THE PASSING OF PEDRO
After supper that night Hank and Tom sat around their fire and soon were
joined by Pedro, who paid them effusive compliments about their defeat
of the Arapahoes. They squirmed under his heavy flattery and finally, in
desperation, spoke of the secret trail to Taos. His face beamed in the
firelight and he leaned eagerly forward.
"You have decide?" he asked.
"Yes," answered Tom. "Whar we goin' ter meet, and what time?"
"Ah?" breathed Pedro. "To that have I geeve _mucho_ thought. Eet should
be ear-rly, so we be far away by thee coming of thee sun. Ees eet not
so?"
"Naw," growled Hank. "Folks air not sleepin' sound enough then. Nobody's
goin' ter foller us. Thar'll be lots o' 'em leavin' camp at night from
now on, tryin' ter beat each other ter th' customs fellers. Two hours
afore dawn is time enough. But we got lots o' time ter figger that; we
won't be ter th' Upper Spring fer two more days. Time enough then ter
talk about it."
"But, eet ees tonight!" exclaimed Pedro. "_Madre de Dios!_ You teenk I
mean near thee Upper Spreeng? No! No!"
"Mebby not; but that's whar _we_ mean," said Tom. "Think we're goin'
pokin' along through this Injun country fer two nights an' a day by
ourselves? Th' caravan gits ter Willer Bar tomorrow night, an' camps at
th' Upper Spring, or Cold Spring, th' next night. That puts us near
fifty miles further on in th' protection of th' caravan."
"No! No!" argued Pedro in despair. "Eet ees too _mucho_ reesk!"
"Of what?" demanded Tom, in surprise.
"Eet may be that Armijo send _soldats_ to meet thee tr-rain, lak other
times. Senores, eet mus' be tonight! Tonight eet mus' be!" He looked
around suddenly. "But where ar-re thee _cargas_, thee packs? I do not
see them. What ees eet you do?"
"We put 'em outside th' corral," chuckled Tom knowingly, "so folks will
git used ter seeing 'em thar. Tomorrow night we'll do th' same, an' do
it ag'in at th' Upper Spring. Somebody shore would see us if we had ter
pack 'em here an' sneak 'em through th' camp. Ye should tell yer friends
ter put thar packs outside th' waggins, too. How we goin' ter git
through th' guards around th' camp?"
"By my fr-riends," answered Pedro. "But eet may be too late at Cold
Spreeng!" he expostulated. "Eef thee _soldats_ ar-re there--ah, senores!
Eet ees ver' bad, Cold Spreeng!"
"We ain't botherin' 'bout that," said Tom reassuringly. "Hank kin scout
on ahead o' us, an' if thar camped up thar we kin drop out o' th' train
behind any bend on th' way, an' take ter th' brush."
Pedro begged and pleaded, but to no avail. He still was arguing when his
two companions rolled up in their blankets and settled down to go to
sleep. Sadly he walked away, hiding his anger until well out of their
sight, and then hastened to his own fire and sent three of his
compatriots to watch the sleeping pair. They had their watch for
nothing, and while they doggedly kept their eyes on the two plainsmen,
Uncle Joe and his two wagoners were busy on the other side of the camp,
stowing merchandise in the wagons and making false packs. This they
found easy to do without calling upon many buffalo rugs, for the goods
had been packed in light boxes, over which had been thrown skins and
canvas. By taking out the contents of the boxes and putting the
containers back into their original wrappings the shapes of the packs
did not change. The pigs of lead, a keg of powder and bundles of stones
were wrapped in pieces of old skins to give weight to the packs to keep
them from flopping at every step of the mules. They did not start to
work until Zeb Houghton and Jim Ogden returned from their tour of guard
duty and took up another kind of guard duty near the wagons; and long
before daylight awakened the encampment the work was done and no one the
wiser. Alonzo Webb and Enoch Birdsall had taken care of the packs
belonging to Ogden and Houghton and everything was in shape for quick
action.
