but whether the remark had reference to the grasshopper soup or the sentiment, we cannot tell.
“Well,” continued Joe, commencing to devour a large buffalo steak with a hunter’s appetite, “ye’ll please yourselves, lads, as to that; but, as I wos sayin’, we’ve got a powerful lot o’ furs, an’ a big pack o’ odds and ends for the Injuns we chance to meet with by the way, an’ powder and lead to last us a twelve-month, besides five good horses to carry us an’ our packs over the plains; so if it’s agreeable to you, I mean to make a bee-line for the Mustang Valley. We’re pretty sure to meet with Blackfeet on the way, and if we do we’ll try to make peace between them an’ the Snakes. I ’xpect it’ll be pretty well on for six weeks afore we git to home, so we’ll start to-morrow.”
“Dat is fat vill do ver’ vell,” said Henri; “vill you please donnez me one petit morsel of steak.”
“I’m ready for anything, Joe,” cried Dick, “you are leader. Just point the way, and I’ll answer for two o’ us followin’ ye—eh! won’t we, Crusoe?”
“We will,” remarked the dog quietly.
“How comes it,” inquired Dick, “that these Indians don’t care for our tobacco?”
“They like their own better, I s’pose,” answered Joe; “most all the western Injuns do. They make it o’ the dried leaves o’ the shumack and the inner bark o’ the red-willow, chopped very small an’ mixed together. They call this stuff Kinnekinnik, but they like to mix about a fourth o’ our tobacco with it, so Pee-eye-em tells me, an’ he’s a good judge; the amount that red-skinned mortal smokes is oncommon.”
“What are they doin’ yonder?” inquired Dick, pointing to a group of men who had been feasting for some time past in front of a tent within sight of our trio.
“Goin’ to sing, I think,” replied Joe.
As he spoke, six young warriors were seen to work their bodies about in a very remarkable way, and give utterance to still more remarkable sounds, which gradually increased until the singers burst out into that terrific yell, or war-whoop, for which American savages have long been famous. Its effect would save been appalling to unaccustomed ears. Then they allowed their voices to die away in soft, plaintive tones, while their action corresponded thereto. Suddenly the furious style was revived, and the men wrought themselves into a condition little short of madness, while their yells rung wildly through the camp. This was too much for ordinary canine nature to withstand, so all the dogs in the neighbourhood joined in the horrible chorus.
Crusoe had long since learned to treat the eccentricities of Indians and their curs with dignified contempt. He paid no attention to this serenade, but lay sleeping by the fire until Dick and his companions rose to take leave of their host, and return to the camp of the fur-traders. The remainder of that night was spent in making preparations for setting forth on the morrow, and when, at grey dawn, Dick and Crusoe lay down to snatch a few hours’ repose, the yells and howling in the Snake camp were going on as vigorously as ever.
The sun had arisen, and his beams were just tipping the summits of the Rocky Mountains, causing the snowy peaks to glitter like flame, and the deep ravines and gorges to look sombre and mysterious by contrast, when Dick, and Joe, and Henri mounted their gallant steeds, and, with Crusoe gambolling before, and the two pack-horses trotting by their side, turned their faces eastward, and bade adieu to the Indian camp.
Crusoe was in great spirits. He was perfectly well aware that he and his companions were on their way home, and testified his satisfaction by bursts of scampering over the hills and valleys. Doubtless he thought of Dick Varley’s cottage, and of Dick’s mild, kind-hearted mother. Undoubtedly, too, he thought of his own mother, Fan, and felt a glow of filial affection as he did so. Of this we feel quite certain. He would have been unworthy the title of hero if he hadn’t. Perchance he thought of Grumps, but of this we are not quite so sure. We rather think, upon the whole, that he did.
Dick, too, let his thoughts run away in the direction of home. Sweet word! Those who have never left it cannot, by any effort of imagination, realise the full import of the word “home.” Dick was a bold hunter, but he was young, and this was his first long expedition. Oftentimes, when sleeping under the trees and gazing dreamily up through the branches at the stars, had he thought of home, until his longing heart began to yearn to return. He repelled such tender feelings, however, when they became too strong, deeming them unmanly, and sought to turn his mind to the excitements of the chase, but latterly his efforts were in vain. He became thoroughly home-sick, and, while admitting the fact to himself, he endeavoured to conceal it from his comrades. He thought that he was successful in this attempt. Poor Dick Varley! as yet he was sadly ignorant of human nature. Henri knew it, and Joe Blunt knew it. Even Crusoe knew that something was wrong with his master, although he could not exactly make out what it was. But Crusoe made memoranda in the note-book of his memory. He jotted down the peculiar phases of his master’s new disease with the care and minute exactness of a physician; and, we doubt not, ultimately added the knowledge of the symptoms of homesickness to his already well-filled stores of erudition.
It was not till they had set out on their homeward journey that Dick Varley’s spirits revived, and it was not till they reached the beautiful prairies on the eastern slopes of the Rocky Mountains, and galloped over the green sward towards the Mustang Valley, that Dick ventured to tell Joe Blunt what his feelings had been.
“D’ye know, Joe,” he said confidentially, reining up his gallant steed after a sharp gallop, “d’ye know I’ve bin feelin’ awful low for some time past.”
“I know it, lad,” answered Joe, with a quiet smile, in which there was a dash of something that implied he knew more than he chose to express.
Dick felt surprised, but he continued, “I wonder what it could have bin. I never felt so before.”
“’Twas homesickness, boy,” returned Joe.
“How d’ye know that?”
“The same way as how I know most things, by experience an’ obsarvation. I’ve bin home-sick myself once—but it was long, long agone.”
Dick felt much relieved at this candid confession by such a bronzed veteran, and, the chords of sympathy having been struck, he opened up his heart at once, to the evident delight of Henri, who, among other curious partialities, was extremely fond of listening to and taking part in conversations that bordered on the metaphysical, and were hard to be understood. Most conversations that were not connected with eating and hunting were of this nature to Henri.
“Hom’-sik,” he cried, “veech mean bein’ sik of hom’! hah! dat is fat I am always be, ven I goes hout on de expedition. Oui, vraiment.”
“I always packs up,” continued Joe, paying no attention to Henri’s remark,—“I always packs up an’ sots off for home when I gits home-sick; it’s the best cure, an’ when hunters are young like you, Dick, it’s the only cure. I’ve know’d fellers a’most die o’ homesickness, an’ I’m told they do go under altogether sometimes.”
“Go onder!” exclaimed Henri; “oui, I vas all but die myself ven I fust try to git away from hom’. If I have not git away, I not be here to-day.”
Henri’s idea of homesickness was so totally opposed to theirs, that his comrades only laughed, and refrained from attempting to set him right.
“The fust time I was took bad with it wos in a country somethin’ like that,” said Joe, pointing to the wide stretch of undulating prairie, dotted
