CHAPTER IV.
Our hero enlarged upon--Grumps
.
Two years passed away. The Mustang Valley settlement
advanced prosperously, despite one or two
attacks made upon it by the savages, who were, however,
firmly repelled. Dick Varley had now become a man,
and his pup Crusoe had become a full-grown dog. The
"silver rifle," as Dick's weapon had come to be named,
was well known among the hunters and the Redskins of
the border-lands, and in Dick's hands its bullets were as
deadly as its owner's eye was quick and true.
Crusoe's education, too, had been completed. Faithfully
and patiently had his young master trained his
mind, until he fitted him to be a meet companion in the
hunt. To "carry" and "fetch" were now but trifling
portions of the dog's accomplishments. He could dive
a fathom deep in the lake and bring up any article that
might have been dropped or thrown in. His swimming
powers were marvellous, and so powerful were his
muscles that he seemed to spurn the water while passing
through it, with his broad chest high out of the
curling wave, at a speed that neither man nor beast
could keep up with for a moment. His intellect now
was sharp and quick as a needle; he never required a
second bidding. When Dick went out hunting, he
used frequently to drop a mitten or a powder-horn unknown
to the dog, and after walking miles away from
it, would stop short and look down into the mild, gentle
face of his companion.
"Crusoe," he said, in the same quiet tones with
which he would have addressed a human friend, "I've
dropped my mitten; go fetch it, pup." Dick continued
to call it "pup" from habit.
One glance of intelligence passed from Crusoe's eye,
and in a moment he was away at full gallop, nor did
he rest until the lost article was lying at his master's
feet. Dick was loath to try how far back on his track
Crusoe would run if desired. He had often gone back
five and six miles at a stretch; but his powers did not
stop here. He could carry articles back to the spot
from which they had been taken and leave them there.
He could head the game that his master was pursuing
and turn it back; and he would guard any object he
was desired to "watch" with unflinching constancy.
But it would occupy too much space and time to
enumerate all Crusoe's qualities and powers. His
biography will unfold them.
In personal appearance he was majestic, having
grown to an immense size even for a Newfoundland.
Had his visage been at all wolfish in character, his
aspect would have been terrible. But he possessed in
an eminent degree that mild, humble expression of face
peculiar to his race. When roused or excited, and
especially when bounding through the forest with the
chase in view, he was absolutely magnificent. At other
times his gait was slow, and he seemed to prefer a quiet
walk with Dick Varley to anything else under the sun.
But when Dick was inclined to be boisterous, Crusoe's
tail and ears rose at a moment's notice, and he was
ready for anything. Moreover, he obeyed commands
instantly and implicitly. In this respect he put to
shame most of the boys of the settlement, who were by
no means famed for their habits of prompt obedience.
Crusoe's eye was constantly watching the face of his
master. When Dick said "Go" he went, when he said
"Come" he came. If he had been in the midst of an
excited bound at the throat of a stag, and Dick had
called out, "Down, Crusoe," he would have sunk to the
earth like a stone. No doubt it took many months of
training to bring the dog to this state of perfection,
but Dick accomplished it by patience, perseverance, and
love
.
Besides all this, Crusoe could speak! He spoke by
means of the dog's dumb alphabet in a way that defies
description. He conversed, so to speak, with his extremities--his head
and
his tail. But his eyes, his soft
brown eyes, were the chief medium of communication.
If ever the language of the eyes was carried to perfection,
it was exhibited in the person of Crusoe. But,
indeed, it would be difficult to say which part of his expressive
face expressed most--the cocked ears of expectation,
the drooped ears of sorrow; the bright, full eye
of joy, the half-closed eye of contentment, and the
frowning eye of indignation accompanied with a slight,
a very slight pucker of the nose and a gleam of dazzling
ivory--ha! no enemy ever saw this last piece of
canine language without a full appreciation of what it
meant. Then as to the tail--the modulations of meaning
in the varied wag of that expressive member--oh!
it's useless to attempt description. Mortal man cannot
conceive of the delicate shades of sentiment expressible
by a dog's tail, unless he has studied the subject--the
wag, the waggle, the cock, the droop, the slope, the
wriggle! Away with description--it is impotent and
valueless here!
As we have said, Crusoe was meek and mild. He
had been bitten, on the sly, by half the ill-natured curs
in the settlement, and had only shown his teeth in return.
He had no enmities--though several enemies--and
he had a thousand friends, particularly among the
ranks of the weak and the persecuted, whom he always
protected and avenged when opportunity offered. A
single instance of this kind will serve to show his character.