On the march again after an early breakfast the caravan plodded along
the trail to reach Willow Bar in good time for the next night camp. As
the wagons rolled along the road following the course of the Cimarron,
Uncle Joe and Patience dropped back to the rear guard, where Hank
Marshall scowled at Jim Ogden, but refrained from open hostilities.
Hank was glad to see them and entertained them mile after mile with
accounts of his life and experiences in the great West. At times his
imagination set a hard pace for his vocabulary, but the latter managed
to keep up. The men exchanged tobacco off and on and no one gave a
second thought to what they were doing. When Uncle Joe and Patience rode
forward again as the train drew near to the noon camping place, Uncle
Joe was poorer and lighter by the loss of a goodly sum in minted gold,
while Hank was richer and heavier. The balance was obtainable in Santa
Fe in the warehouse of a mutual friend.
The wagons hardly had left the noon camp when a heavy rain storm burst
upon them, with a blast of cold air that quickly turned the rain into
driving sheets of hail. These storms were common along the Cimarron and
at times raged for two or three days. The animals became frantic with
fear and pain, and the train was a scene of great confusion from one end
to the other. Alternate downpours of rain, sleet, and heavy hailstones
continued all the rest of the day and the encampment at Willow Bar was
one of sullenness and discontent. The wind rose during the early part of
the night and sent the rain driving into the wagons through every crack
and crevice, and the flapping and slapping and booming of wagon covers,
added to the fury of the wind and the swish of the downpour, filled the
night with a tumult of noise. The guards around the camp either crawled
under skins or crept back to their wagons, not able to see three feet in
the blackness.
Tom and Hank had taken refuge under a great Pittsburg wagon owned by
Haviland and had fastened buffalo rugs to its sides to shed some of the
rain. As soon as darkness set in and Pedro's spies found that they could
not see an arm's length from them and were drenched and half frozen by
the steady downpour, they fled from their posts and sought refuge from
the storm. It took very little to convince them that the men they were
to watch would stay where they were until dawn or later, and they did
not let Pedro know of their deflection.
"Nine, ten, eleven," muttered the first of two men leading packmules as
they felt their way from wagon to wagon. "This oughter be Haviland's,
Zeb. Yep, I kin feel thar skin walls." He bent down and raised the lower
edge of a skin. "Hank! Tom!"
"All right, Jim," came the low answer, and the two partners, bundled in
skins until they looked like nothing human, crawled from their snug
shelter and stood up, their one and constant thought being for the
covers of the hammers of their heavy rifles. Hank pushed ahead and the
night swallowed up the little party.
Uncle Joe raised himself on one elbow and peered through a small opening
in the canvas at the rear end of his first huge wagon, and got a faceful
of cold rain before he could close the opening again. He had done this a
dozen times since dark. Muttering sleepily he rolled up in his blankets
and rugs and dozed again, squirming down into the warm bed as vague
thoughts sped through his mind of what his friends were going to face.
Suddenly the soft whinny of a horse sounded squarely under him, and he
bounced from the blankets and crept to a crack where the canvas was
nailed to the tailboard of the wagon. "Hello!" he called. "Hello!"
A low voice answered him and he shivered as a trickle of cold rain
rolled down his face. "Thought you had given it up till tomorrow night.
This is a hell of a night, boys, to go wandering off from the camp. Sure
you won't get lost among th' hills?" He chuckled at the reply and
shivered again. "Sure I'll tell her Bent's. Yes. No, she won't. What?
Look here, young man; she's plumb cured of tenderfeet. Yes, I remember
everything. All right; good luck, boys. God knows you'll need it!" He
listened for a moment, heard no sounds of movement, and called again.
"What's th' matter?" There came no answer and he crept back to his
blankets, his teeth chattering, and lay awake the rest of the night,
worrying.
Between the wagons and the road the little pack train waited, kept
together by soft bird calls instead of by sight. A plaintive,
disheartened snipe whistled close by and was answered in kind. Hank
almost bumped into Ogden before he saw him. They both looked like
drowned rats, the water slipping from the buffalo hair and pouring from
them in little rills.
