CHAPTER XIII
THE VILLAGE OF THE BLACKFEET
The throng of buckskin-clad trappers crowded about the half-breed Lopez; every eye was on him; all were curious to hear the nature of his errand.
“I came to warn you,” he said in Spanish, to Fontenelle. “Directly in your path, one day’s ride from here, is the main village of the Blackfeet. Hold to your present course and you’ll have them swarming around you like bees.”
For a moment there was a dead silence. Then the many grievances they held against that particular tribe, and more especially the fate of the two messengers to Fort Laramie, came to the minds of the trappers. As one man they gripped their rifles and there arose a cry for vengeance. The half-breed sat his mustang quietly; he said nothing, but in his eye was a satisfied gleam. Kit Carson touched Dave Johnson’s sleeve.
“Moccasin Williams is in that village. That is why the half-breed is here. Failing to get the Crows to attack them, he now tries our men.”
“And with what result, do you think?” asked Dave.
For answer Kit pointed to the trapper band; to a man, almost, they were gathered about Fontenelle; their voices were lifted in a harsh hubbub; their rifles were waved about; they clamored for war.
It was a wild scene, and one neither of the boys ever forgot; the rough, bearded men, buckskin-clad, their weapons gleaming in the flare of the camp-fires, while all around was silence and the darkness of the wilderness.
When the clamor died down, the chief trapper spoke.
“We have suffered at the hands of the Blackfeet,” said he. “And now that a chance has come to strike a blow, we will not let it pass.”
There was a wild hurrah, and the men scattered about the camp, gathering at the various fires, cleaning their rifles, oiling the locks of their pistols, seeing to the edge of knife and hatchet.
“And see that there’s plenty of good black powder in your horns,” advised old Zeke. “Bullets and flints will be things you can’t have too much of either; for unless I’m much mistaken we’ve got a day of days ahead of us to-morrow, lads.”
As the half-breed slipped from his horse and approached a fire at which Kit and the boys stood alone he nodded as though not at all surprised to see them.
“I saw all three of you a dozen times during the winter,” said he. “But you did not see me. I often rode through the passes when the snow melted, and looked down at your camp in the valley from the hills.”
“And it was then, I guess, that you thought how well it would fit in with your plans if you could get our party to attack the Blackfeet.”
The half-breed smiled the disagreeable smile natural to him.
“But,” said he, “I never hoped to have it happen, until the two riders going to Laramie were killed. After that,” and he snapped his fingers, “I knew it would be nothing.”
“If you were so anxious to revenge yourself on Williams, why have you waited so long?” asked Kit. “A man who really wanted satisfaction would have tried for it single-handed.”
“Do you think I have not?” asked Lopez, quietly. “Do you suppose I have been lying by all this time waiting to be helped? I spent months in trying to find out where he was. Twice I was taken by the Blackfeet and once almost lost my life. That I could speak their language and claimed to be related to their tribe was all that saved me. At last I located him in the village which you will see to-morrow. The Pueblos call me Spotted Snake,” and he laughed, harshly. “Well, I tried to earn the name in my lookout for Moccasin Williams; for never a snake held so close to the ground, or crawled so silently through the grass as I did. But I never got him as I wanted him. A hundred times I had him under my rifle, but he was never near enough for me to be sure. To-morrow,” and there was a deadly meaning in his voice, “I will try again; and I think I shall succeed.”
The fire at which they stood was one removed from the others, having been kindled by a horse guard to roast a particularly prized piece of buffalo tongue while he was on watch. The trees threw huge, dancing shadows all about; and their own movements were grotesquely mimicked by the giant shades flung from them by the changing light. There was a silence after the half-breed’s last words; then, as he stood staring into the red of the blaze, Dave Johnson fancied he heard a sound behind him. Trained, by this time, to respond to sounds which he did not understand, Dave was about to turn; but he felt the grip of Kit upon his arm—a grip which asked for silence as plainly as words could have done.
Kit, facing the half-breed, spoke quietly:
“The map which belongs to these boys, now? What about that?”
The half-breed gave a gesture of contempt.
“If I can find the man who stole it from me, that’s all I ask,” said he.
“Well, all right,” said Kit. Then he added, drily, “But seeing that you stole it yourself, Spotted Snake, I think you’re making a mighty big complaint.”
“He claimed to be my friend. He is a traitor,” said the half-breed, sullenly.
“As I have said, all right,” repeated Kit. “You can look at the thing just as you see fit, and I’ll not say a word against it. But,” and here there was a ring in his voice like that of steel, “the map belongs to these two lads, and I’m going to see that they get it. It belongs to them and no one else shall have it; neither you, Lopez, who stand there grinning at me; nor you, Moccasin Williams, away there in the Blackfoot town; nor you, Shunan, who are behind me in the bushes!” He wheeled as he spoke these last words, and faced the darkness. “Come out,” said he. “We know you’re there, and we know why you’re there.”
There came a swishing and clattering among the thick growth, and the burly Frenchman made his appearance.
“I was looking for fuel,” he growled, sullenly. “I didn’t know you were here.”
Kit regarded him steadily.
“I never told the rest of the men how you were in communication with the Blackfeet in the fall,” said he. Then as the man tried to interrupt, he lifted a hand for silence. “If I had,” he went on, “I guess you know what would have happened—for they don’t love that people. But,” and the ring in his voice was as hard as before and the menace was as clear, “if you make an attempt to leave camp to give warning they will be told now. So, if you value a whole skin, you’ll sit tight and say nothing.”
“I never meant to——” began the bully, but Kit stopped him.
“It makes no difference what you meant,” he said. “The thing is there, just the same. I’ll give Fontenelle a hint, and there will be a quiet guard over you until our little business with the redskins is done. So mind what movements you make when away from the camp. You’ll not know which one’ll draw the bullet from some pistol.”
And that there was something behind this warning was soon made plain to the bully; as he sat by the fire, as he rolled in his blanket, he felt the watch held over him; not once during the long night did it relax; and though he desired ever so much to warn his confederate among the Indians, he did not dare to make a move.
Long before dawn the camp was astir, breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the entire party of one hundred trappers, under the guidance of Lopez, started in the direction of the Blackfoot village. After a march of some six hours they struck a broad and well-defined trail.
“This leads straight to the village,” said Lopez. “Two or three hours more and we are there.”
But at this point Fontenelle halted the column of trappers.
“I think it would be best,” said he, “if a small party went ahead and reconnoitered. In marching on blindly this way there is always danger of a trap.”
Lopez protested loudly; but the trappers as a body thought well of the suggestion.
“Carson,” said the head trapper to Kit, “take five men and go have a look at the trail and the village. We’ll camp here until you return.”
Accordingly, with Zeke Matthews, the two boys and a pair of seasoned woodsmen, Kit started off. Silently they rode along the narrow Indian trail, being careful to make a note of every spot that would afford a chance for an ambuscade; at length they drew near the village, a perfect city of lodges; creeping among the rocks and trees they managed to get a close view of what was going on.
From the opposite side of the town a great drove of horses was being driven in; camp equipment was being brought together as though for a move.
“We’re none too soon,” said Kit in a whisper, to Dave. “By this time to-morrow they’d be gone.”
“Look!” said Joe, in a low voice, his rifle barrel indicating a place near to the end of a row of lodges. “A white man!”
“Moccasin Williams,” were Kit’s words, as his eyes rested upon the renegade. “Well, Spotted Snake was right, wasn’t he?”