In the Rockies with Kit Carson

That night the trappers camped upon the banks of a small stream; their supper was of game shot during the day and corn-cakes made from the meal in one of the packs.

Both boys noticed that much care was taken as to the picketing of the horses, also a guard was placed over them. The camp was laid out with a plain regard for defense as well as for comfort.

“You never can tell in the wilderness just what is going to happen,” said Kit Carson, in answer to a question of Joe’s. “The Pueblo Indians are mostly a mild lot, and never go upon the war-path; and the other redskins are too well fed around the mission to make trouble. But war parties of one nation or another are apt to be met with any time.”

The trappers placed their saddle pads on the ground and threw their blankets over them; these, with saddles at one end for pillows, were their bed. The boys followed their example.

“But keep yourself out of the firelight,” warned Kit. “It’s a dangerous habit to get into, this hanging around the camp-fire. And always keep your rifle where you can reach it the first grab. Seconds count in a night rush of these copper-colored varmints; so always fix yourself right before you go to sleep.”

The men talked and smoked their pipes about the fire for an hour or two after supper; then, after a guard had been set, they, one by one, rolled themselves in their blankets and soon were asleep. For some time, however, the boys lay awake; the crackling of the logs on the fires, the stamping of the horses, and the stirring of the breeze in the trees was new to them; and then from the hills and the forests the faint voice of the wilderness called to them as it calls to every one, telling of its rushing rivers, its trackless wastes, its splendid game, its breathless dangers. And, also, somewhere ahead was Spotted Snake, and as they grew heavy eyed and slow of thought, they seemed to realize for the first time what the pursuit of him in such a region as this might mean; months might go by without a sight of him, and many and nameless perils might be met by the way.

At dawn on the following day the camp was astir; breakfast was cooked and eaten, packs were adjusted and made fast; then the party mounted and began the day’s journey. It was a picturesque cavalcade; each man led or rode beside a packhorse or mule; across his back was slung his rifle, in his belt was his hunting knife, his whetstone and his hatchet; his clothing was of soft buckskin, fringed and ornamented with porcupine quills, dyed in many and brilliant colors.

The country through which they passed was an ever changing one; streams were crossed; paths were forced through green ravines; mountainsides were conquered; thick woods were encountered everywhere.

Toward the middle of the day the boys found themselves riding ahead of the trapper company, with Kit Carson; after a time he grew silent and seemed to be studying the ground as they went along. At length he drew in his pony and waited until Mr. Young came up.

“The signs say that a company of trappers went over this route not long ago,” he said to his chief. “And I think it might be Spotted Snake and the party he engaged with.”

“Like as not,” replied the other, his eyes searching the ground.

“The trail leads away to the left a little piece on,” observed Kit. “I think I’ll have a look at it with the boys. We’ll bring up with you in a little while.”

Upon a nod from Mr. Young he rode forward, the two eager lads at his side; they also studied the ground; hoof marks there were to a certainty; but what told Kit they had been made by a trapping party, they were puzzled to know.

“It’s plain enough,” said the young man when Joe had put the question to him. “Each man in the party rode a pony and led a pack-mule; no other party but a trapper’s is ever made up like that.”

Off to the left they turned, following the trail as it led toward a distant range of hills.

“It’s rather a peculiar move,” spoke Kit after a time; “and no direction for a company to take which aims to trap on the Gila River.”

For a full hour they rode in the track of the strange preceding expedition; they had reached a section covered by small knolls or hillocks, some crowned by growths of dwarfed trees, others bald and desolate. Suddenly Kit Carson reined in his pony and swung himself from the saddle; without waiting to be told, both boys did the same. They quickly led their mounts behind one of the knolls; and when the trapper halted, Dave Johnson asked:

“What is it?”

“Tie up your mustangs,” was the only reply.

The boys did so; then, following the cautious example of the trapper, they scrambled up the steep sides of the hillock; it was one of those upon which the dwarf trees grew so thickly; they lay among these and looked toward the east.

“Take a steady look now, off toward the southeast,” said Kit, one hand pointing in that direction. “Do you see a hill which looks something like a horse’s head—right against the sky?”

The thick mass of dark growth which topped a distant knoll was unmistakable; and both lads replied in a breath.

“Yes!”

“Well, strike a line to the left again—on a hill farther away—a bald hill something higher than the others.”

Joe Frazier was the first to catch the object indicated.

“A horseman,” said he.

“An Indian!” cried Dave Johnson, an instant later, and with a keener vision.

“An Indian it is,” spoke the trapper, his eyes holding to the distant figure.

There was something in his manner which caught the attention of the boys.

“There were Indians a-plenty back at San Gabriel and at the Pueblo,” said Joe, “but you did not pay much attention to them.”