"Ain't a guard in sight, or ruther feelin', fifty feet each side o' th'
road," Hank reported. "Bet every blasted one o' 'em is back in camp.
Mules all tied together? Everybody hyar? All right. Off we go."
All night long the little _atejo_ slopped down the streaming road, kept
to it by the uncanny instinct and the oft repeated cheeping and
twittering of the adopted son of the Blackfeet, who could perfectly
imitate any night bird he ever had heard; and he had heard them all.
Horses whinnied, mules brayed, wolves and coyotes howled, foxes
squalled, chipmunks scolded, squirrels chattered and several other
animals performed solos in the dark at the head of the little pack
train, to be answered from the rear. Anyone unfortunate enough to be
camped at the edge of the trail would have thought himself surrounded by
a menagerie.
With the first sullen sign of dawn Tom pushed on ahead, reconnoitered
the Upper Spring, found it deserted and went on, riding some hundreds of
yards from, but parallel to, the trail and soon came to Cold Spring.
Here he saw quantities of camp and riding gear, abandoned firelocks,
personal belongings, and other things "forgotten" by the brave Armijo
and his army in their precipitate retreat from the Texans, while the
latter were still one hundred and fifty miles away. Scouting in the
vicinity for awhile he rode back and met the little _atejo_, which had
been plodding steadily on at its pace of three miles an hour; and all
the urging of which the men were capable would not increase that speed.
At the Upper Spring, which poured into a ravine and flowed toward the
Cimarron a few miles to the north, the wagon road drew farther from the
river and ran toward the Canadian; and here the little party left it to
turn and twist over and around hills, ravines, pastures and woods, and
then slopped down the middle of a storm-swollen rivulet. They turned up
one of its small feeders and followed it for half a mile and then,
crossing a little divide, struck another small brook and splashed down
it until they came to the Cimarron. Here they threw into the river the
useless contents of the false packs, distributed the supplies among the
mules, and pushed on again upstream along the bank.
They now were well up on the headwaters of the river and its width was
negligible, although its storm-fed torrent boiled and seethed and gave
to it a false fierceness. Their doubling and the hiding of their trail
in the streams had not been done so much for the purpose of throwing the
Mexicans off their track, as to make their pursuers think they were
trying to throw them off. They knew that the Mexicans, upon losing the
tracks, would strike straight for the old and now almost abandoned
Indian trail for Bent's Fort.
"We got about a ten-hour start on 'em," growled Tom, "but they'll cut
that down quick, once they git goin'. Reckon I'll lay back a-ways an'
slow 'em up if they git hyar too soon."
Zeb and Jim wheeled their horses and without a word accompanied him to
the rear.
Hank, leading the bell mule, pushed on, looking for the site of his old
cache and for a good place to cross the swollen stream, and he soon
stopped at the water's edge and howled like a wolf. In a few minutes his
companions came up, reported no Mexicans in sight, and unpacked the more
perishable supplies. These they carried across to the other bank, their
horses swimming strongly and soon the mules were ready to follow. Tom
led off, entering the stream with the picket rope of the bell mule
fastened to his saddle, and with his weapons, powder horn and "possible"
sack high above his head. His horse breasted the current strongly,
quartering against it, and the bell mule followed. After her, with a
slight show of hesitation, came the others, the three remaining hunters
bringing up the rear.
As the _atejo_ formed again and started forward Hank hung back, peering
into the stunted trees and brush on the other side of the stream.
"Come on, Hank," said Tom. "What ye lookin' fer? They warn't in sight."
"I war sorta hankerin' fer 'em ter show up," growled Hank with deep
regret. "That's plumb center range from hyar, over thar. Wouldn't mind
takin' a couple o' cracks at 'em, out hyar by ourselves, us four. Allus
hate ter turn my tail ter yaller-bellies like them varmints. I hate 'em
next ter Crows!" He slowly turned his horse and fell in behind the last
mule, glancing back sorrowfully. Then he looked ahead. "Thar's my ol'
cache," he chuckled.
