In the Rockies with Kit Carson

Making sure that the savages were merely in the first stages of their preparations for departure, Kit and his little party of scouts crept away through the trees and grass to the place where they had left their horses. Mounting, they gained the trappers’ camp just after nightfall.

When the news was broken, the woodsmen gathered about their fires in council. After some discussion a plan was agreed upon.

“Kit will take half of you,” said the chief trapper, “and ride to the attack. The other half will stay behind with me to guard the pack animals and the furs.”

“But don’t stand still,” was Kit Carson’s advice. “Advance slowly in our track. Then you’ll be a kind of reserve in case we need you.”

Everything agreed upon, the trappers rolled themselves in their robes and blankets around the fires; and at dawn next day they divided according to their plan; Kit and his fifty taking the Indian trail at a swinging pace, every man in the advance eager for the fight.

“After to-day,” prophesied Zeke Matthews, “those varmints of Blackfeet won’t be so quick with their monkey shines. They’ll get a lesson they’ll remember for some time to come.”

They approached the Indian town without being discovered; the savages were in the heart of their own country, never dreaming of attack, and therefore had out no sentinels. The trappers, each well mounted, rifle in hand and side arms ready to be grasped at a second’s notice, drew up in a line.

“Now, men,” said Kit, his eyes running over them, to make sure that all were prepared. “At full speed! Charge!”

Like a thunderbolt the woodsmen struck the Blackfoot village; a volley from the long rifles swept among the warriors and a dozen of them pitched headlong. A shrill yell arose; the savages gripped their weapons and fell back from their town, fighting every step of the way.

The Blackfoot was a fighting man of craft, courage and generalship. Unlike the Crows and more southern tribes, he did not go mad with excitement when he faced the superior weapons of the white man. On the contrary he always fought them according to a carefully laid out plan.

From behind rocks and stumps and fallen trees the long arrows began to wing their deadly way; taking the cue the trappers protected themselves in much the same fashion, and their rifles continued to speed bullets wherever a tufted head showed itself.

For fully three hours this sort of warfare continued; the Blackfeet fought with courage and judgment; craftily they drew the fire of the trappers until the supply of ammunition began to grow low.

As this latter grew apparent to Kit he passed the word to slacken the fire.

“Don’t press a trigger unless you are sure of a redskin,” was his command.

And as the rifle fire slacked the Indians grew more bold. They understood what had happened, and crept forward from tree to tree, from rock to rock, meaning to get near enough for a grand rush and then to engage the whites hand to hand.

“I notice,” said Dave Johnson, as he lay at full length behind a stump, his rifle advanced, his eyes on the dark-skinned enemy, “that there’s a bullet comes now and then from over there to the right. One of the braves must have a rifle.”

“It’s Moccasin Williams,” replied Kit Carson, from behind a near-by tree. “He’s behind that big cottonwood at the mouth of the ravine, trying some sharpshooting.”

“I’d like to get a——” but Dave never finished the sentence, for Kit’s rifle cracked and the bark flew from the big cottonwood in a shower, leaving a deep seam to show the track of the bullet.

“Missed!” said Kit, coolly. “But better luck next time.”

In a little while the Indians pressed forward under cover; then, thinking themselves near enough for a rush, they leaped from behind the trees and with shrill yells and brandished hatchets and knives, darted at the trappers.

The long rifles greeted them once more; but as they still came on, the pistols were discharged in their very faces with terrible effect. This was more than savage fortitude could bear up under, and they sought cover once more with howls of rage and a fresh flight of arrows.

Then closer and closer they drew and slower and slower grew the fire of the whites. There were but few charges of powder left. Another rush of the savages, and there would be no more.

“It looks bad,” said old Zeke, as he drained his powder-horn of its last grain. “But we’ll give a good account of ourselves for all.”

But a last desperate struggle with knife and clubbed rifle was not to come, for as the powder was quite exhausted, word was brought to Kit that the reserve of trappers under Fontenelle had arrived. And soon after, each horn was refilled, each rifle recharged, and with the confidence of increased numbers the trappers advanced, firing as they went.

In the van of the whites was the half-breed, Lopez; he held his rifle ready, but seemed to reserve his fire. Kit Carson, firing and loading and firing and loading, noticed this.

“Anything wrong with your shooting iron, Spotted Snake?” asked the trapper.

“No,” replied the half-breed, never taking his eyes from the flitting line of savages as they moved from cover to cover. “But the bullet that’s in it is meant for Moccasin Williams, and him only.”

Steadily the trappers pressed forward; quicker and quicker grew the flitting of the savages from rock to tree and from tree to stump; and at length the crafty retreat began to weaken, then to waver. There was less purpose in it; finally the braves at one side broke and ran; then the entire line followed suit.

Now for the first time since he entered the action, the rifle of Lopez lifted. The boys saw an ungainly white man in the rush of the fleeing savages; he had sandy hair and a thin, fox-like face. A dozen steps he took, the fox-face turned over his shoulder to observe the pursuers, then Lopez’ piece crashed and the man pitched forward to the ground.

With a shrill, throaty cry of exultation, Lopez darted forward; the boys saw him reach the prostrate form, a knife in his hand. But as he bent over it the form showed unexpected life. Moccasin Williams sprang to his feet, drawing an Indian hatchet from his belt as he did so, and both men struck at each other. Both blows took effect; then their arms encircled each other, there was a frenzied clutching at each other’s throats, and they fell to the earth.

And when Kit Carson returned from the pursuit of the Indians, which was but a short one, he found the boys standing above the two dead bodies.

“Your property?” he asked, his swift eyes telling him what had occurred.

“Here,” said Joe, and he held up a folded paper.

“Good!” said the trapper. “Take care of it, for you’ve had a hard fight to get it back; and the next time you might not be so lucky.”

The blow dealt the Blackfeet that day was a heavy one; and they remembered it, as Zeke Matthews had prophesied, for a long time after.

Great good luck followed the Fontenelle band in their labors after this; and when they finally journeyed to the trading camp, held that year on Mud River, they took with them a great wealth of furs.

And it was on Mud River, some weeks later, that Kit Carson parted with the boys, who proposed to join an ingoing party as far as Santa Fé, and then take ship at one of the Gulf ports for New York.

“Good-bye, lads,” he said, as he pressed their hands. “Some day I may go east, and if I ever do, I’ll be sure to look you up.”

“East!” exclaimed Joe. “West, you mean, Kit. In a year we’ll be in California again, digging and washing along that wonderful river which, as old Goat Beard said, runs with gold.”

And Joe was right as to place. But he was wrong about the time.

The next time the three met it was in California; but fifteen years or more had passed. The boys had become bronzed men and were accounted the richest in the New Eldorado. And Kit Carson was then the most famous man in the great west; his fame as an Indian fighter and pathfinder had gone around the globe.

“You found your river of gold then,” said he, as they gripped hands once more.

“Yes,” laughed Dave. “It proved to be the Sacramento.”

“But we had to wait until the United States took California over, after the war with Mexico,” said Joe, rather ruefully. “It was a long time, but,” and his eyes laughed much as they used to do, “it was worth the waiting.”

“I should think so, indeed,” said the trapper.