Indian dandy—A foot-race.
The Pawnee village, at which they soon arrived, was situated in the midst of a most interesting and picturesque scene.
It occupied an extensive plain which sloped gently down to a creek, (In America small rivers or riverlets are termed “creeks”) whose winding course was marked by a broken line of wood, here and there interspersed with a fine clump of trees, between the trunks of which the blue waters of the lake sparkled in the distance. Hundreds of tents or “lodges” of buffalo skins covered the ground, and thousand of Indians—men, women, and children—moved about the busy scene. Some were sitting in their lodges, lazily smoking their pipes. But these were chiefly old and infirm veterans, for all the young men had gone to the hunt which we have just described. The women were stooping over their fires, busily preparing maize and meat for their husbands and brothers, while myriads of little brown and naked children romped about everywhere, filling the air with their yells and screams, which were only equalled, if not surpassed, by the yelping dogs that seemed innumerable.
Far as the eye could reach were seen scattered herds of horses. These were tended by little boys who were totally destitute of clothing, and who seemed to enjoy with infinite zest the pastime of shooting-practice with little bows and arrows. No wonder that these Indians become expert bowmen. There were urchins there, scarce two feet high, with round bullets of bodies and short spindle-shanks, who could knock blackbirds off the trees at every shot, and cut the heads of the taller flowers with perfect certainty! There was much need, too, for the utmost proficiency they could attain, for the very existence of the Indian tribes of the prairies depends on their success in hunting the buffalo.
There are hundreds and thousands of North American savages who would undoubtedly perish and their tribes become extinct if the buffaloes were to leave the prairies or die out. Yet, although animals are absolutely essential to their existence, they pursue and slay them with improvident recklessness, sometimes killing hundreds of them merely for the sake of the sport, the tongues, and the marrow-bones. In the bloody hunt described in the last chapter, however, the slaughter of so many was not wanton, because the village that had to be supplied with food was large, and, just previous to the hunt, they had been living on somewhat reduced allowance. Even the blackbirds, shot by the brown-bodied urchins before mentioned, had been thankfully put into the pot. Thus precarious is the supply of food among the Red-men, who on one day are starving, and the next are revelling in superabundance.
But to return to our story. At one end of this village the creek sprang over a ledge of rock in a low cascade and opened out into a beautiful lake, the bosom of which was studded with small islands. Here were thousands of those smaller species of wild water-fowl which were either too brave or too foolish to be scared away by the noise of the camp. And here, too, dozens of children were sporting on the beach or paddling about in their light bark canoes.
“Isn’t it strange,” remarked Dick to Henri, as they passed among the tents towards the centre of the village, “isn’t it strange that them Injuns should be so fond o’ fightin’ when they’ve got all they can want—a fine country, lots o’ buffalo, an’ as far as I can see, happy homes?”
“Oui, it is remarkaibel, vraiment. But dey do more love war to peace. Dey loves to be excited, I s’pose.”
“Humph! One would think the hunt we seed a little agone would be excitement enough. But, I say, that must be the chief’s tent, by the look o’t.”
Dick was right; the horsemen pulled up and dismounted opposite the principal chief’s tent, which was a larger and more elegant structure than the others. Meanwhile an immense concourse of women, children, and dogs gathered round the strangers, and, while the latter yelped their dislike to white men, the former chattered continuously, as they discussed the appearance of the strangers and their errand, which latter soon became known. An end was put to this by San-it-sa-rish desiring the hunters to enter the tent, and spreading a buffalo robe for them to sit on. Two braves carried in their packs and then led away their horses.
All this time Crusoe had kept as close as possible to his master’s side, feeling extremely uncomfortable in the midst of such a strange crowd, the more especially that the ill-looking Indian curs gave him expressive looks of hatred, and exhibited some desire to rush upon him in a body, so that he had to keep a sharp look out all round him. When, therefore, Dick entered the tent Crusoe endeavoured to do so along with him, but he was met by a blow on the nose from an old squaw, who scolded him in a shrill voice and bade him begone.
Either our hero’s knowledge of the Indian language was insufficient to enable him to understand the order, or he had resolved not to obey it, for instead of retreating he drew a deep gurgling breath, curled his nose, and displayed a row of teeth that caused the old woman to draw back in alarm. Crusoe’s was a forgiving spirit. The instant that opposition ceased he forgot the injury, and was meekly advancing when Dick held up his finger.
“Go outside, pup, and wait.”
Crusoe’s tail drooped; with a deep sigh he turned and left the tent. He took up a position near the entrance, however, and sat down resignedly. So meek, indeed, did the poor dog look, that six mangy-looking curs felt their dastardly hearts emboldened to make a rush at him with boisterous yells.
Crusoe did not rise. He did not even condescend to turn his head toward them, but he looked at them out of the corner of his dark eye, wrinkled—very slightly—the skin of his nose, exhibited two beautiful fangs, and gave utterance to a soft remark, that might be described as quiet, deep-toned gargling. It wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for the valiant six, who paused and snarled violently.
It was a peculiar trait of Crusoe’s gentle nature, that, the moment any danger ceased, he resumed his expression of nonchalant gravity. The expression on this occasion was misunderstood, however, and, as about two dozen additional yelping dogs had joined the ranks of the enemy, they advanced in close order to the attack.
Crusoe still sat quiet and kept his head high, but he looked at them again and exhibited four fangs for their inspection. Among the pack there was one Indian dog of large size—almost as large as Crusoe himself—which kept well in the rear, and apparently urged the lesser dogs on. The little dogs didn’t object, for little dogs are generally the most pugnacious. At this big dog Crusoe directed a pointed glance, but said nothing. Meanwhile a particularly small and vicious cur, with a mere rag of a tail, crept round by the back of the tent, and, coming upon Crusoe in the rear, snapped at his tail sharply, and then fled shrieking with terror and surprise, no doubt, at its own temerity.
Crusoe did not bark; he seldom barked; he usually either said nothing, or gave utterance to a prolonged roar of indignation of the most terrible character with barks, as it were, mingled through it. It somewhat resembled that peculiar and well-known species of thunder, the prolonged roll of which is marked at short intervals in its course by cannon-like cracks. It was a continuous, but, so to speak, knotted roar.
On receiving the snap, Crusoe gave forth the roar with a majesty and power that scattered the pugnacious front rank of the enemy to the winds. Those that still remained, half stupefied, he leaped over with a huge bound and alighted, fangs first, on the back of the big dog. There was one hideous yell, a muffled scramble of an instant’s duration, and the big dog lay dead upon the plain!
It was an awful thing to do; but Crusoe evidently felt that the peculiar circumstances of the case required that an example should be made—and to say truth, all things considered, we cannot blame him. The news must have been carried at once through the canine portion of the camp, for Crusoe was never interfered with again after that.
Dick witnessed this little incident; but he observed that the Indian chief cared not a straw about it, and as his dog returned quietly and sat down in its old place, he took no notice of it either,
