In the Rockies with Kit Carson

At sight of the great array of armed and mounted savages facing the little fort, the two lads from the East felt that sinking sensation which usually comes to those not bred to physical danger. At the crisis within the camp neither had felt the slightest fear; the thing was so sudden and so desperate that they had no time to think of themselves.

But this new situation was different; their minds had time to grasp the consequence of the attack and they felt uneasy. It is probable that Kit Carson understood something of what they were feeling; more than likely he had once gone through it himself; at any rate, he said:

“This doesn’t mean much, lads; the reds are going to run rings around us, maybe, and do a little fancy shooting. But they’ll keep out of range of our guns, and so, of course, we’ll be out of reach of their bows. They are great fellows for that kind of exhibition.”

But Kit was mistaken. Instead of making the attack expected, a man rode out the half circle of horsemen and approached the camp—one hand uplifted, the palm toward the whites.

“It seems to me,” said Kit, his eyes upon the horseman, “I know that gentleman.”

Dave Johnson uttered a cry.

“It’s Lopez!” exclaimed he.

“Down, lads, behind the wall; don’t let him see you; I’ll palaver him and maybe strike some kind of a bargain for your property.”

Accordingly the boys crouched behind the bales of pelts; Lopez advanced easily upon his pony until he was within a dozen yards of the camp. Then he drew rein and sat grinning amiably at the trappers.

“Well, Spotted Snake,” said Kit Carson, leaning upon his rifle and quietly surveying the half-breed, “how is it I find you in company with a band of hostiles?”

Spotted Snake grinned more widely than ever.

“They are not hostiles,” he said, in Spanish. “Very good Indians. Mean no harm. You got frightened.”

“They may be very good redskins, as you say,” replied Kit; “but good or bad I’d rather not have many of them around with hatchets and scalping knives hidden in their blankets.”

The half-breed laughed.

“They didn’t know you’d take anything they did in bad part,” said he. “They are not used to dealing with white men, and so don’t know their ways.”

Kit pointed to the crescent of armed warriors facing the camp.

“I suppose that, too, is a sign of good-will,” said he.

“Red Cloud is a big chief,” said the half-breed, “and he is very angry at the way you’ve treated him. He’s mounted his men and put them in fighting formation just to show you what he would look like if he really wanted to do you harm. He told me to tell you that his five hundred braves would dash over you as the waters of a mountain stream dash over the rocks in the time of freshets.”

“You’ve lived long enough among whites and have enough white blood in you, Spotted Snake, to know that talk of that sort won’t carry very far. If Red Cloud wants to see how far his young men can dash over us let him have them try it on. We can guarantee him twenty-five dead, and himself among them.”

The half-breed grinned and nodded.

“I’ve told him that already,” said he. “But he was bound to have me come and ‘make talk.’ If he could have scared you in the first place your furs, traps, horses and rifles would have satisfied him, I think. He’s not a half bad sort of fellow when you come to know him.”

“A while ago I asked you how you came to be in company with this band,” said Kit. “I don’t think you answered me.”

“The trapping party I went out with fell in with them about ten days ago. They made us a good offer of pelts if we’d join them in a big buffalo hunt, they not having any rifles. As it was good business, the chief trapper agreed.”

“The last time I saw you was at Taos,” said Kit. “How is it I find you away up here?”

“I got out on the coast,” said the half-breed, “and joined a ship. But the work was too hard,” with his ever present grin. “I left them at Los Angeles.”

“Ah! you were the fellow, then,” spoke the trapper as though surprised. “I heard about your desertion.”

“You heard?” and even from that distance Kit saw the man’s lids narrow into slits through which his sharp eyes peered.

“A couple of the ship people were looking for you; they hinted that you’d sort of clung to some property which wasn’t altogether yours, when you left.”

The half-breed nodded.

“They told you that, eh? Well, maybe it was true and maybe it wasn’t. But, anyway, I’m not sorry for my little voyage on the sea; it promises to be something that will pay very well; and that’s the kind of thing Manuel Lopez is looking for these days.”

“Suppose,” said the trapper, “the ship people were willing to pay something down for what was taken. Would you consider it?”

Lopez, or Spotted Snake, snapped his fingers airily.

“This is a thing that could hardly be paid for,” he said. “It’s only a chance, of course, but it’s such a big one that ready money is not much temptation.”

“It happens that the folks who lost this property on the ship are friends of mine,” said Kit. “And being friends, I’m willing to help them out. Maybe, if money can’t buy back the things you’ve stolen, lead can.”

As he spoke he threw forward his rifle, the stock against his hip, the muzzle covering the half-breed. But the latter calmly sat his horse and looked at the trapper.

“Don’t forget,” said he, “I came here under what the Indians regard as a flag of truce; don’t forget that I am their spokesman, and that if anything happens to me they will take their revenge.”

