Dick formed a sort of beehive-looking hut by bending down the stems of a tall bush and thrusting their points into the ground. Over this they threw the largest buffalo robe, and placed another on the ground below it, on which they laid their packs of goods. These they further secured against wet by placing several robes over them and a skin of parchment. Then they sat down on this pile to rest and consider what should be done next.
“’Tis a bad look out,” said Joe, shaking his head.
“I fear it is,” replied Dick in a melancholy tone.
Henri said nothing, but he sighed deeply on looking up at the sky, which was now of a uniform watery grey, while black clouds drove athwart it. The rain was pouring in torrents, and the wind began to sweep it in broad sheets over the plains, and under their slight covering, so that in a short time they were wet to the skin. The horses stood meekly beside them, with their tails and heads equally pendulous, and Crusoe sat before his master, looking at him with an expression that seemed to say, “Couldn’t you put a stop to this if you were to try?”
“This’ll never do. I’ll try to git up a fire,” said Dick, jumping up in desperation.
“Ye may save yerself the trouble,” remarked Joe, drily—at least as drily as was possible in the circumstances.
However, Dick did try, but he failed signally. Everything was soaked and saturated. There were no large trees; most of the bushes were green, and the dead ones were soaked. The coverings were slobbery; the skins they sat on were slobbery; the earth itself was slobbery; so Dick threw his blanket (which was also slobbery) round his shoulders, and sat down beside his companions to grin and bear it. As for Joe and Henri, they were old hands, and accustomed to such circumstances. From the first they had resigned themselves to their fate, and wrapping their wet blankets round them sat down, side by side, wisely to endure the evils that they could not cure.
There is an old rhyme, by whom composed we know not—and it matters little—which runs thus—
“For every evil under the sun
There is a remedy—or there’s none.
If there is—try and find it;
If there isn’t—never mind it!”
There is deep wisdom here in small compass. The principle involved deserves to be heartily recommended. Dick never heard of the lines, but he knew the principle well; so he began to “never mind it,” by sitting down beside his companions and whistling vociferously. As the wind rendered this a difficult feat he took to singing instead. After that he said, “Let’s eat a bite, Joe, and then go to bed.”
“Be all means,” said Joe, who produced a mass of dried deer’s meat from a wallet.
“It’s cold grub,” said Dick, “and tough.”
But the hunters’ teeth were sharp and strong, so they ate a hearty supper and washed it down with a drink of rain water collected from a pool on the top of their hut. They now tried to sleep, for the night was advancing, and it was so dark that they could scarce see their hands when held up before their faces. They sat back to back, and thus, in the form of a tripod, began to snooze. Joe’s and Henri’s seasoned frames would have remained stiff as posts till morning; but Dick’s body was young and pliant, so he hadn’t been asleep a few seconds when he fell forward into the mud and effectually awakened the others. Joe gave a grunt, and Henri exclaimed, “Hah!” but Dick was too sleepy and miserable to say anything. Crusoe, however, rose up to show his sympathy, and laid his wet head on his master’s knee as he resumed his place. This catastrophe happened three times in the space of an hour, and by the third time they were all wakened up so thoroughly that they gave up the attempt to sleep, and amused each other by recounting their hunting experiences and telling stories. So engrossed did they become that day broke sooner than they had expected—and just in proportion as the grey light of dawn rose higher into the eastern sky did the spirits of these weary men rise within their soaking bodies.
Chapter Seven.
The “wallering” peculiarities of buffalo bulls—The first buffalo hunt and its consequences—Crusoe comes to the rescue—Pawnees discovered—A monster buffalo hunt—Joe acts the part of ambassador
Fortunately the day that succeeded the dreary night described in the last chapter was warm and magnificent. The sun rose in a blaze of splendour and filled the atmosphere with steam from the moist earth.
The unfortunates in the wet camp were not slow to avail themselves of his cheering rays. They hung up everything on the bushes to dry, and by dint of extreme patience and cutting out the comparatively dry hearts of several pieces of wood, they lighted a fire and boiled some rain water, which was soon converted into soup. This, and the exercise necessary for the performance of these several duties, warmed and partially dried them, so that when they once more mounted their steeds and rode away they were in a state of comparative comfort and in excellent spirits. The only annoyance was the clouds of mosquitoes and large flies that assailed men and horses whenever they checked their speed.
