The little antelope of the North American prairies is intensely curious about everything that it does not quite understand, and will not rest satisfied until it has endeavoured to clear up the mystery.  Availing himself of this propensity, Dick did what both Indians and hunters are accustomed to do on these occasions—­he put a piece of rag on the end of his ramrod, and keeping his person concealed and perfectly still, waved this miniature flag in the air.  The antelope noticed it at once, and, pricking up its ears, began to advance, timidly and slowly, step by step, to see what remarkable phenomenon it could be.  In a few seconds the flag was lowered, a sharp crack followed, and the antelope fell dead upon the plain.

“Ha, boy! that’s a good supper, anyhow,” cried Joe, as he galloped up and dismounted.

“Goot! dat is better nor dried meat,” added Henri.  “Give him to me; I will put him on my hoss, vich is strongar dan yourn.  But ver is your hoss?”

“He’ll be here in a minute,” replied Dick, putting his fingers to his mouth and giving forth a shrill whistle.

The instant Crusoe heard the sound he made a savage and apparently uncalled-for dash at the horse’s heels.  This wild act, so contrary to the dog’s gentle nature, was a mere piece of acting.  He knew that the horse would not advance without getting a fright, so he gave him one in this way, which sent him off at a gallop.  Crusoe followed close at his heels, so as to bring the line alongside of the nag’s body, and thereby prevent its getting entangled; but despite his best efforts the horse got on one side of a tree and he on the other, so he wisely let go his hold of the line, and waited till more open ground enabled him to catch it again.  Then he hung heavily back, gradually checked the horse’s speed, and finally trotted him up to his master’s side.

“’Tis a cliver cur, good sooth,” exclaimed Joe Blunt in surprise.

“Ah, Joe! you haven’t seen much of Crusoe yet.  He’s as good as a man any day.  I’ve done little else but train him for two years gone by, and he can do most anything but shoot—­he can’t handle the rifle nohow.”

“Ha! then, I tink perhaps hims could if he wos try,” said Henri, plunging on to his horse with a laugh, and arranging the carcass of the antelope across the pommel of his saddle.

Thus they hunted and galloped, and trotted and ambled on through wood and plain all day, until the sun began to descend below the tree-tops of the bluffs on the west.  Then Joe Blunt looked about him for a place on which to camp, and finally fixed on a spot under the shadow of a noble birch by the margin of a little stream.  The carpet of grass on its banks was soft like green velvet, and the rippling waters of the brook were clear as crystal—­very different from the muddy Missouri into which it flowed.

While Dick Varley felled and cut up firewood, Henri unpacked the horses and turned them loose to graze, and Joe kindled the fire and prepared venison steaks and hot tea for supper.