# The Dog Crusoe and His Master/Chapter 9

Chapter IX.—An Indian Banquet.
WHEN the foot-race was concluded the three hunters hung about looking on at the various games for some time, and then strolled towards the lake.
“Ye may be thankful yer neck’s whole,” said Joe, grinning, as Henri rubbed his shoulder with a rueful look. “An’ we’ll have to send that Injun and his family a knife and some beads to make up for the fright they got.”
“Ha! an’ fat is to be give to me for my broke shoulder?”
“Credit, man, credit,” said Dick Varley, laughing.
“Credit! Fat is dat?”
“Honour and glory, and the praises of them savages.”
“Ha! de praise? more probeebale de ill vill of de rascale. I seed dem scowl at me not ver’ pretty.”
“That’s true, Henri; but sich as it is it’s all ye’ll git.”
“I vish,” remarked Henri after a pause—“I vish I could git de vampum belt de lettle chief had on. It was superb. Fat place do vampums come from?”
“They’re shells—”
“Oui,” interrupted Henri; “I know fat dey is. Dey is shells, and de Injuns tink dem goot monish; mais I ask you fat place dey come from.”
“They are thought to be gathered on the shores o’ the Pacific,” said Joe. “The Injuns on the west o’ the Rocky Mountains picks them up and exchanges them wi’ the fellows hereaway for horses and skins—so I’m told.”
At this moment there was a wild cry of terror heard a short distance ahead of them. Rushing forward they observed an Indian woman flying frantically down the river’s bank towards the waterfall, a hundred yards above which an object was seen struggling in the water.
​“’Tis her child,” cried Joe, as the mother’s frantic cry reached his ear. “It’ll be over the fall in a minute. Run, Dick; you’re quickest.”
They had all started forward at full speed, but Dick and Crusoe were abreast of the spot in a few seconds.
“Save it, pup,” cried Dick, pointing to the child, which had been caught in an eddy, and was for a few moments on the edge of the stream that rushed towards the fall.
The noble Newfoundland did not require to be told what to do. It seems a natural instinct in this sagacious species of dog to save man or beast that chances to be struggling in the water, and many are the authentic stories related of Newfoundland dogs saving life in cases of shipwreck. Indeed, they are regularly trained to the work in some countries; and nobly, fearlessly, disinterestedly do they discharge their trust, often in the midst of appalling dangers. Crusoe sprang from the bank with such impetus that his broad chest ploughed up the water like the bow of a boat, and the energetic workings of his muscles were indicated by the force of each successive propulsion as he shot ahead.
In a few seconds he reached the child and caught it by the hair. Then he turned to swim back, but the stream had got hold of him. Bravely he struggled, and lifted the child breast-high out of the water in his powerful efforts to stem the current. In vain. Each moment he was carried inch by inch down until he was on the brink of the fall, which, though not high, was a large body of water and fell with a heavy roar. He raised himself high out of the stream with the vigour of his last struggle and then fell back into the abyss.
By this time the poor mother was in a canoe as close to the fall as she could with safety approach, and the little bark danced like a cockle-shell on the turmoil of waters as she stood with uplifted paddle and staring eyeball, awaiting the rising of the child.
Crusoe came up almost instantly, but alone, for the dash over the fall had wrenched the child from his teeth. He raised himself high up, and looked anxiously round for a moment. Then he caught sight of a little hand raised above the boiling flood. In one moment he had the child again by the hair, and just as the Indian woman’s canoe touched the shore he brought the child to land.
Springing towards him, the mother matched her child ​from the flood, and gazed at its death-like face with eyeballs starting from their sockets. Then she laid her cheek on its cold breast, and stood like a statue of despair. There was one slight pulsation of the heart and a gentle motion of the hand. The child still lived. Opening up her blanket she laid her little one against her naked, warm bosom, drew the covering close around it, and sitting down on the bank wept aloud for joy.
“Come—come away quick,” cried Henri, hurrying off, to hide the emotion which he could not crush down.
“Ay, she don’t need our help now,” said Joe, following.
As for Crusoe, he walked along by his master’s side with his usual quiet, serene look of good-will towards all mankind. Doubtless a feeling of gladness at having saved a human life filled his shaggy breast, for he wagged his tail gently after each shake of his dripping sides; but his meek eyes were downcast, save when raised to receive the welcome caress. Crusoe did not know that those three men loved him as though he had been a brother.
On their way back to the village the hunters were met by a little boy, who said that a council was to be held immediately, and their presence was requested.
