CHAPTER XXIII.
_Savage sports--Living cataracts--An alarm--Indians and their
doings--The stampede--Charlie again_.
One day Dick Varley was out on a solitary hunting expedition near the
rocky gorge where his horse had received temporary burial a week or
two before. Crusoe was with him, of course. Dick had tied Charlie to a
tree, and was sunning himself on the edge of a cliff, from the top of
which he had a fine view of the valley and the rugged precipices that
hemmed it in.
Just in front of the spot on which he sat, the precipices on the
opposite side of the gorge rose to a considerable height above him, so
that their ragged outlines were drawn sharply across the clear sky.
Dick was gazing in dreamy silence at the jutting rocks and dark
caverns, and speculating on the probable number of bears that dwelt
there, when a slight degree of restlessness on the part of Crusoe
attracted him.
"What is't, pup?" said he, laying his hand on the dog's broad back.
Crusoe looked the answer, "I don't know, Dick, but it's _something_,
you may depend upon it, else I would not have disturbed you.
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