“What did he do then?” inquired Rat, who, for some reason which Reuben
did not understand, appeared to be intensely interested in the life of
the scout who had already become famous throughout the West.
“Why, they offered him a chance to go back with them, and be their
hunter, so he joined the new party. He told me, though, that he didn’t
find any fun in his work. A good deal of the time he was driving a
team, and that was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.”
“I suppose he wanted to shoot buffaloes and hunt Indians?”
“That’s exactly what he wanted to do. He didn’t give up his plan,
though, all that winter he was a cook for a man named Young, who had
made a lot of money trapping. Kit said that was the worst winter he
ever had. Sometimes he used to chase the rats out of the corn-bin and
then he would say to himself, ‘Here are poor Kit Carson’s buffaloes.’
When the winter was gone he still did not find any party of trappers
that was willing that he should join them. You see he was such a
slight, little fellow, and, as I told you, his voice was so soft and
his manner was so gentle, that the men all thought he would not be able
to stand the work and they would have a sick man on their hands.
“In the spring he made up his mind to go back home again. But that
time, too, he met a party that was on its way to Santa Fé. They offered
him a job which he took and went back with them. Finally he did find
something worth doing. He went down into Mexico as an interpreter for a
lot of men that were going to Chihuahua. When he got there he hired out
again as a teamster for a man who was going to the copper mines. But he
didn’t really get his chance to begin his scouting and trapping until
he came back to Taos. He had become so used to seeing parties of
trappers start off without him that when at last this Mr. Young, the
man for whom he had been working, told him that he could join a party
he was sending out, he took up with the offer right away. The man that
hired him knew that he wasn’t afraid of anything on earth.”
“Ho!” snorted Rat, breaking in upon the narrative. “I guess he wouldn’t
have felt that way if he had seen me. What do you suppose a little
fellow like Kit Carson would do if a man like me got after him?”
“I’d feel sorry for you, if you tried to go ‘after him.’”
“That’s a good un! That’s a good un!” roared Rat. “Do you think he
could run away from me?”
“I don’t think he would try.”
“Well, if he didn’t run and I once got my hands on him I would break
his back as easily as I would a stick.”
Reuben smiled and did not reply to the boastings of the braggart.
“How many men were in this party you are telling about?” demanded Rat.
“About forty.”
“How old was Kit then?”
“About twenty.”
“Ho, ho!” roared Rat again. “And yet you say he wasn’t afraid of
anything on earth? How do you know he wasn’t? Because he told you so?”
Still Reuben refused to make any explanations to his companion. He was
aware that Rat was deeply interested, although the cause of his
interest was not yet apparent.
“Probably your wonderful Kit,” suggested Rat, “caught more beaver, shot
and scalped more redskins, killed more deer and buffalo than any other
man in the band.”
“I don’t know about that. He never told me. He wasn’t the one that told
about these other things, either. He did say that scouts were always
sent ahead of the men to find out whether any Indians were near. Every
night they had guards for the camp.”
“They didn’t find any Indians, did they?”
“Not until they came to Salt River. There they found they were likely
to be attacked by the same redskins that had killed the last party of
trappers that had been there.”
“This time I suppose Kit single-handed killed every one o’ them?”
“I don’t know; I suppose he did his part. This Mr. Young played a trick
on the Indians.”
“What did he do?”
“Why, he sent a few men ahead and hid the rest of them among the bushes
and trees, and then when the Indians saw the little party they did not
know there were any others, so they chased them clear back into the
woods. When they came close to the place where the men were hiding the
trappers all fired their rifles.”
“And killed all the redskins?” laughed Rat.
“Kit Carson said they killed fifteen. Then the Indians ran and never
once attacked them again. They did steal their ponies and traps, but
they didn’t make any more attacks on them. By the time the men had
reached the headwaters of the San Francisco River they had so many
beaver skins that Mr. Young sent some of the men back to Taos. He kept
some of the best ones, though, to go on with him into California.”
“I suppose he kept Kit Carson, of course?”
“Yes, sir, he did. It was a terrible time they had, too. There weren’t
many trails and they couldn’t find much grass for the horses, or water
for any one, or even wood enough to make a fire. Out there on the
desert there weren’t any buffaloes or deer, but there were enemies that
were a good deal more dangerous than either of them.”
“What were they?”
“Hunger and thirst. The men had a little deer meat and some water bags
they had made of deerskin, and Kit said they were mighty careful every
day when they measured out the water and divided up the meat. When they
had been out four days, all at once the donkeys stretched out their
necks and began to run. Everybody knew what that meant.”
