The Dog Crusoe and his Master | Page 5

was checked by the arrival of a dozen or more
hunters on the scene of action. They were a sturdy set of bronzed, bold,
fearless men, and one felt, on looking at them, that they would prove
more than a match for several hundreds of Indians in open fight. A few
minutes after, the major himself came on the ground with the prize rifle
on his shoulder, and Fan and Crusoe at his heels--the latter tumbling,
scrambling, and yelping after its mother, fat and clumsy, and happy as
possible, having evidently quite forgotten that it had been nearly
roasted alive only a few weeks before.
Immediately all eyes were on the rifle, and its merits were discussed
with animation.
And well did it deserve discussion, for such a piece had never before
been seen on the western frontier. It was shorter in the barrel and larger
in the bore than the weapons chiefly in vogue at that time, and, besides
being of beautiful workmanship, was silver-mounted. But the grand
peculiarity about it, and that which afterwards rendered it the mystery
of mysteries to the savages, was, that it had two sets of locks--one
percussion, the other flint--so that, when caps failed, by taking off the
one set of locks and affixing the others, it was converted into a
flint-rifle. The major, however, took care never to run short of caps, so
that the flint locks were merely held as a reserve in case of need.
"Now, lads," cried Major Hope, stepping up to the point whence they
were to shoot, "remember the terms. He who first drives the nail

obtains the rifle, Fan, and her pup, and accompanies me to the nearest
settlements. Each man shoots with his own gun, and draws lots for the
chance."
"Agreed," cried the men.
"Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here
it is."
The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the
nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his
comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he
was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more, he was
gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and
a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the
settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him
frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes
compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial
rage that was almost laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of
his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him
on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution, and frequently soundless
motion, were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a
comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being
humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born
under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all
sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything
with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit.
To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's journey. Joe Blunt
used to say he was "all jints together, from the top of his head to the
sole of his moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most
inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on
hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there
was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of
work was so much against his plunging nature, that he took long to
learn it, but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine
deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually
progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the

valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being
short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo
or a barn door.
Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged,
could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post.
No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken.
Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except
Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright,
for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he
hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to
insure a somersault--yet he always came down with a crash on his feet.
Plunging was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the settlement,
when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a
reverie, and when