In the Rockies with Kit Carson

It is written boldly in the records of the great west that Kit Carson was a man without fear; and never before did he show this fact as he did when he turned his horse’s head and rode toward the Frenchman, Shunan. His pony went at a slow, swinging lope; Kit sat him as quietly as though he were on his way to try a shot at a flock of prairie chickens, and there was no enemy on that side of the range.

And the bully was in no way backward. But his bluster was gone; all the cunning in his nature was called upon to aid him in the crisis. His horse advanced at a swift pace; and the heads of the two steeds almost touched when their riders drew rein.

“Shunan,” said Kit, “am I the man you’re looking for?”

The eyes of the bully shifted under the steady gaze of the American.

“No,” said he.

Then almost instantly the muzzle of his rifle lifted and covered Kit. But quick as was his action, Kit’s was quicker. The dragoon pistol flashed, and its heavy bullet struck Shunan in the arm, shattering the bone; the man’s weapon exploded a second after the trapper’s; and its missile grazed Kit’s scalp; then it fell to the ground, and the man’s horse, unchecked, turned and dashed away.

Calmly Kit rode back to where he had left his friends.

“He meant to kill you,” stated old Zeke. “I saw the way he threw up his rifle barrel that nothing else would please him.”

And that the American trapper, lightning quick and of deadly aim, only shot to disable his foe was evident to all; had he so desired, Shunan would have dropped from his saddle never to rise again.

“Peace in camp is all we want,” said Kit, quietly. “And I think as far as Shunan’s concerned we’ll have it in the future.”

There was no expedition going that fall into the Blackfoot country; but one was organizing for a trading trip in that direction.

“We’ll join that,” said Kit.

“But,” said Joe, “we’ll be taking you away from work that will be profitable.”

“This matter of the map has me on my mettle,” said Kit. “I’m going to see it through now, no matter how long it takes.”

They accordingly went out with the traders as far as the Big Snake River. Here they met a Hudson Bay trader named McCoy who had about abandoned his operations because of ill luck, and was about to take up a trapping venture. They joined him, thinking to get finally into the region they desired. But after a series of adventures, one of which saw them on the verge of starvation in a journey to Fort Hall, they were forced back to the Green River once more to await another season.

“It’s the last try,” said Dave, soberly. “If we don’t get up into that country this time we’ll have to give it up.”

“That’s what I promised dad in the letter I sent off to him yesterday,” said Joe. “One more attempt; and if we fail, we go home.”

As the fall grew near there was much talk of expeditions into the far regions; the near-by streams had been trapped so long that the beaver had become very scarce; and if success were desired the hunters must seek new waters.

And in the midst of this, Kit one evening came to the lodge which the boys had erected. There was a gleam in his eye which told them that something of a pleasing sort had happened.

“Well,” said he, “it looks at last as though we were going to have a chance. An expedition, one hundred strong, is to go as far as the Yellowstone.”

“And do we go with them?” asked Dave, leaping up in his excitement.

“We do.”

Both boys swung their caps in the air and leaped about in a series of acrobatic antics. But Kit sobered them in a moment.

“Not only do we go,” said he, “but Shunan goes also.”

“Ah!” said Dave; and he sat down in the door of the lodge.

“That means something, I should say,” said Joe.

“All last season he was laid up with a maimed arm,” said Kit; “and now, as soon as he’s able, he engages for the Blackfoot region. I know he’s specially set on going there, because he refused a number of offers to go out with parties who are to head in other directions.”

Shunan was a very much changed man; his manner was subdued, and he gave little or no trouble to the camp. Kit Carson he treated with much respect, and the boys he was careful not to molest. One day, however, shortly before the big expedition was to start, he met them in the camp street.

“I hear you’re going up north,” said he.

“Yes,” said Joe. “We thought it might be a useful trip—and maybe profitable.”

Shunan looked at them with something like his old ferocity.

“Take my advice and go somewhere else,” said he, slowly. “It will be a dangerous journey for people looking for anything but beaver fur.”

He was about to pass on, but Dave Johnson placed himself in his path.

“What do you mean by that?” said he.

“Just what I say,” replied the man. “Nothing more and nothing less.”

Then he passed on, never giving them another glance; and when the boys found themselves at their lodge that night with Kit Carson, they mentioned the matter. The trapper seemed pleased.

“I think,” said he, “that that proves he’s going to carry news to his friend, Moccasin Williams. Anyway, it shows that he expects to meet him, and doesn’t want any one in the party who has a knowledge of his errand.”

The chief trapper of the big expedition into the Blackfoot country was named Fontenelle; he was an experienced woodsman, and of a very determined character. With the packhorses loaded and the trappers mounted upon their mustangs, he addressed them.

“Every time we’ve gone into the region round about the head waters of the Missouri,” said he, “we’ve been attacked, our horses have been stolen, our traps taken, our men killed; and in almost every case it has ended in our being driven out.”

A murmur went up from the men. The Blackfeet were a hardy and warlike people who claimed a vast extent of country as their hunting ground. The tribe was at that time some thirty thousand strong and counted the finest of the many races of American Indians. As hunters they were unexcelled; their marksmanship was deadly; and as riders and horse breakers they were only led by the Comanches.

“This time they’ll not drive us back,” said old Zeke Matthews, who had engaged to go out with Fontenelle. He slapped the stock of his long rifle as he spoke. “It’s our turn now; and we’ll make the red thieves run.”

It is doubtful if any such band of trappers ever left the Green River before; they were hardy, seasoned mountaineers, inured to the wild life of the Rockies, expert in the craft of beaver taking, and accomplished in Indian warfare.