Before them on the right was an eroded hill with steep sides, its flat
top covered with a thick mass of brush, berry bushes and scrub timber,
and on its right was a swamp, filled with pools and rank with
vegetation. The dry wash marking the end of the great buffalo trail was
dry no longer, but poured out a roiled, yellow-brown stream into the
dirty waters of the Cimarron.
Rounding the hill they stopped and exchanged grins, for in a little
horseshoe hollow two horses, with pack saddles on their backs, stopped
their grazing, pulled to the end of their picket-ropes, and looked
inquiringly at the invaders.
"Thar's jest no understandin' th' ways o' Providence," chuckled Hank as
he dismounted. "Hyar we been a-wishin' an' a-wishin' fer a couple o'
hosses to take th' place o' these cold-'lasses mules, an' danged if hyar
they ain't, saddles an' all, right under our noses."
While he went along the back trail on foot to a point from where he
could see the river, his companions became busy. They pooled their
supplies and packed them securely on the Providence-provided horses, put
the rest on their own animals, picketed the mules and removed the bell
from the old mare, tossing it aside so its warning tinkle would be
stilled. Signalling Hank, in a few minutes they were on their way again
along the faint and in many places totally effaced trail leading over
the wastes to the distant trading post on the Arkansas. Coming to a
rainwater rivulet Hank sent them westward down its middle while he rode
splashingly upstream. Soon coming to a tangle of brush he forced his
horse to take a few steps around it on the bank, returned to the stream
and then, holding squarely to its middle, picked his way through the
tangle and rode back to rejoin his friends, having left behind him a
sign of his upward passing. In case Providence went to sleep and took no
more interest in his affairs, he had the satisfaction of knowing that he
had done what he could to hide their trail.
He found his friends waiting for him and he shook his head as he joined
them. "Danged if I like this hyar hidin'," he growled, coming back to
his pet grievance. "I most gen'rally 'd ruther do it myself."
"But it ain't a question o' fighting," retorted Tom. "We got ter hide
our trail from now on in case some greaser gits away, like they did from
them Texans back nigh th' Crossin', an' takes th' news in ter th'
settlements that we didn't go ter Bent's after we left th' wagon road.
Ye'll git all th' danged fightin' yer lookin' fer afore ye puts Santa Fe
behind ye--an' I'm bettin' we'll all show our trails a hull lot worse
afore we git through ter Bent's. Come on; Turley's ranch is a long ways
off. If yer itchin' ter try that repeatin' rifle ye'll shore git th'
chance ter, later."
Hank grinned guiltily and while he was not thoroughly convinced of the
soundness of their flight, so far as his outward appearances showed, he
grunted a little but pushed on and joined his partner. In a few minutes
he grinned again.
"I ain't never had th' chanct ter try fer six plumb-centers without
takin' th' rifle from my shoulder," he remarked. "Jest wait till I take
this hyar Colt up in th' Crow country!" He chuckled with anticipated
pleasures and then glanced sidewise at his partner. "Say, Tom," he said,
reminiscently; "who air th' three other best men yer gal was thinkin'
of, back thar in that little clearin'?"
"What you mean?" demanded Tom, whirling in his saddle, his face flushing
under its tan. "An' she ain't my gal, neither."
Hank chirped and twittered a bit. "Then who's is she?"
"Don't know; but she won't like bein' called mine. Ye oughtn't call her
that."
"Not even atween us two?"
"Not never, a-tall."
"That so?" muttered Hank, a vague plan presenting itself to his mind, to
be considered and used later. "Huh! I must be gittin' old an'
worthless," he mourned. "I been readin' signs fer more'n thirty year,
an' I ain't never read none that war airy plainer, arter them thievin'
'Rapahoes turned tail an' lit out. Anyhow, I reckon mebby yer safe if ye
keep on _thinkin'_ that she's yer gal." He scratched his chin. "But who
war th' other three?"