“I tell ye wot it is,” said Joe Blunt, one fine morning about a week after they had begun to cross the prairie, “it’s my ’pinion that we’ll come on buffaloes soon. Them tracks are fresh, an’ yonder’s one o’ their wallers that’s bin used not long agone.”
“I’ll go have a look at it,” cried Dick, trotting away as he spoke.
Everything in these vast prairies was new to Dick Varley, and he was kept in a constant state of excitement during the first week or two of his journey. It is true he was quite familiar with the names and habits of all the animals that dwelt there, for many a time and oft had he listened to the “yarns” of the hunters and trappers of the Mustang Valley, when they returned laden with rich furs from their periodical hunting expeditions. But this knowledge of his only served to whet his curiosity and his desire to see the denizens of the prairies with his own eyes, and now that his wish was accomplished, it greatly increased the pleasures of his journey.
Dick had just reached the “wallow” referred to by Joe Blunt, and had reined up his steed to observe it leisurely, when a faint hissing sound reached his ear. Looking quickly back he observed his two companions crouching on the necks of their horses, and slowly descending into a hollow of the prairie in front of them, as if they wished to bring the rising ground between them and some object in advance. Dick instantly followed their example and was soon at their heels.
“Ye needn’t look at the waller,” whispered Joe, “for a’ t’other side o’ the ridge there’s a bull wallerin’.”
“Ye don’t mean it!” exclaimed Dick, as they all dismounted and picketed their horses to the plain.
“Oui,” said Henri, tumbling off his horse, while a broad grin overspread his good-natured countenance; “it is one fact! One buffalo bull be wollerin’ like a enormerous hog. Also, dere be t’ousands o’ buffaloes farder on.”
“Can ye trust yer dog keepin’ back?” inquired Joe, with a dubious glance at Crusoe.
“Trust him! Ay, I wish I was as sure o’ myself.”
“Look to your primin’, then, an’ we’ll have tongues and marrow-bones for supper to-night, I’se warrant. Hist! down on yer knees, and go softly. We might ha’ run them down on horseback, but its bad to wind yer beasts on a trip like this, if ye can help it; an’ it’s about as easy to stalk them. Leastways, we’ll try. Lift yer head slowly, Dick, an’ don’t show more nor the half o’t above the ridge.”
Dick elevated his head as directed, and the scene that met his view was indeed well calculated to send an electric shock to the heart of an ardent sportsman. The vast plain beyond was absolutely blackened with countless herds of buffaloes, which were browsing on the rich grass. They were still so far distant that their bellowing, and the trampling of their myriad hoofs, only reached the hunters like a faint murmur on the breeze. In the immediate foreground, however, there was a group of about half a dozen buffalo cows feeding quietly, and in the midst of them an enormous old bull was enjoying himself in his wallow. The animals, towards which our hunters now crept with murderous intent, are the fiercest and the most ponderous of the ruminating inhabitants of the western wilderness. The name of buffalo, however, is not correct. The animal is the bison, and bears no resemblance whatever to the buffalo proper; but as the hunters of the far west—and, indeed, travellers generally, have adopted the misnomer, we bow to the authority of custom and adopt it too.
Buffaloes roam in countless thousands all over the North American prairies, from the Hudson’s Bay territories, north of Canada, to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.
The advance of white men to the west has driven them to the prairies between the Missouri and the Rocky Mountains, and has somewhat diminished their numbers; but even thus diminished, they are still innumerable in the more distant plains. Their colour is dark brown, but it varies a good deal with the seasons. The hair or fur, from its great length in winter and spring and exposure to the weather, turns quite light; but when the winter coat is shed off the new growth is a beautiful dark brown, almost approaching to jet-black. In form the buffalo somewhat resembles the ox, but its head and shoulders are much larger, and are covered with a profusion of long shaggy hair, which adds greatly to the fierce aspect of the animal. It has a large hump on the shoulder, and its fore-quarters are much larger, in proportion, than the hindquarters. The horns are short and thick; the hoofs are cloven, and the tail is short, with a tuft of hair at the extremity.