Straight on they pushed through the wilderness, day after day. In the country of the Crows they met with friendly greetings; perhaps it was the unusual size of the party, and perhaps it was because it was headed for the hunting grounds of the Blackfeet—for years the deadly foes of the Crows. On the Yellowstone, which was in the heart of the Blackfoot region, they set about the serious business of taking fur. The company was divided—fifty men to attend the traps and fifty to guard the camp. The men lived with their rifles in their hands. As Zeke Matthews put it:

“The cook turns the meat on the spit with one hand and has a loaded pistol in the other.”

Fontenelle was constantly urging the men not to relax.

“We can hold our own with them,” said he. “But we must not let them surprise us. Keep your eyes peeled; don’t overlook a sign.”

Kit Carson and his two boy friends needed no urging. And they not only watched for Blackfeet; they kept an eye upon the movements of Shunan as well. However, it was impossible to watch the man at all times; now and then he’d be out of their sight for hours at a time.

One night after supper Kit drew the boys aside. From beneath his hunting shirt he drew a small, pointed stick, notched here and there in a peculiar manner.

“What is it?” asked Dave.

“As we left the last line of traps this afternoon,” said Kit, “I saw Shunan lag behind and then drop back among some trees. There were six of us; but I said nothing to the others. A little later, after Shunan rejoined us, I made believe I’d sighted a small buck and started off, away from the river. When I got out of sight, I changed my course, heading back toward the place where I’d seen Shunan disappear. Hunting around, I saw Indian signs in plenty; and then I saw this,” holding up the wand, “sticking in the ground.”

“A message!” said both boys in a breath.

Kit nodded.

“Yes; and I’ll venture there was one waiting for him from Williams or the redskins.”

After this they kept a stricter watch than ever upon the Frenchman; but he seemed to be entirely interested in the work of trapping and curing furs, and not once did they detect him in any further communication with the savages.

“They’ve come to some kind of an understanding,” said Kit, after a time. “And he’s waiting for a certain time to come around. Like as not it’s the spring; for it’s too late to jump out now and try to get back to Santa Fé. Winter’d overtake them.”

Winter came on at last, the streams were frozen and the trappers gave up their labors. They left the Blackfoot country determining to winter in a more friendly section. A band of Crows guided them to a sheltered valley, and the two parties camped side by side during the severe months.

The Crows were mostly young warriors, and splendidly athletic; in good weather they arrayed themselves against the white men in games of strength and skill; hunting was the favorite test, but horsemanship, running and leaping, were also well liked. In these contests the boys grew very intimate with a stalwart young brave whose name was Tall Thunder.

One night they sat beside him at a lodge fire in the Crow camp; a number of the young warriors were also present, but they rarely spoke, knowing little of the white man’s language. Tall Thunder, however, could make himself understood without much difficulty. He related many of his hunting exploits, and some of the deeds of his tribe in their wars with the Blackfeet.

“Your English is good,” praised Joe. “How did you learn it?”

“Um—much teach!” explained Tall Thunder. “Half-breed speak much Englees. Him Spotted Snake.”

The boys looked at each other. Here was verification of the story of old Diaz, the trader at Santa Fé, and of the news gathered by Shunan. Lopez, or Spotted Snake, was, or had been, in the northern wilderness.

“Do you know where Spotted Snake is now?” asked Dave.

“Um! Crow village—four suns. Live like chief!”

The boys understood from this that Lopez was then in a Crow village four days’ journey from where they were; and also that he was much honored. They were discussing this fact in some excitement, when the young Crow, who could make nothing of the rapid English, said:

“Spotted Snake is your friend?”

Dave Johnson shook his head. Tall Thunder seemed to turn the denial over for a space; then he said:

“Um! Spotted Snake keep away from white men. Only want to see one.” He nodded his head. “Him with Blackfeet. Much hate.”

“He hates the white man who lives among the Blackfeet?”

Tall Thunder nodded once more.

“Much hate!” he repeated. Then as though to show the extent of the man’s hatred: “Want Crow to go on war-path. Against Blackfeet. Chiefs and old men hold council. Say no.”

Later in the evening the boys spoke to Kit about this. He was interested.

“Lopez has his enemy placed,” said he. “And maybe, through the news brought by Shunan, Williams knows something about the whereabouts of Lopez.” Then, after a moment, during which he stared into the fire: “It seems to me, boys, that your long hunt is going to come to something at last. Unless an accident happens Williams will get out of this region in the spring; Shunan will go with him. Watch Shunan; don’t let him make a move that we don’t see, and we can overreach them.”

It was a hard winter on the horses; soft branches and bark, the inside layer of the cottonwood, was the only fodder the poor animals had for weeks; but the fresh green of the spring soon began to put them in condition when that anxiously looked for season arrived.

While waiting for the horses to pick up some flesh, Fontenelle, the chief trapper, sent two men to Fort Laramie for some much needed supplies. The news came later that they had been ambushed and killed by Blackfeet.

It was in no very soft mood that the trappers set out for their hunting grounds; but, though they did not know it, the time for the striking of a retaliatory blow was at hand.

As they drew near to the source of the Missouri, they one evening camped on the fork of a small tributary. The setting sun was slanting across the stream, the camp-fires were lighted and the trappers were cooking their supper, standing guard or caring for the horses. Suddenly a shout came from one of the pickets, together with the sound of hoof-beats. In a few moments a couple of fur hunters came into camp with a horseman. In spite of the Indian trappings worn by both mustang and rider, both Dave Johnson and Joe Frazier recognized him at a glance.

“Lopez!” they exclaimed in a breath; and then the trappers closed in around the half-breed.