Instantly a silence that was tense and could almost be felt fell upon
the entire camp. All the trappers gazed in surprise first at the tall,
awkward boaster and then at Kit Carson, who in comparison with the
other man seemed to be little more than a boy in size. Brawls and
quarrels were not uncommon among the lonely men, but this was the first
time any one had known Kit Carson to join in the petty bickerings of
the camp.
Reuben, startled at first by the quiet manner in which his friend had
spoken, now looked at him in alarm. It did not seem possible that so
slight and light a man as the guide would be able to defend himself
against the braggart, who was known as the bully of the West. It is
true Rat had no friends among the trappers. Every one had looked upon
him as one who talked much but whose deeds were lacking. It was
commonly reported that he was better able to tell other men how to trap
the beaver than he was to secure the little animals in his own traps.
To the excited Reuben the huge shoulders of the bully looked broader
than ever he had seen them before. And yet for some strange reason Rat
did not leap forward to attack Kit Carson when the latter in his quiet
manner had demanded that he take back his remark that he could “switch
any American in the camp.”
The silence, however, was soon broken. Rat hesitated a moment and then,
turning abruptly, with long strides walked to his tent. At the actions
of the bully Kit Carson also started for his own tent, and every man
present understood at once what was about to occur. The two men, who
seemed to be so unequally matched, were to fight, and each had gone to
his tent for his weapons. This method of settling quarrels was the one
commonly used on the border.
With this thought in mind, every member of Kit Carson’s band was eager
to see the coming contest. At once they all drew more closely together,
and although many were fearful for the life of their brave little
leader, there was no one that ventured to express his opinion.
In a few moments the swaggering Rat, holding his rifle in his hand, and
his face fierce in its expression of rage, rushed forward on his
powerful horse. Almost at the same moment Kit Carson, light and
graceful in every movement, approached on horseback from the opposite
side of the camp. He carried no rifle, but from his belt there
protruded the stock of his pistol.
Kit Carson had always been a lover of good horses. Several times in the
journeys along the streams and in the valleys of the mountains he had
turned aside a part of a day from his regular task of trapping and had
caught the leaders of several bands of wild horses. The horse upon
which he now was mounted was one of these captives. Its black coat was
shining in the sunlight and its expression of intelligence almost
seemed to convey the idea that it understood the peril of its master
and was determined to do its utmost to aid him. Carson rode without any
saddle. No man in all the camp was considered a better rider, or more
able to compel the animal he was riding to obey his every word. At full
gallop the young scout advanced swiftly toward Rat, who, as has been
said, was also mounted upon a powerful horse.
Suddenly checking his horse as he approached Rat, Kit Carson in a low
voice said: “Am I the man you are looking for?”
For a moment the two men gazed steadily each into the face of the
other, and then Rat replied, “No.”
As he spoke, however, he lowered his rifle, and although his actions
apparently were without any design, his gun was pointed directly at the
heart of the scout.
But Kit Carson was not to be taken unaware. He had heard Rat’s
declaration that he was not looking for trouble, but the action of the
treacherous boaster when he had lowered his rifle so that it was aimed
directly at his heart did not escape him. He understood fully what the
plan of the treacherous man now was likely to be.
Like a flash he pulled his own pistol and fired at his enemy. True to
his aim the bullet struck the arm of Rat, even while his fingers were
almost upon the trigger of his rifle. Indeed, as Kit Carson fired,
Rat’s rifle also was discharged, but the wound which he had received
caused his arm to turn and the ball which he had intended to send into
the heart of the scout passed harmlessly above his head. Instantly the
men of the camp ran forward and surrounded the two fighters.
Kit Carson smiled quietly as he saw his friends approach, and then
waving them back, said in a low voice: “I have done just exactly what I
planned to do. I have prevented him from shooting me, and I think I
have given him a lesson that he will remember for some time, and yet I
have not killed him.”
“That’s right, Kit! That’s right!” spoke up Jack. “We know that you’re
not quarrelsome, and this is the first time I ever saw you draw a gun
on a white man.”
Meanwhile the bully, groaning loudly and holding his wounded arm in his
hand, was led from the spot, while two of the trappers, with water from
the spring, washed his wound and bound up his hand after the fashion
employed by the men of the frontier. In the days that followed Reuben
was not able to induce Kit Carson to refer to the fight into which he
had been drawn.
Not many days elapsed, however, before Rat declared that he would no
longer stay in the camp, and true to his word, he soon afterward
withdrew from the place. Nor was he seen again until several months had
elapsed, and then it was under conditions that caused every member of
the band to remember his coming.