It is scarcely possible to conceive a wilder or more ferocious and terrible monster than a buffalo bull. He often grows to the enormous weight of two thousand pounds. His lion-like mane falls in shaggy confusion quite over his head and shoulders, down to the ground. When he is wounded he becomes imbued with the spirit of a tiger; he stamps, bellows, roars, and foams forth his rage with glaring eyes and steaming nostrils; and charges furiously at man and horse with utter recklessness. Fortunately, however, he is not naturally pugnacious, and can be easily thrown into a sudden panic. Moreover, the peculiar position of his eye renders this creature not so terrible as he would otherwise be to the hunter. Owing to the stiff structure of the neck, and the sunken, downward-looking eyeball, the buffalo cannot, without an effort, see beyond the direct line of vision presented to the habitual carriage of his head. When, therefore, he is wounded, and charges, he does so in a straight line, so that his pursuer can leap easily out of his way. The pace of the buffalo is clumsy, and apparently slow, yet, when chased, he dashes away over the plains in blind blundering terror, at a rate that leaves all but good horses far behind. He cannot keep the pace up, however, and is usually soon overtaken. Were the buffalo capable of the same alert and agile motions of head and eye peculiar to the deer or wild horse, in addition to his “bovine rage,” he would be the most formidable brute on earth. There is no object, perhaps, so terrible as the headlong advance of a herd of these animals when thoroughly aroused by terror. They care not for their necks. All danger in front is forgotten, or not seen, in the terror of that from which they fly. No thundering cataract is more tremendously irresistible than the black bellowing torrent which sometimes pours through the narrow defiles of the Rocky Mountains, or sweeps like a roaring flood over the trembling plains.
The wallowing, to which we have referred, is a luxury usually indulged in during the hot months of summer, when the buffaloes are tormented by flies, and heat, and drought. At this season they seek the low grounds in the prairies where there is a little stagnant water lying amongst the grass, and the ground underneath, being saturated, is soft. The leader of the herd, a shaggy old bull, usually takes upon himself to prepare the wallow.
It was a rugged monster of the largest size that did so on the present occasion, to the intense delight of Dick Varley, who begged Joe to lie still and watch the operation before trying to shoot one of the buffalo cows. Joe consented with a nod, and the four spectators—for Crusoe was as much taken up with the proceedings as any of them—crouched in the grass, and looked on.
Coming up to the swampy spot the old bull gave a grunt of satisfaction, and, going down on one knee, plunged his short thick horns into the mud, tore it up, and cast it aside. Having repeated this several times he plunged his head in, and brought it forth saturated with dirty water, and bedaubed with lumps of mud, through which his fierce eyes gazed, with a ludicrous expression of astonishment, straight in the direction of the hunters, as if he meant to say, “I’ve done it that time, and no mistake!” The other buffaloes seemed to think so too, for they came up and looked, on with an expression that seemed to say, “Well done, old fellow; try that again!”
The old fellow did try it again, and again, and again, plunging, and ramming, and tearing up the earth, until he formed an excavation large enough to contain his huge body. In this bath he laid himself comfortably down, and began to roll and wallow about until he mixed up a trough full of thin soft mud, which completely covered him. When he came out of the hole there was scarcely an atom of his former self visible!
The coat of mud thus put on by bulls is usually permitted by them to dry, and is not finally got rid of until long after, when oft-repeated rollings on the grass and washings by rain at length clear it away.
When the old bull vacated this delectable bath, another bull, scarcely, if at all, less ferocious-looking, stepped forward to take his turn, but he was interrupted by a volley from the hunters, which scattered the animals right and left, and sent the mighty herds in the distance flying over the prairie in wild terror. The very turmoil of their own mad flight added to their panic, and the continuous thunder of their hoofs was heard until the last of them disappeared on the horizon. The family party which had been fired at, however, did not escape so well. Joe’s rifle wounded a fat young cow, and Dick Varley brought it down. Henri had done his best, but, as the animals were too far distant for his limited vision, he missed the cow he fired at and hit the young bull whose bath had been interrupted. The others scattered and fled.