One day Dick and Crusoe were sitting on a rock beside
the lake--the same identical rock near which, when
a pup, the latter had received his first lesson. They
were conversing as usual, for Dick had elicited such a
fund of intelligence from the dog's mind, and had injected
such wealth of wisdom into it, that he felt convinced
it understood every word he said.
"This is capital weather, Crusoe; ain't it, pup?"
Crusoe made a motion with his head which was
quite as significant as a nod.
"Ha! my pup, I wish that you and I might go and
have a slap at the grizzly bars, and a look at the Rocky
Mountains. Wouldn't it be nuts, pup?"
Crusoe looked dubious.
"What, you don't agree with me! Now tell me,
pup, wouldn't ye like to grip a bar?"
Still Crusoe looked dubious, but made a gentle motion
with his tail, as though he would have said, "I've seen
neither Rocky Mountains nor grizzly bars, and know
nothin' about 'em, but I'm open to conviction."
"You're a brave pup," rejoined Dick, stroking the
dog's huge head affectionately. "I wouldn't give you
for ten times your weight in golden dollars--if there
be sich things."
Crusoe made no reply whatever to this. He regarded
it as a truism unworthy of notice; he evidently felt that
a comparison between love and dollars was preposterous.
At this point in the conversation a little dog with a
lame leg hobbled to the edge of the rocks in front of
the spot where Dick was seated, and looked down into
the water, which was deep there. Whether it did so
for the purpose of admiring its very plain visage in the
liquid mirror, or finding out what was going on among
the fish, we cannot say, as it never told us; but at that
moment a big, clumsy, savage-looking dog rushed out
from the neighbouring thicket and began to worry it.
"Punish him, Crusoe," said Dick quickly.
Crusoe made one bound that a lion might have been
proud of, and seizing the aggressor by the back, lifted
him off his legs and held him, howling, in the air--at
the same time casting a look towards his master for
further instructions.
"Pitch him in," said Dick, making a sign with his
hand.
Crusoe turned and quietly dropped the dog into the
lake. Having regarded his struggles there for a few
moments with grave severity of countenance, he walked
slowly back and sat down beside his master.
The little dog made good its retreat as fast as three
legs would carry it; and the surly dog, having swum
ashore, retired sulkily, with his tail very much between
his legs.
Little wonder, then, that Crusoe was beloved by
great and small among the well-disposed of the canine
tribe of the Mustang Valley.
But Crusoe was not a mere machine. When not
actively engaged in Dick Varley's service, he busied
himself with private little matters of his own. He
undertook modest little excursions into the woods or
along the margin of the lake, sometimes alone, but
more frequently with a little friend whose whole heart
and being seemed to be swallowed up in admiration of
his big companion. Whether Crusoe botanized or
geologized on these excursions we will not venture to
say. Assuredly he seemed as though he did both, for
he poked his nose into every bush and tuft of moss,
and turned over the stones, and dug holes in the ground--and,
in short, if he did not understand these sciences,
he behaved very much as if he did. Certainly he
knew as much about them as many of the human
species do.
In these walks he never took the slightest notice of
Grumps (that was the little dog's name), but Grumps
made up for this by taking excessive notice of him.
When Crusoe stopped, Grumps stopped and sat down
to look at him. When Crusoe trotted on, Grumps
trotted on too. When Crusoe examined a bush, Grumps
sat down to watch him; and when he dug a hole,
Grumps looked into it to see what was there. Grumps
never helped him; his sole delight was in looking on.
They didn't converse much, these two dogs. To be in
each other's company seemed to be happiness enough--at
least Grumps thought so.
There was one point at which Grumps stopped short,
however, and ceased to follow his friend, and that was
when he rushed headlong into the lake and disported
himself for an hour at a time in its cool waters. Crusoe
was, both by nature and training, a splendid water-dog.
Grumps, on the contrary, held water in abhorrence; so
he sat on the shore of the lake disconsolate when his
friend was bathing, and waited till he came out. The
only time when Grumps was thoroughly nonplussed
was when Dick Varley's whistle sounded faintly in the
far distance. Then Crusoe would prick up his ears
and stretch out at full gallop, clearing ditch, and fence,
and brake with his strong elastic bound, and leaving
Grumps to patter after him as fast as his four-inch
legs would carry him. Poor Grumps usually arrived at
the village to find both dog and master gone, and would
betake himself to his own dwelling, there to lie down
and sleep, and dream, perchance, of rambles and gambols
with his gigantic friend.