“It’s time for us to be turning back,” said Kit Carson early one
morning, not long after the contest which has just been described.
“Go back where?” inquired Reuben quickly. “To Pain Court?”
“No. I don’t intend to go back there for years.”
“Where are we going?”
“To Taos.”
“We’ll have to come back here again,” suggested Reuben. “We have cached
our furs.”
“Oh, we shall come back,” replied Carson, smiling as he spoke. “Very
likely we’ll be back here the next trapping season.”
In accordance with the word of the leader, it was not long before the
few wagons in which the trappers had brought their provisions, in
addition to the supplies which had been carried on the backs of their
ponies and mules, were loaded with the furs which had been secured
after the cache had been made. Then following the course which already
had been decided upon, the men slowly made their way down the Colorado,
trapping as they went, until they at last arrived at the Gila. Then,
turning once more in their course, they trapped along the banks of the
latter river and finally, well laden with the skins they had taken, set
forth on their journey to Taos.
After their arrival there and in the days that followed, Reuben Benton
made many visits with his friend Kit Carson among the Indians, until
he, too, had learned much of their language and also had learned enough
Spanish to express his wants in that musical tongue. He shared fully in
the feeling of respect and love which the Indians manifested for the
young scout, who now was becoming famous among the scattered people on
the border. In this manner the days passed until at last the time had
come when once more the trappers were to return to the region from
which they had recently set forth.
As they advanced, the friendly Indians gave place to those who were
more hostile. The fame of Kit Carson already had preceded their coming,
and many of the redmen, although they hated the whites, nevertheless
were fearful of an encounter with them. Indeed, the trappers were not
molested throughout their long journey, until at last there came a
night which was long remembered by Reuben.
At that time, when the trappers had gone into camp, they had
established a guard for their horses. This guard was on duty throughout
the hours of the day, being shifted several times so that no one man
would be compelled to serve an undue length of time. When night drew
nigh the horses were hobbled. Frequently, however, the fear of the
prowling Indians caused Kit Carson to direct his men to tie the animals
to stakes which had been driven into the ground.
All these precautions, however, did not avail. There were times when
prowling Indian bands stealthily crept near the camp, and while the men
were sleeping the redskins cut the ropes by which the horses were
fastened to the stakes and either led them quickly away or tried to
secure a larger number by driving some of their own horses directly
through the camp, the Indians themselves closely following the
frightened animals and yelling in their loudest tones. At such times
there was danger that even the picketed horses would break away and
join the herd that was rushing upon them.
And this very event occurred on a never-to-be-forgotten night. Before
morning dawned Carson, having discovered the loss, quickly selected a
half-dozen of his followers and upon the backs of the horses that were
still left in the camp hastily followed the fleeing Indians.
Reuben, who was permitted to follow the men, although his friends
strongly urged him to remain in the camp, was soon aware that the
Indians were well armed and were not inclined to give up the prizes
they had taken without a struggle.
Many of the Indians now were armed with rifles, and the members of the
thieving band far outnumbered those of the little party that was
pursuing them. Several times among the mountains the Indians stopped
and from behind huge rocks fired upon the approaching white men.
Reuben was aware soon after the party had set forth that the night was
to be intensely cold. Indeed, his fingers soon were so numb that he was
scarcely able to hold the reins of the pony he was riding. However, he
was determined not to give way to his suffering, and without a word of
complaint steadily maintained his place in the line.
The men were confident that the Indians were not far before them.
Already they had had two brisk encounters, in which each party had
fired at the other, but whatever the results may have been among the
Indians, no one among the whites as yet had been hit.
Kit Carson’s men were making greater haste than they would had they not
been so eager to recover the horses they had lost. Because of this fact
they had advanced boldly into a long and narrow valley and had not
stopped to make sure that a part of the force they were pursuing had
not been left at the entrance while others had gone in advance to draw
the white men forward.
When the angry trappers had arrived at the place midway in the valley,
suddenly shots were heard not only in front of them but also from the
rear. In an instant it was plain that an ambuscade had been made and
the whites had been caught between the two lines of their foes.
As the party still continued on its way, Kit Carson ordered every man
to hold his fire. Suddenly one of the trappers, who was riding on
Reuben’s right, uttered a loud cry and, dropping his rifle as he threw
up his arms, almost fell from the back of his horse.
“Go on, men!” called Kit Carson, instantly, while he himself dropped
back to assist his companion in his peril.
An instant later, however, a cry went up from all the trappers when it
was seen that Kit Carson himself had been hit by a rifle ball and was
reeling on the back of his pony.