"Why, I do remember her saying something like that," confessed Tom
slowly, tingling as his memory hurled the whole scene before him.
"Reckon she meant Uncle Joe an' her father."
"That accounts fer two o' 'em," said Hank, nodding heavily; "but who in
tarnation is th' third?"
"Don't know," grunted Tom.
"Huh! Bet he's that stuck-up, no-'count doctor feller. Yeah; that's who
it is." He glanced slyly at his frowning friend. "Told ye I war gettin'
old an' worthless. Gosh! an' she's goin' all th' rest o' th' way ter
Santer Fe with him!" He slapped his horse and growled in mock anxiety.
"We better git a-goin' an' not loaf like we air. Santer Fe's a long ways
off!"
Two miles further on they turned up a little branch of the stream and
Hank, stopping his horse, threw up his hand. "Listen!" he cried.
Four pairs of keen ears sifted the noises of the intermittent wind and
three pairs of eyes turned to regard their companion.
"What ye reckon ye heard?" curiously asked Zeb.
"I'd take my oath I heard rifle shots--a little bust o' 'em," replied
Hank. "Thar ain't no questionin' it; I _am_ gittin' old. Come along;
we'll keep ter th' water fur's we kin, anyhow."
* * * * *
Back at the encampment of the caravan dawn found the animals stampeded,
and considerable time elapsed before they were collected and before the
absence of Tom and his friends was noticed. Then, with many
maledictions, Pedro rallied his friends and set out along the wagon
road, following a trail easily seen notwithstanding the rain which had
beaten at the telltale tracks all night. Mile after mile unrolled behind
them, saturated with Spanish curses; miles covered with all the vengeful
ferocity and eagerness of Apaches. The score of Mexicans were
well-armed, having spent the winter in the Missouri settlements and
procured the best weapons to be had there. The Upper Spring came near
and was put behind in a shower of hoof-thrown mud, and without pause
they followed the tracks leading into the rough country, like hounds
unleashed. They were five to one, and these odds were deemed sufficient
in a sudden night attack. There would be satisfaction, glory, and
profits for them all. The Governor had demanded Tom Boyd's ears, on him
if possible, without him if they could be obtained in no other way; the
Governor was powerful and would reward loyal and zealous service. They
followed the trail of the _atejo_ around hills, through ravines, and
past woods, an advance guard of three men feeling the way. Then the
tracks ceased at the side of a creek; but they did not pause. Choosing
the straightest practical route to the Cimarron at the beginning of the
old Indian trail running northward to the Arkansas, they kept on. At
last they saw the muddy flood of the river and as they reached its banks
and read them at a glance they sent up an exultant shout. Holding their
weapons and powder well above the backs of their swimming horses they
reached the further side and took up the trail again.
Pedro dashed forward and flung up an arm and as his followers stopped in
answer he cheered them with a Spanish oration, in which Pedro played no
minor part. "Pedro never loses!" he boasted. "Before noon we will be on
the heels of the gringo dogs and our scouts will find their camp in the
night. Before another sun rises in the heavens we will have their ears
at our belts and their trade goods on the way to the Valley of Taos!
Forward, my braves! Forward, my warriors! Pedro leads you to glory!"
They snapped forward in their saddles as the spurs went home, their
rifles at the ready, their advance guard steadily forging ahead, and
thundered along the tracks of the fleeing _atejo_. Rounding the little
hill with its frowsy cap of brush and scrub timber, they received a
stunning surprise; for dropping down the steep bank as if from the sky
charged twenty-odd vengeful Texans, their repeating rifles cracking like
the roll of a drum. Pedro's exultant face became a sickly yellow, his
burning eyes in an instant changed to glass, and his boasting words
were slashed across by the death rattle in his throat. Volley after
volley crashed and roared as the charging Texans wheeled to charge back
again, and as they turned once more on the hillside they pulled up
sharply and viewed the havoc of their deadly work. No man was left to
carry tales, and Pedro had spoken with prophetic vision, for he had
indeed led his warriors to glory--and oblivion.