Kit Carson smiled.

“No,” said he, quietly. “Those redskins didn’t call for much attention. But this is one of a very different kind. You never catch his sort planting or plowing or tending cattle; he’s a warrior, and if you were close enough to him I think you’d find that he is armed with lance, bow and arrow and tomahawk.”

The savage horseman was so far away that he made but a tiny speck against the sky; but for all that he was an ominous figure in that desolate land, a sort of symbol of the danger it held for the intruding paleface and an unspoken threat of what would befall if he dared to press further into a region never meant for him.

For some time the warrior sat his horse in perfect stillness; it was as though he were surveying the country round about for signs of danger, or, more probably, for signs of prey. Then he suddenly turned his horse and disappeared from the summit of the knoll.

The three mounted once more and continued in the trail they had been following; the boys noted that the trapper looked at the priming of his rifle, and they did the same. They had no notion of what to expect ahead; but that their guide considered it more or less serious was plain. Another hour went by; then they reached the bald hillock upon which they had seen the solitary brave. In a hollow about a hundred yards away was the remains of a large camp, the fires of which were still smouldering; all about it the ground was trampled by the hoofs of hundreds of horses. From the top of the hillock Kit Carson studied the scene.

“There must have been four or five hundred redskins camped here up to a few hours ago,” said he. “The brave we saw was about the last to leave.”

“But the trappers with Lopez, or Spotted Snake, are among them,” said Joe. “They have walked right into a trap, for their trail leads into the Indian camp.”

But the trapper shook his head.

“There were Indians and half-breeds in that company of trappers,” he said, “and they are mostly on good terms with the others of their kind. And the fact that they left the track that would have taken them to their hunting grounds, and took one leading straight to the big redskin camp, shows that they knew of it and made for it of their own accord.”

“But why?” asked Dave.

The trapper shook his head.

“I don’t know,” said he. “There may be a thousand reasons for it; but we’d never guess one of them, like as not, if we tried for a month.”

They spent a few minutes examining the Indian camp; then they rode back at a smart pace until they struck the trail of their own party. When this was overtaken it was found to be encamped for the night.

After supper, Dave and Joe noticed Kit in earnest conversation with the chief trapper. The two men talked in low tones, but now and then the boys caught a disconnected word. “Indian” was one of frequent occurrence, “war party,” “trail,” and such fragments gave them something of the color of the conversation.

“They seem to think that there’s danger in the air,” said Joe in a whisper.

The two, having in mind Kit’s warning, sat beyond range of the firelight; the trappers were as usual gathered in groups; a vigilant guard was stationed off in the darkness upon each side of the camp.

“I suppose it’s the size of the Indian party,” spoke Dave to Joe. “Here there’s only a score of us; what chance should we have against, say five hundred, if they made up their minds to attack us?”

“Not much, I guess,” replied Joe, soberly. “But, after all,” with a hopeful note in his voice, “it’s not likely that the redskins know we’re around. And their trail as they left their camp led directly away from us. I noticed that particularly.”

However, the trappers’ camp was one of precautions that night; the horses were not only picketed, but hobbled as well to prevent a stampede.

“That’s a fav’rite little game with the reds,” the grizzled old trapper, whose name was Matthews, informed Dave. “You see, we couldn’t get along without horses to carry our camp stuff and traps and pelts; so if they can scare the critters and set ’em off wild with fright, they’ve broke up our trip and got us at their mercy.”

But the night passed peacefully enough, as did the next and the next. Nine days after leaving Los Angeles, the company sighted the Colorado River. All thought, or all fear at least, of redskins had left the trappers; a camp was pitched near the river and the traps were made ready for an operation against the beaver.

“I’ll send a party of seven up-stream and the same number down,” said Mr. Young on their first night on the Colorado. “The others with the two boys I’ll leave with you to guard the camp.”

“Right,” said Kit Carson, quietly.

Next morning the parties, taking a few of the horses, set out to range the river according to the leader’s plans. When they had gone, Kit, with the help of old Matthews, the boys and the two other men left behind, picketed the horses upon one side of the camp; the small bales of fur were built up in a complete circle, forming a sort of breastwork.

“An arrow would never get through these bundles of pelts,” said Kit as he regarded the “walls” of the camp with critical approval. “Even a bullet would have something of a job doing it.”

Everything belonging to the expedition, except the horses, was brought into the circle of hides. This had scarcely been done when the camp was startled by a sudden shout from old Zeke Matthews. He had been seeing to the mules, and now ran toward the enclosure, his rifle ready in his hands.

“Injuns!” he shouted. “A whole tribe of them!”

Startled, the little party leaped upon the rampart of hides. Advancing at a slow, swinging gallop across the soft turf that stretched away from the river was a perfect cloud of redskins.