“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 have 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 rang 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 gray 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, realize 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.