“Well done, Dick,” exclaimed Joe Blunt, as they all ran up to the cow that had fallen. “Your first shot at the buffalo was a good ’un. Come now an I’ll show ye how to cut it up an’ carry off the titbits.”
“Ah! mon dear ole bull,” exclaimed Henri, gazing after the animal which he had wounded, and which was now limping slowly away. “You is not worth goin’ after. Varewell,—adieu.”
“He’ll be tough enough, I warrant,” said Joe, “an’ we’ve more meat here nor we can lift.”
“But wouldn’t it be as well to put the poor brute out o’ pain?” suggested Dick.
“Oh, he’ll die soon enough,” replied Joe, tucking up his sleeves and drawing his long hunting-knife.
Dick, however, was not satisfied with this way of looking at it. Saying that he would be back in a few minutes he re-loaded his rifle, and calling Crusoe to his side, walked quickly after the wounded bull, which was now hid from view in a hollow of the plain.
In a few minutes he came in sight of it, and ran forward with his rifle in readiness.
“Down, Crusoe,” he whispered; “wait for me here.”
Crusoe crouched in the grass instantly, and Dick advanced. As he came on, the bull observed him, and turned round bellowing with rage and pain to receive him. The aspect of the brute on a near view was so terrible, that Dick involuntarily stopped too, and gazed with a mingled feeling of wonder and awe, while it bristled with passion, and blood-streaked foam dropped from its open jaws, and its eyes glared furiously. Seeing that Dick did not advance, the bull charged him with a terrific roar; but the youth had firm nerves, and although the rush of such a savage creature at full speed was calculated to try the courage of any man, especially one who had never seen a buffalo bull before, Dick did not lose presence of mind. He remembered the many stories he had listened to of this very thing that was now happening, so, crushing down his excitement as well as he could, he cocked his rifle and awaited the charge. He knew that it was of no use to fire at the head of the advancing foe, as the thickness of the skull, together with the matted hair on the forehead, rendered it impervious to a bullet.
When the bull was within a yard of him he leaped lightly to one side and it passed. Just as it did so, Dick aimed at its heart and fired, but his knowledge of the creature’s anatomy was not yet correct. The ball entered the shoulder too high, and the bull, checking himself as well as he could in his headlong rush, turned round and made at Dick again.
The failure coupled with the excitement proved too much for Dick; he could not resist discharging his second barrel at the brute’s head as it came on. He might as well have fired at a brick wall; it shook its shaggy front, and with a hideous bellow thundered forward. Again Dick sprang to one side, but in doing so a tuft of grass or a stone caught his foot, and he fell heavily to the ground.
Up to this point Crusoe’s admirable training had nailed him to the spot where he had been left, although the twitching of every fibre in his body and a low continuous whine showed how gladly he would have hailed permission to join in the combat; but the instant he saw his master down and the buffalo turning to charge again, he sprang forward with a roar that would have done credit to his bovine enemy, and seized him by the nose. So vigorous was the rush that he well-nigh pulled the bull down on its side. One toss of its head, however, sent Crusoe high into the air, but it accomplished this feat at the expense of its nose, which was torn and lacerated by the dog’s teeth.
Scarcely had Crusoe touched the ground, which he did with a sounding thump, than he sprang up and flew at his adversary again. This time, however, he adopted the plan of barking furiously and biting by rapid yet terrible snaps as he found opportunity, thus keeping the bull entirely engrossed, and affording Dick an opportunity of re-loading his rifle, which he was not slow to do. Dick then stepped close up, and, while the two combatants were roaring in each other’s face; he shot the buffalo through the heart. It fell to the earth with a deep groan.
Crusoe’s rage instantly vanished on beholding this, and he seemed to be filled with tumultuous joy at his master’s escape, for he gambolled round him, and whined and fawned upon him in a manner that could not be misunderstood.
