In the Rockies with Kit Carson

The Indian band lighted large fires upon the hillside that night; the tall figures of the braves could be seen flitting to and fro in mysterious activity. The trappers watched the unusual spectacle for quite a long time without comment.

“They are fixing up some kind of a disagreeableness for us,” spoke old Zeke Matthews, at length. “And I opine, Cap’n Young, that I’d better take a little scout out in that direction and see what it is.”

“All right,” said the head trapper. “If you care to take the risk, Zeke, go ahead. But I’m not asking you to do it, mind you.”

“I’m going to do this little pilgrimage for my own private amusement,” said the veteran, humorously. “I always did get a lot of fun out of a passel of redskins when they were getting downright serious at their work.”

He took up his rifle; and a heavy pistol was stuck in his belt. Then he crept out of camp and away into the darkness.

Two hours had elapsed when he returned. He put down his gun and warmed his bony hands at the cheerful blaze.

“The varmints are having a mighty interesting time of it,” he said. “That’s a council fire you see blazing up there on the hill; and they’re sitting all around it, smoking their pipes and making speeches to each other. Old Red Cloud is anxious to get his hands on our outfit, I guess; but his braves want to see their way to getting it without being hurt.”

“Council, eh?” said the chief trapper. “Well, we’ll have some kind of action before long. It will be either one thing or the other.”

A powerful guard was placed all about the camp; but the night went by without any hostile sound from that of the Indians’; toward dawn the council fire upon the hillside died down; when the sun finally showed its great, round, red face over the top of a distant mountain, the whites, to their astonishment and relief, saw the camping ground of the foes deserted. Not a savage was to be seen anywhere.

“It was a good council!” spoke Kit Carson, grimly. “Either Red Cloud is a wise chief, or his young men have good eyes for danger.”

But there was no trusting the red men, who were known to be cunning foes; a party of the trappers set out upon their trail and followed it for some hours. There was no sign, by the end of that time, that the retreat was a ruse; so the trailers returned to camp. The mules were burdened with their packs of furs and camp equipment once more, and again the outfit moved down the river.

“It seems a hardship to move away from the place where I know Lopez to be,” said Dave Johnson to Kit, as they rode side by side.

“I feel the same way,” said Joe Frazier. “In the last hour I’ve had it on my tongue a dozen times to say to you: ‘Let’s stay where we are until we make that rascally half-breed give up his plunder.’”

Kit Carson shook his head.

“I understand just how it is, I think,” said he. “But to stay behind here, just the two of you, would be to throw your lives away.” He regarded them seriously for a moment, and then continued: “I’ve been thinking over this little affair of yours, and about what Spotted Snake had to say; and I’ve made up my mind that the best thing you both could do would be to go right on to Santa Fé.” Again he paused for a moment, then continued: “Your father’d be willing to pay a little to have this map returned, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes,” said Joe. “That is, if we couldn’t get it any other way.”

The trapper laughed.

“Of course,” he said. “And we’ll try that other way first. I think it is wrong to knuckle down to the half-breed’s demands. But Santa Fé is the place to get in touch with him again, one way or the other; and I think you can ease your mind and leave this section, knowing that it’s the best thing you can do.”

This sounded like logic to the boys; and so they put all uneasy thoughts behind them, and gave themselves up to the labor and excitements of the trappers’ life. Day by day the expedition continued down the Colorado, setting their traps and reaping a big harvest of beaver fur. When they reached tide-water they changed the scene of their efforts to the Gila River, which enters the Colorado at about this point; and they trapped along the Gila day after day with wonderful success until they came to the mouth of the San Pedro.

At this point the saddle-horses of the trappers had been pressed into service to carry the treasure of furs. So fortunate had the trappers been that with hundreds of miles of stream before them they had already reached their transporting capacity.