The council was held in the tent of the principal chief, towards which all the other chiefs and many of the noted braves hurried. Like all Indian councils, it was preceded by smoking the “medicine pipe,” and was followed by speeches from several of the best orators. The substance of the discourse differed little from what has been already related in reference to the treaty between the Pale-faces, and upon the whole it was satisfactory. But Joe Blunt could not fail to notice that Mahtawa maintained sullen silence during the whole course of the meeting.
He observed also that there was a considerable change in the tone of the meeting when he informed them that he was bound on a similar errand of peace to several of the other tribes, especially to one or two tribes which were the Pawnees’ bitter enemies at that time. These grasping savages, having quite made up their minds that they were to obtain the entire contents of the two bales of goods, were much mortified on hearing that part was to go to other Indian tribes. Some of them even hinted that this would not be allowed, and Joe feared at one time that things were going to take an unfavourable turn. The hair of his scalp, as he afterwards said, “began to lift ​a little and feel oneasy.” But San-it-sa-rish stood honestly to his word, said that it would be well that the Pale-faces and the Pawnees should be brothers, and hoped that they would not forget the promise of annual presents from the hand of the great chief who lived in the big village near the rising sun.
Having settled this matter amicably, Joe distributed among the Indians the proportion of his goods designed for them; and then they all adjourned to another tent, where a great feast was prepared for them.
“Are ye hungry?” inquired Joe of Dick as they walked.
“Ay, that am I. I feel as if I could eat a buffalo alive. Why, it’s my ’pinion we’ve tasted nothin’ since mornin’.”
“Well, I’ve often told ye that them Redskins think it a disgrace to give in eatin’ till all that’s set before them at a feast is bolted. We’ll ha’ to stretch oursel’s, we will.”
“I’se got a plenty room," remarked Henri.
“Ye have, but ye’ll wish ye had more in a little.”
“Bien, I not care!”
In quarter of an hour all the guests invited to this great “medicine feast” were assembled. No women were admitted. They never are at Indian feasts.
We may remark in passing that the word “medicine,” as used among the North American Indians, has a very much wider signification than it has with us. It is an almost inexplicable word. When asked, they cannot give a full or satisfactory explanation of it themselves, In the general, we may say that whatever is mysterious is “medicine.” Jugglery and conjuring, of a noisy, mysterious, and, we must add, rather silly nature, is “medicine,” and the juggler is a “medicine man.” These medicine men undertake cures; but they are regular charlatans, and know nothing whatever of the diseases they pretend to cure or their remedies. They carry bags containing sundry relics; these are “medicine bags.” Every brave has his own private medicine bag. Everything that is incomprehensible, or supposed to be supernatural, religious, or medical, is “medicine.” This feast being an unusual one, in honour of strangers, and in connection with a peculiar and unexpected event, was “medicine.” Even Crusoe, since his gallant conduct in saving the Indian child, was “medicine;” and Dick’s rifle was “medicine.”
Of course the Indians were arrayed in their best. Several wore necklaces of the claws of the grizzly bear, of which ​they are extremely proud; and a gaudily picturesque group they were. The chief, however, had undergone a transformation that well-nigh upset the gravity of our hunters, and rendered Dick’s efforts to look solemn quite abortive. San-it-sa-rish had once been to the trading-forts of the Pale-faces, and while there had received the customary gift of a blue surtout with brass buttons, and an ordinary hat, such as gentlemen wear at home. As the coat was a good deal too small for him, a terrible length of dark, bony wrist appeared below the cuffs. The waist was too high, and it was with great difficulty that he managed to button the garment across his broad chest. Being ignorant of the nature of a hat, the worthy savage had allowed the paper and string with which it had been originally covered to remain on, supposing them to be part and parcel of the hat; and this, together with the high collar of the coat, which gave him a crushed up appearance, the long, black naked legs, and the painted visage, gave him a tout ensemble which we can compare to nothing, as there was nothing in nature comparable to it.
Those guests who assembled first passed their time in smoking the medicine pipe until the others should arrive, for so long as a single invited guest is absent the feast cannot begin. Dignified silence was maintained while the pipe circulated. When the last guest arrived they began.
The men were seated in two rows, face to face. Feasts of this kind usually consist of but one species of food, and on the present occasion it was an enormous caldron full of maize which had to be devoured. About fifty sat down to eat a quantity of what may be termed thick porridge that would have been ample allowance for a hundred ordinary men. Before commencing, San-it-sa-rish desired an aged medicine man to make an oration, which he did fluently and poetically. Its subject was the praise of the giver of the feast. At the end of each period there was a general “hou! hou!” of assent—equivalent to “hear! hear!” of civilized men.