This result was very well understood by Kit; to shoot or otherwise harm a man sent forward to parley by the savages was a very great indignity and one which would excite them to the limits of their fury. But that he held the matter at all seriously was kept hidden from Lopez.

“You saw us drive them out of camp a while ago,” said he, coolly; “that ought to have shown you how much we fear them.”

“Another thing,” said the half-breed, equally calm, “even if I had taken the things you speak of, would I be so great a fool as to carry them about with me? If they were of value, wouldn’t I have cached them somewhere along the trail?”

Kit Carson knew that Spotted Snake was a cunning, covetous fellow, brave and willing to go a long way to carry out his desires. As the matter stood, he feared that he had spoiled any chance that the boys might have had to recover the map, by putting the man on his guard. He was considering what he had best do under the circumstances, when the half-breed shook his rein and rode nearer the barrier.

“In Santa Fé,” said he, “there is an old man by the name of Diaz—Goat Beard, the Indians call him. He keeps a storeroom at one side of the town, buys furs and sells goods of all sorts to the Indians.”

“I know him,” said the trapper. “An old rascal.”

Lopez grinned.

“Maybe,” said he. “But he is very useful at times. He has often transacted little matters of business for me in a very capable way.”

The trapper got a glimmer of the man’s meaning, but more by his manner than his words. He nodded, as though he understood; but he said nothing.

“Maybe,” proceeded the half-breed, “if you were to go to old Diaz during the summer when the trapping season is done, some arrangements could be made in any matter that you care to speak of.”

Again the trapper nodded.

“California is a fine country; but I don’t care as much for it as I do for New Mexico,” said Lopez. “And, then, trapping is my business and not——” but he stopped short, as though not willing to commit himself to anything that would definitely incriminate him. “Anyway,” he continued, “look for old Diaz in the hot months; he may have something to say to you.”

Here he wheeled his horse, calling over his shoulder:

“And remember, Red Cloud is a friend to the paleface. His brother does him wrong when he thinks Red Cloud means anything but good feeling.”

The spotted pony which the man rode raced back to the solid crescent of braves. Whatever Lopez reported had the effect of dismounting them; they picketed their horses and went into camp, outside the range of the white man’s fire.

The fire at which the supper of the six was cooked after nightfall was masked so that the light might not attract a flight of arrows from any of the bucks who might be lurking in the darkness. The horses were well within rifle shot and were hobbled so that to stampede them would be impossible. However, a guard was kept over them; and during the night not more than one of the whites slept at a time.

Morning dawned, and they saw the smoke ascending from the redskins’ camp-fires; apparently the warriors had remained all night as they had been at sunset. During the day Red Cloud and one of his braves visited the fort and were admitted; the chief in his halting Spanish protested the utmost friendship; but all the time the whites noted his evil little eyes coveting everything he saw in the camp, and so their suspicions were not abated. The second night passed much as the first; the little party did not dare sleep, for there was no telling at what moment the quiet of the night would be broken by the yells of the red horde, a sleet of arrows, and the leaping of demon figures over the barricade. At the beginning of the second day there was a stir in the Indian camp; preparations were being made for a movement of some sort.

“They mean either an attack, or to break camp,” said Kit Carson, as he watched them for a space. “I am not sure which.”

The braves swung themselves upon the backs of the ponies, fully armed as before; in a sweeping line they faced the little fort, the ponies snorting and prancing, the grim riders as still as death.

“Fire when they reach a distance of seventy-five yards,” said Kit, resting his rifle barrel upon the wall of furs, and throwing himself upon the ground. “You’ll then have time to reload. And make every shot tell.”

The five remaining rifles were also rested upon the wall, and the five riflemen sought cover behind it. The air was charged with the electricity of a coming struggle; and when the very moment seemed to have arrived, there was a shout from the river, the sound of hoof-beats, and up dashed the chief trapper, Young, and his six buckskinned followers. At the sight of these reinforcements the redskins fell into a sort of confusion. And while this lasted Kit explained the situation to Young.

“I don’t think they’ll make any movement against us now,” said the head trapper. “What do you say?”

“I think you’re right,” replied Kit Carson. “If they took two days to make up their minds to tackle six men, it’ll take ’em a week to get to the point of facing twice that many.”

“Well, by that time,” said Young, grimly, “there will be still more of us; for I mean to break camp, move down the stream, pick up the rest of the boys and then strike for the Gila.”

Half the party set to work, adjusting the bundles of pelts upon the backs of the mules; the remainder, with ready rifles, watched the Indians. When everything was in marching shape the trappers started along the river bank. The band of savages followed in their track during the entire day; but one by one the remaining trappers were picked up; and when at last the sun went down it showed the hostile band encamped upon a hillside not more than a half mile away. But now instead of six there were a full score of deadly rifles between them and their prey.