“It is a hardship for us to have to let this great chance slip,” said Young one night at the camp-fire. “Beaver has never been so plentiful, and I feel sure that it will continue so all the way up the river. But there is no sense in our going on taking furs if we have no way of carrying them; so the only thing I can see to do is to take the trail for New Mexico and sell what we’ve got.”

Old Zeke Matthews sat listening to the head trapper, honing the edge of his great hunting knife and nodding his head in agreement with him. But at the proposition that they leave the remainder of the stream untouched, and make for their market, he protested.

“It’s just flying in the face of Nature, that’s what it is,” said he, earnestly. “Here we have luck raining down on us; and we’re going to turn our backs on it.”

Kit Carson smiled at the old man’s indignation.

“Well, Zeke,” said he, “what else is there to do? If we have no horses to carry the pelts, what’s the use of taking them?”

“Get horses,” returned the old fellow, laconically.

There was a general laugh from the men lounging about the fire.

“Where can we get them?” asked Young, good-naturedly.

“The Injuns have ’em,” declared Zeke. “There’s a village less than two hours’ ride from this camp where there’s a whole drove of horses and mules that the reds have stolen from the Greasers.”

There was a silence; Zeke rubbed away at his knife and went on:

“They’re a thieving lot, and it’d be a just punishment on ’em to lose the nags. And that ain’t all! When we set out on this trip who went for us tooth and nail but this same gang of varmints? We punished ’em for it, but we didn’t punish ’em enough. If white men are to come into this country the redskins must be taught to go easy on the bow and arrow, and the hatchet and knife. So I’m for giving ’em a lesson before we strike this camp.”

A murmur went up from the men. The idea pleased them. They had not forgotten the attack of the Indians upon their venturing into the wilderness; and to strike a blow in retaliation, more especially such a businesslike blow as that suggested by Zeke, appealed to them.

Long and earnestly the matter was discussed; and finally it was agreed upon. It was a savage country and a rough time; and the thoughts and opinions of men are always moulded by their surroundings and their needs. However it may look to us to-day, to impress the herd of mules was not from the trappers’ point of view at all contrary to the laws of justice. They regarded it in the same light as the commander of an army did the requisitioning of supplies in the country of the enemy.

Next day a half dozen men were left to guard the camp; the balance of the party, with Dave and Joe pressing joyously on in their midst, set out upon their errand. After a ride of a couple of hours the band sighted a large mixed herd of horses and mules. These were grazing some little distance up the San Pedro; and a scout or two was sent to locate the Indian village.

“It’s off to the west, there,” said old Zeke. “I was there once, trading; and the varmints robbed us of everything we had.”

After a short time the scouts returned. The village, a clutter of dirty huts, lay in the direction indicated by Zeke; and the band of buckskin-clad trappers rode toward it under cover of the timber.

“There it is,” said Kit Carson, at length pointing through the trees.

The village lay quietly in the sun; it was a barren, neglected place; the bucks lolled in the doorways of the low huts; in the narrow fields the women were preparing to plant the scanty crops.

At a word of command the trappers shouted to their mounts; at full speed they dashed into the village, their firearms rattling and snapping briskly. Yells of fear and rage went up from the savages; they grabbed up their arms, and their deadly arrows began to hiss through the air.

“Open order,” called the chief of the trappers. “Don’t ride so close together. Load and hold your fire until I give the word!”

The horses were brought to a standstill outside the town; the trappers reloaded their rifles and looked to the state of their pistols. During this pause in the attack the savages recovered from their surprise; and upon a sort of plain, stretching away to the river, they rallied their forces. The village was quite a large one; several hundred warriors faced the trappers, and from their furious actions it was plain that they meant to make a most desperate defense.

“Ready?” called the head trapper.

“All ready,” was the answer from his men.

“Hold your fire till I give the word,” said the leader, once more. Then lifting his hand: “Charge!”

Down rode the trappers upon the redskins; and the latter bent their bows with practiced hands, the keen eyes of each selecting a mark.