Other orators then followed, all of whom spoke with great ease and fluency, and some in the most impassioned strains, working themselves and their audience up to the highest pitch of excitement, now shouting with frenzied violence till their eyes glared from their sockets and the veins of their foreheads swelled as they spoke of war ​and chase, anon breaking into soft pleasing tones, while they dilated upon the pleasures of peace and hospitality.
After these had finished a number of wooden bowls full of maize porridge were put down between the guests—one bowl to each couple facing each other. But before commencing a portion was laid aside and dedicated to their gods, with various mysterious ceremonies; for here, as in other places where the gospel is not known, the poor savages fancied that they could propitiate God with sacrifices. They had never heard of the “sacrifice of a broken spirit and a contrite heart.” This offering being made, the feast began in earnest. Not only was it a rule in this feast that every mouthful should be swallowed by each guest, however unwilling or unable he should be to do so, but he who could dispose of it with greatest speed was deemed the greatest, while the last to conclude his supper was looked upon with some degree of contempt.
It seems strange that such a custom should ever have arisen, and one is not a little puzzled in endeavouring to guess at the origin of it. There is one fact that occurs to us as the probable cause. The Indian is, as we have before hinted, frequently reduced to a state bordering on starvation, and in a day after he may be burdened with superabundance of food. He oftentimes, therefore, eats as much as he can stuff into his body when he is blessed with plenty, so as to be the better able to withstand the attacks of hunger that may possibly be in store for him. The amount that an Indian will thus eat at a single meal is incredible. He seems to have the power of distending himself for the reception of a quantity that would kill a civilized man.
By good fortune Dick and Joe Blunt happened to have such enormous gluttons as vis-a-vis that the portions of their respective bowls which they could not devour were gobbled up for them. By good capacity and digestion, with no small amount of effort, Henri managed to dispose of his own share; but he was last of being done, and fell in the savages’ esteem greatly. The way in which that sticky compost of boiled maize went down was absolutely amazing. The man opposite Dick, in particular, was a human boa-constrictor. He well nigh suffocated Dick with suppressed laughter. He was a great raw-boned savage, with a throat of indiarubber, and went quickly and quietly on swallowing mass after mass with the ​solemn gravity of an owl. It mattered not a straw to him that Dick took comparatively small mouthfuls, and nearly choked on them too for want of liquid to wash them down. Had Dick eaten none at all he would have uncomplainingly disposed of the whole. Jack the Giant-Killer’s feats were nothing to his; and when at last the bowl was empty, he stopped short and laid down his buffalo horn-spoon without a sigh.
Dick sighed with relief when his bowl was empty.
“I hope I may never have to do it again,” said Joe as they wended their way to the chief’s tent after supper. “I wouldn’t be fit for anything for a week arter it.”
Dick could only laugh, for any allusion to the feast instantly brought back that owl-like gourmand to whom he was so deeply indebted.
Henri groaned. “Oh! mes boy, I am speechless! I am ready for bust! Oui—hah! I veesh it vas to-morrow.”
Many a time that night did Henri “veesh it vas to-morrow,” as he lay helpless on his back, looking up through the roof of the chief’s tent at the stars, and listening enviously to the plethoric snoring of Joe Blunt.
He was entertained, however, during those waking hours with a serenade such as few civilized ears ever listen to. This was nothing else than a vocal concert by all the dogs of the village, and as they amounted to nearly two thousand, the orchestra was a full one.
These wretches howled as if they had all gone mad. Yet there was “method in their madness;” for they congregated in a crowd before beginning, and sat down on their haunches. Then one, which seemed to be the conductor, raised his snout to the sky and uttered a long, low, melancholy wail. The others took it up by twos and threes, until the whole pack had their noses pointing to the stars and their throats distended to the uttermost, while a prolonged yell filled the air. Then it sank gradually, one or two (bad performers probably) making a yelping attempt to get it up again at the wrong time. Again the conductor raised his nose, and out it came—full swing. There was no vociferous barking. It was simple wolfish howling, increased in fervour to a yell, with slight bark running through it like an obbligato accompaniment.
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. When he found out what it was he returned quite sleek, and with a look of contempt on his countenance as he resumed his place by his master’s side and went to sleep.
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