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 with his gigantic friend.
Chapter V.—To the Land of the Redskins.
ONE day the inhabitants of Mustang Valley were thrown into considerable excitement by the arrival of an officer of the United States army and a small escort of cavalry. They went direct to the block-house, which, since Major Hope’s departure, had become the residence of Joe Blunt—that worthy having been deemed the fittest man to fill the major’s place.
Soon it began to be noised abroad that the strangers had been sent by Government to bring about, if possible, a more friendly state of feeling between the Whites and Indians by means of presents, and promises, and fair speeches.
The party remained all night in the block-house, and ere long it was reported that Joe Blunt had been requested, and had consented, to be the leader and chief of a party of three men who should visit the neighbouring tribes of Indians to the west and north of the valley as Government agents. Joe’s knowledge of two or three different Indian dialects, and his well-known sagacity, rendered him a most fitting messenger on such an errand.
That same evening Dick Varley was sitting in his mother’s kitchen cleaning his rifle. Fan was coiled up in a corner sound asleep, and Crusoe was sitting at one side of the fire looking on at things in general.
“I wonder,” remarked Mrs. Varley, as she spread the table with a pure white napkin—“I wonder what the sodgers are doin’ wi’ Joe Blunt.”
As often happens when an individual is mentioned, the worthy referred to at that moment stepped into the room.
“Good e’en t’ye dame,” said the stout hunter, doffing his cap, while Dick rose and placed a chair for him.
“The same to you, Master Blunt,” answered the widow; “you’ve jist comed in good time for a cut o’ venison.”
“Thanks mistress; I s’pose we’re beholden to the silver rifle for that.”
“To the hand that aimed it, rather,” suggested the widow.
“Nay, then, say raither to the dog that turned it,”
