eavy piece of wood with the other, and strike it several
violent blows on the throat. Without taking the trouble to kill the
poor animal outright, the savage then held its still writhing body over
the fire in order to singe off the hair before putting it into the pot
to be cooked.

The cruel act drew young Varley's attention more closely to the pup, and
it flashed across his mind that this could be no other than young
Crusoe, which neither he nor his companion had before seen, although
they had often heard others speak of and describe it.

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