In the Rockies with Kit Carson

As the bullets of the trappers sang their way into the Crow encampment, the warriors began to fall; the whites stationed themselves behind trees and reloaded; and while they were doing so the savages sought the cover of the two fortified lodges which they had erected. From this shelter the arrows began to dart; but the thick tree trunks protected the trappers from their barbed heads.

At early dawn the Indians saw how few in number the whites were; at once they poured forth, with tomahawk, war club and scalping knife, to crush them. But at a discharge of the rifles five of the band dropped in their tracks; the others fled into the forts once more.

“I guess that’s about all we’ll hear of them,” said old Zeke, as he rammed a fresh charge of powder home and topped it with a bullet. “They ain’t got the stomachs for such work as that.”

“Hold your places,” ordered Kit Carson; “they will attack again.”

A very little while proved that he was right, and Zeke, veteran though he was in Indian warfare, was wrong. Out of the strongholds rushed the Crows, and with yells of fury charged the hunters. So fierce was their attack that the white men were forced to fall back; but the deadly rifles continued to ring through the dawn and savage after savage fell before them. Three trappers had been left with the horses; these, hearing the continuous fire, now joined their comrades. The additional rifles were more than the redskins could stand; completely defeated, they drew off. The trappers did not wait for them to ponder the situation, but fell back to their horses; mounting in haste and leading the recaptured animals they headed for the Arkansas River, where the camp of Captain Gaunt was then located.

For some time longer Kit and the boys remained with the Gaunt expedition; then, as nothing seemed to develop in the matter of Moccasin Williams, and as the fur taking had grown poor, the three made up their minds to a desperate venture. This was nothing less than to leave the company of trappers and make their way back to Taos.

“It’s a dangerous journey,” said Captain Gaunt; “but if your minds are made up, go ahead. You are under no obligations to me.”

By great good fortune along the whole of the long route through the wilderness they did not sight a single Indian. Now and then they came upon a cold encampment and other signs of the red man’s presence; but never a plume of the warrior himself.

On the way they trapped and had rare good fortune; when they reached Taos they had a rich taking of beaver pelts which just then were in great demand and consequently high in price. At once their inquiries were put afoot as to Moccasin Williams; neither of the lads had ever seen the man, but Kit Carson’s description of him was so complete and they bore it so thoroughly in mind that they were confident that they would know him if they ever met with him.

But the result was the same as before. Old Diaz, whom they visited, shook his head and tugged at his goat’s beard sorrowfully.

“I have never laid eyes on him, señor,” said he. “Not once since you were here last. And not once have I seen Lopez either since that day. He is away, there,” one trembling hand indicating the north, “away among the Crows and Blackfeet searching for the Americano, Williams.”

After a week in Taos, Joe grew restless. He had heard of an expedition, much like that of Young’s, which was to head secretly for California.

“It’s been two years since we saw my father,” he said to Dave. “And it’s been almost as long since we wrote to him. Let us go out with this party; after we see him, and if he is willing, we will come back and take up the trail once more.”

Seeing how Joe felt in the matter, Dave gave a ready consent; they spoke to Kit, and though the trapper was sorry to lose them, he saw that this was the right thing for them to do.

“Maybe,” said he, as he clasped their hands at parting, “you’ll be back just as you say. And maybe again you won’t, for you might find Williams among the missions up there where you’re going, looking for that river of gold that old Goat Beard talked about. But, however it turns out, don’t forget that I’ve got to care a good bit about you two boys; and I’m only sorry that I couldn’t do something for you that’d help you to get what you’re after.”

And so the lads went off on another journey through mountain, plain and desert.

Shortly after this, Kit joined a fur hunting expedition sent out by the celebrated firm of Bent & St. Vrain, under the leadership of Captain Lee, once of the United States Army. Later he spent some time on the Laramie River with old Zeke Matthews and two other men, the venture being one of his own. It was returning with this that Kit met with the most desperate adventure that he had taken part in up till that time.

The party had gone into camp one afternoon, and being short of meat, Kit took his rifle and started out to look for game. A mile from camp he came upon elk signs; he followed their tracks until he came in sight of them feeding upon a hillside. Craftily he advanced upon them; but fine as was his skill the elk got scent of him, tossed their antlered heads and broke into a run. Up went the never failing rifle, and a noble buck dropped upon the brow of the hill.

“A lucky shot,” spoke the trapper, as he stood with the empty rifle smoking in his hands, his eyes upon the fallen buck. But hardly had he spoken the words when he heard a most terrific series of roars; like lightning he turned and saw a pair of enormous grizzly bears, their eyes red with rage, and their cruel teeth gleaming, charging down upon him.

There was no time to think out a plan of defense; the grizzly is an immense brute, weighing more than a thousand pounds, and often swift enough to outrun a horse. So Kit dropped his empty rifle, turned about and ran.

The great beasts came lumbering after him, to all appearances awkward and slow, but in reality with astonishing swiftness. Kit knew their speed, having had previous experience with them, though none so desperate as this; and he knew that in a few moments, at most, he would be overtaken.

As he ran his eyes went here and there for a place of safety; then, straight ahead, he saw a tree, the branches of which were fairly low. As he came under it, he grasped a limb and with a mighty pull swung himself upward, a blow from the foremost grizzly barely missing him.

The tree had been the only thing the hard-pressed trapper could think of; and no sooner had he gotten settled in a branch than he realized that he was in a sort of trap. Bears are noted climbers; even the enormous grizzlies can ascend trees with ease.

“Yes,” muttered Kit, as this came to him, “and they’ll be after me like a couple of tornadoes in a few minutes. So I’d better find something or some way of defending myself.”

He still retained his heavy hunting knife, but though the blade was broad and keen he knew that it would be but poor weapon with which to meet the attack of such brutes as the two growling and staring up at him from below.

But still, the knife would be useful, for all. He drew it from its sheath, and began cutting furiously at a thick, short branch which grew at his hand; this was soon trimmed, and as he balanced the heavy club which it made, he said with satisfaction:

“Here’s something, anyhow! I’ll not have to meet them empty handed. So, come on, my lads, I’m ready for you.”

The bears needed no invitation, however; they had been measuring the situation from their places beneath the tree; and one of them had risen upon his hind legs, dug his great claws into the trunk and begun to climb upward.

The foremost part of a bear, in climbing a tree, is his nose; and the noses of most animals are very tender and easily hurt. The grizzly bear’s is no exception. So as the climber came within reach, Kit swung his club; the blow landed fair and true, the bear yelled with pain, and slipped back to the ground. But the other stood ready to take his place; Kit cleared away the small boughs which might entangle his weapon and so interfere with his stroke. Once more the heavy club swished downward, and again it landed upon an eager, uplifted snout. There was another roar, and the second bear slid to the ground. They stood together, and glared at the trapper, their roars and shrieks making the lonely mountains ring. Then, their pain easing somewhat, they attacked once more. Again and again the club struck the tender, bleeding snouts, again and again the bears roared in agony and fell back.

At length they lost heart in the matter and sat watching him sullenly and pawing their noses; but as he made no move to come down, they finally gave up the vigil just as the long shadow of night began to fall; and with many looks over their shoulders they lumbered away into the woods.

Kit waited for a space; then he slid down the trunk of the tree and ran softly and swiftly toward the spot where he had dropped his rifle. The piece was still unharmed; and the trapper reloaded it and stood listening. From the depths of the forest came the sound of the bears crushing through the underbrush; then this died away in the distance and all was still.