When Crusoe first heard the unwonted sound he sprang to his feet, bristled up like a hyena, showed all his teeth, and bounded out of the tent blazing with indignation and astonishment.  When he found out what it was he returned quite sleek, and with a look of profound contempt on his countenance as he resumed his place by his master’s side and went to sleep.

CHAPTER X.

Perplexities—­Our hunters plan their escape—­Unexpected interruption—­The tables turned—­Crusoe mounts guard—­The escape.

Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating.  We do not mean to assert that Dick had been previously eating grass.  By no means.  For several days past he had been mentally subsisting on the remarkable things that he heard and saw in the Pawnee village, and wondering how he was to get away without being scalped.  He was now chewing the cud of this intellectual fare.  We therefore repeat emphatically—­in case any reader should have presumed to contradict us—­that Dick Varley sat before the fire ruminating!

Joe Blunt likewise sat by the fire along with him, ruminating too, and smoking besides.  Henri also sat there smoking, and looking a little the worse of his late supper.

“I don’t like the look o’ things,” said Joe, blowing a whiff of smoke slowly from his lips, and watching it as it ascended into the still air.  “That blackguard Mahtawa is determined not to let us off till he gits all our goods; an’ if he gits them, he may as well take our scalps too, for we would come poor speed in the prairies without guns, horses, or goods.”

Dick looked at his friend with an expression of concern.  “What’s to be done?” said he.

“Ve must escape,” answered Henri; but his tone was not a hopeful one, for he knew the danger of their position better than Dick.

“Ay, we must escape—­at least we must try,” said Joe.  “But I’ll make one more effort to smooth over San-it-sa-rish, an’ git him to snub that villain Mahtawa.”

Just as he spoke the villain in question entered the tent with a bold, haughty air, and sat down before the fire in sullen silence.  For some minutes no one spoke, and Henri, who happened at the time to be examining the locks of Dick’s rifle, continued to inspect them with an appearance of careless indifference that he was far from feeling.

Now, this rifle of Dick’s had become a source of unceasing wonder to the Indians—­wonder which was greatly increased by the fact that no one could discharge it but himself.  Dick had, during his short stay at the Pawnee village, amused himself and the savages by exhibiting his marvellous powers with the “silver rifle.”  Since it had been won by him at the memorable match in the Mustang Valley, it had scarce ever been out of his hand, so that he had become decidedly the best shot in the settlement, could “bark” squirrels