In the Rockies with Kit Carson

The feathered head-dress of many colors waved gaily above the advancing braves; the streamers of their long lances danced in the breeze; their lithe ponies covered the ground in cat-like leaps.

“Not a war party!” said Kit Carson, as he eyed the horde keenly. “But that makes little difference in this country; they use the Mexicans they come upon much as they please—rob them—make them prisoners, or turn them adrift unarmed. Sometimes even worse has happened.”

“Well,” said old Zeke, grimly, as he looked to the priming of his rifle, “we ain’t Mexicans, and I reckon there’ll be nothing like that happen here.”

With one accord, as they reached a point within a hundred yards of the camp, the Indians threw their mounts back upon their haunches and leaped to the ground; then about a dozen of them came forward, signaled the whites, and with much ostentation laid aside knife and tomahawk, long bow and quivers of arrows. Then with upraised hands and every gesture of good-will used by the red men upon such occasions, they came toward the fort. As no protest came from Kit Carson, old Zeke Matthews looked at him with eyes of wonder.

“I say, Kit,” said he, “when do you reckon it’ll be time to wave them varmints back?”

The other shook his head.

“I’m thinking of letting them come in,” said he.

The old trapper’s eyes grew bigger than ever.

“Wal,” said he, “I’ve lived most of my life with Injuns near at hand; but I ain’t never got so as I could trust ’em. These braves look as if butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths; but give ’em a chance and they’ll have their scalping knives at work amongst us, quicker’n you could say Jack Robinson.”

“I think,” said Kit Carson, to the boys, “this is the band our friend Spotted Snake and his friends joined some days ago. If it is, we may have a chance of getting back your map. And if it isn’t, why, we’ll try to see that no harm is done, anyway.”

The half dozen or so redskins who formed the “talk” party were now close at hand; Kit called to them to halt, and spoke to them in one of the several Indian dialects which he knew. In after years this great frontiersman could hold a conversation in their own language with any of the nations which roamed the plains. He was but twenty years of age during the trapping venture of Ewing Young to the Californias, and so had not become as familiar with the red men as was the case later.

And so when the “talk” party failed to understand him, he tried them in another tongue. This too failed; and so he invited them within the enclosure so that he might converse with them in the sign language which almost all Indians know. A tall brave, evidently a chief, was the first to enter the fort; he was a sullen-browed fellow enough, flat nosed, and with a face pitted by smallpox. But he gestured his perfect good-will, as did his companions, holding out their empty hands to show that they were unarmed.

Curiously they inspected the enclosure; the great quantity of furs plainly interested them; the pack-mules, the arms and camp equipment excited nods and grunts of appreciation.

Kit was engaged with the chief, endeavoring to make him understand his signs; the savage comprehended slowly, his mind apparently being more given to the treasures of the camp than what the trapper was saying to him. As Kit was asking for information with regard to Spotted Snake, both Joe and Dave were eagerly interested, watching the signs and trying to interpret the chief’s replies.

In a little while the trapper felt a hand placed upon his fringed sleeve; looking around he saw Zeke Matthews at his side.

“Judging from the indications,” spoke the old trapper, “I reckon this here chief don’t know English. And that being the case, I make bold to tell you in that language that there’s about forty more of them come inside the fort since you began to talk.”

That the men would admit any more of the savages to the enclosure, or even allow them to approach the wall, had never occurred to Kit; however, now that he was aware that they had done so, he showed no signs of haste or alarm. His quiet gray eyes ran around among the Indians who had adroitly wormed their way within the circle of pelts; coolly he took in all the details of the scene; calmly he gauged its possibilities.

The savages, grinning and with growing aggressiveness, were thronging up and down within the little enclosure; a second glance showed the trapper that though the “talk” party may have entered unarmed, the others had only made the appearance of doing so. Under their clothes they carried hatchet and knife, sure testimony of their intentions. The swift, cool brain of the young trapper took in this fact and valued it properly in an instant; and almost as quickly his plans were made to meet the peril.

The odds were overwhelming; within the fort there were ten redskins to each white man; in all, the savages outnumbered the hunters almost a hundred to one. But this fact had little effect upon Kit Carson; his arrangements were as quiet and methodical as they would have been had the numbers been equal.

“Go quietly among the men,” said he to old Zeke. “Get them over here with all their arms; but, whatever you do, don’t let the bucks get an idea of what’s going on.”

The veteran trapper nodded and leisurely made his way through the throng of savages.

“It looks bad,” said Dave Johnson. “There’s enough of them to crush us into the ground just by sheer weight.”

Kit Carson nodded.

“If they were white men,” said he, “there wouldn’t be anything to do but wait till we were sure of what they were going to do—and then surrender. But, they being Indians, the thing’s something different. Redskins will never take a chance with death, and that’s a fact that’s saved the lives of many a band of trappers. Let them be sure that some of them are to die, and they’ll begin to play ’possum. Their style of fighting is to always have the upper hand. Otherwise there’s no fight.”

Old Zeke passed the word calmly to his comrades; and one at a time the men sauntered across the circle and joined Kit and the boys. It was as though they had no object in the movement except to dawdle about, talk, and encourage their visitors to make themselves at home. When all six of the whites were finally together, rifles in hand, alert and ready for the desperate chance which meant life or death to them all, Kit Carson said quietly:

“Now, boys, when I give the word, each pick out a head man and cover him with your rifle. I’ll take the chief with pock-marked face. At the slightest movement that looks like resistance—fire!”

The men nodded; the steady gripping of the rifle stocks alone told of their purpose; their thumbs were on the triggers; their eyes were upon the redskins. Then Kit’s soft, drawling voice said:

“Now!”

As he spoke his rifle came to a level, the muzzle within a few feet of the stalwart chief; the three trappers and the two boys followed his example; each of the grim black tubes stared a savage in the face.

With dismay the Indians fell back into a huddled mass at one side; not for an instant did the long rifles waver; in the barrel of each was a messenger which meant death; they knew the deadly aim of the palefaces of the border and that they seldom missed their mark. The chief with the pitted face now found a fund of halting Spanish, and he addressed the trappers.

“We come as friends! Are not the white men our brothers?”

With his cheek against the stock of his rifle and his gray eye glancing down the barrel, Kit Carson replied:

“Leave this camp! And leave it at once. Stay and you are all dead men.”

There was an instant’s pause—an instant full of suspense; then the chief spoke to his braves. They made no answer, but gathered their gay colored robes about them and sullenly filed out of the little fort; and they never paused or looked behind until they were safely out of rifle shot.

“There will be a grand pow-wow,” said Kit, as they watched the great band of savages join those just expelled from the fort. “And if the chief who spoke has the say, I wouldn’t wonder if we had a little fight on our hands before sunrise. He had fire in his eye as he left.”

One by one a chief or head man harangued the redskins; suddenly there was a chorus of shrill yells and a scattering for their ponies; then, mounted, they formed a half circle, and with lances held high and bows ready for deadly work, they sat facing the camp of the whites like so many graven images.