“What did it mean?”
“Why, they had sniffed water somewhere. Pretty soon they came to a
stream. Kit said he never had anything in his life taste as good as
that water. It didn’t seem as if they could get enough. The men rested
up a while and then started on again across the desert. On the fourth
day they came to Colorado. There they stopped to rest and to cook an
old horse which they had bought off the Indians.”
“Pretty fine feast,” laughed Rat. “Cold water and horse meat! Which did
they take first—the water or the horse meat?”
“I don’t know. What difference does it make?”
“Why, I know a man back East who lives on dried apples. He has dried
apples for breakfast, cold water for dinner, and swells up for supper.
Perhaps the horse meat served in the same way.”
“By and by they came to a mission down in the San Gabriel Valley. The
priests had taught the Indians there how to make farms. There was
everything one wanted to eat.”
“What did they do? Help themselves?”
“No, they didn’t. They paid for what they took.”
“That’s a good un,” laughed Rat.
“They did, for Kit Carson told me so. He said he paid four butcher’s
knives for a steer.”
“He might just as well bought the steer without handing over the
butcher’s knives.”
“Anyway, the trappers had a good time there. They found lots of beaver
and the men had enough to eat and drink. When the warm weather came
they went into camp down on the lower Sacramento. They had enough to
do, hunting deer and antelope. Kit Carson then was the best shot in the
whole band. All the men had somehow come to rely upon him.”
“Did he say so?”
“No, sir, he didn’t. He never told me about it, but some other men who
were with him told me, and they said he was the one man the Indians
were afraid of.”
“That’s a good un, too,” laughed Rat.
“Well, the men thought so,” retorted Reuben angrily. “One of the
priests came over and told Mr. Young how some bad Indians had gone over
to an Indian village and wouldn’t come out. The priests wanted some of
Mr. Young’s men to get the runaways. Of course the men said they would,
and they said right away that Kit would have to be their leader. So Kit
took the men over to the village and told the Indians they must give up
the men for whom they had come, but the big chief said they wouldn’t do
any such thing.”
“So they had a fight, did they?”
“Yes, they did.”
“And all the redskins were killed?”
“No, not all of them, but they lost so many that they gave up the bad
Indians. One night not long afterward a lot of Indians came into the
camp of the trappers and made off with sixty horses. Kit said most of
the men were angrier to have their horses stolen than they were to have
some of the men shot. They were mad through and through, and pretty
soon twelve of them, with Kit Carson at their head, started after the
thieves. They had a long ride across the mountains and through the
valleys, and for a long time they couldn’t find any signs of the men
they were after. They went more than one hundred miles before they
caught up with them.”
“Then Kit Carson shot every one of them, I suppose?”
“No, he didn’t. He found the Indians in camp, cooking and eating horse
meat. Without stopping a minute, Kit called to his men, and they
started straight for the camp. They shot eight the first time, and all
the rest made for the woods.”
“But they didn’t get away because Kit Carson chased them into the
forest and got them all?”
“No, he didn’t; he told the men to get all the horses that had been
stolen, and then they started straight back for camp. They were lucky
to find some one who bought all their beaver skins. When the summer was
over they all started back home, but they kept trapping all the way
along. They made a lot of money, and every one got a share. He said he
didn’t know what to do with the money.”
“Probably he found somebody to tell him?” laughed Rat.
“Yes, he did. He said he got into all sorts of bad ways that winter. I
don’t suppose he was doing anything different from the rest of them,
but Kit Carson isn’t the kind of a man that could ever find much fun in
drinking and gambling. That was about all the other men seemed to care
for.”
“He must be a wonderful man. I think I must try to see him some time.
He wouldn’t scare me, would he?”
“No,” replied Reuben seriously. “I told you he is as gentle as a girl.”
“I am glad,” laughed Rat. As he spoke he extended his huge arm, and as
he clinched his hand Reuben was almost convinced that even Kit Carson
would be powerless in its grasp.
“There’s our camp,” suggested Rat, as he pointed to the defile in the
distance. “There I have got to leave you, if you won’t go on with me.”
“No, I have got to find Jean.”
Not long after their arrival, Erastus True, as soon as he had packed
his belongings on the backs of his ponies, bade farewell to Reuben and
started on his lonely journey northward.
Reuben had his rifle, his bags of powder and shot, and a saddle and
bridle. His pony was dead, but he was hopeful that soon he would find
the missing Jean, and then all his troubles would be ended.