Dick availed himself of the chance, and tried to catch him; but he spent an hour with Crusoe in the vain attempt, and at last they gave it up in disgust and returned to the fire, where they finished their supper and went to bed.

Next morning they saw Charlie feeding close at hand, so they took breakfast, and tried to catch him again.  But it was of no use; he was evidently coquetting with them, and dodged about and defied their utmost efforts, for there were only a few inches of line hanging to his head.  At last it occurred to Dick that he would try the experiment of forsaking him.  So he packed up his things, rolled up the buffalo robe, threw it and the rifle on his shoulder, and walked deliberately away.

“Come along, Crusoe!” he cried, after walking a few paces.

But Crusoe stood by the fire with his head up, and an expression on his face that said, “Hallo, man! what’s wrong?  You’ve forgot Charlie!  Hold on!  Are you mad?”

“Come here, Crusoe!” cried his master in a decided tone.

Crusoe obeyed at once.  Whatever mistake there might be, there was evidently none in that command; so he lowered his head and tail humbly, and trotted on with his master, but he perpetually turned his head as he went, first on this side and then on that, to look and wonder at Charlie.

When they were far away on the plain, Charlie suddenly became aware that something was wrong.  He trotted to the brow of a slope, with his head and tail very high up indeed, and looked after them; then he looked at the fire, and neighed; then he trotted quickly up to it, and seeing that everything was gone he began to neigh violently, and at last started off at full speed, and overtook his friends, passing within a few feet of them, and, wheeling round a few yards off, stood trembling like an aspen leaf.

Dick called him by his name and advanced, while Charlie met him half-way, and allowed himself to be saddled, bridled, and mounted forthwith.

After this Dick had no further trouble with his wild horse.

At his next camping-place, which was in the midst of a cluster of bushes close beside a creek, Dick came unexpectedly upon a little wooden cross which marked the head of a grave.  There was no inscription on it, but the Christian symbol told that it was the grave of a white man.  It is impossible to describe the rush of mingled feelings that filled the soul of the young hunter as he leaned on the muzzle of his rifle and looked at this solitary resting-place of one who, doubtless like himself, had been a roving hunter.  Had he been young or old when he fell? had he a mother in the distant settlement who watched and longed and waited for the son that was never more to gladden her eyes? had he been murdered, or had he died there and been buried by his sorrowing comrades?  These and a thousand questions passed rapidly through his mind as he gazed at the little cross.

Suddenly he started.  “Could it be the grave of Joe or Henri?” For an instant the idea sent a chill to his heart; but it passed quickly, for a second glance showed that the grave was old, and that the wooden cross had stood over it for years.