The Dog Crusoe and his Master

by R. M. Ballantyne

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.

“Good dog; thank’ee, my pup,” said Dick, patting Crusoe’s head as he stooped to brush the dust from his leggings; “I don’t know what would ha’ become o’ me but for your help, Crusoe.”

Crusoe turned his head a little to one side, wagged his tail, and looked at Dick with an expression that said quite plainly, “I’d die for you, I would—not once, or twice, but ten times, fifty times if need be—and that not merely to save your life, but even to please you.”

There is no doubt whatever that Crusoe felt something of this sort. The love of a Newfoundland dog to its master is beyond calculation or expression. He who once gains such love carries the dog’s life in his hand. But let him who reads note well, and remember, that there is only one coin that can purchase such love, and that is kindness; the coin, too, must be genuine. Kindness merely expressed will not do, it must be felt.

“Hallo! boy, ye’ve bin i’ the wars!” exclaimed Joe, raising himself from his task as Dick and Crusoe returned.

“You look more like it than I do,” retorted Dick, laughing.

This was true, for cutting up a buffalo carcase with no other instrument than a large knife is no easy matter. Yet western hunters and Indians can do it without cleaver or saw, in a way that would surprise a civilised butcher not a little. Joe was covered with blood up to the elbows. His hair, happening to have a knack of getting into his eyes, had been so often brushed off with bloody hands, that his whole visage was speckled with gore, and his dress was by no means immaculate.