Had the little creature been one of the unfortunate Indian curs, the two hunters would probably have turned from the sickening sight with disgust, feeling that, however much they might dislike such cruelty, it would be of no use attempting to interfere with Indian usages.  But the instant the idea that it was Crusoe occurred to Varley he uttered a yell of anger, and sprang towards the woman with a bound that caused the three Indians to leap to their feet and grasp their tomahawks.

Blunt did not move from the gate, but threw forward his rifle with a careless motion, but an expressive glance, that caused the Indians to resume their seats and pipes with an emphatic “Wah!” of disgust at having been startled out of their propriety by a trifle; while Dick Varley snatched poor Crusoe from his dangerous and painful position, scowled angrily in the woman’s face, and turning on his heel, walked up to the house, holding the pup tenderly in his arms.

Joe Blunt gazed after his friend with a grave, solemn expression of countenance till he disappeared; then he looked at the ground, and shook his head.

Joe was one of the regular out-and-out backwoods hunters, both in appearance and in fact—­broad, tall, massive, lion-like; gifted with the hunting, stalking, running, and trail-following powers of the savage, and with a superabundance of the shooting and fighting powers, the daring, and dash of the Anglo-Saxon.  He was grave, too—­seldom smiled, and rarely laughed.  His expression almost at all times was a compound of seriousness and good-humour.  With the rifle he was a good, steady shot, but by no means a “crack” one.  His ball never failed to hit, but it often failed to kill.

After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and muttered to himself, “The boy’s bold enough, but he’s too reckless for a hunter.  There was no need for that yell, now—­none at all.”

Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow step towards his own cottage.

Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an attentive ear there was a faint echo of the brogue in his tone, which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and almost worn-out heirloom.

Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked.  His wretched tail seemed little better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him tenderly to the care of his mother.  How Fan managed to cure him no one can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks, Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat as ever.

CHAPTER II.

A shooting-match and its consequences—­New friends introduced to the reader—­Crusoe and his mother change masters.