"'SPRESS FROM BENT'S"
Circling back to the river so as not to lose its guidance nor stray too
far out of the direct course, they reached its desolate banks at
nightfall and camped at the base of a low hill on the top of which grew
dense masses of greasewood. Zeb had shot a black-tailed deer on their
way to the river and their supper that night, so far as the meat was
concerned, would have delighted the palate of an epicure. Cooked over
the hot, sputtering, short-lived greasewood, which constantly was added,
and kept on the windward side of the blaze, the flavor of the meat was
very little affected and they gorged, hunter-like, until they could eat
no more; and partly smoked some of the remaining meat to have against
some pressing need.
As the stream dwindled the nature of its banks and of the surrounding
country changed, the vegetation steadily becoming more desert-like.
White chalk cliffs arose like painted eyebrows from the tops of the
banks, where erosion had revealed them; loose and disintegrating
sandstone lay about the broken plain in myriads of shapes. Stunted and
dead cottonwoods added their touch to the general scene, leaning this
way and that, weird, uncanny, ghostlike. The drab sagebrush and the
green fan of the palmetto became steadily more common, the latter
figuring largely in the daily life of the Mexicans, for its mashed,
saponaceous roots provided them with their pulpy _amole_, which was an
excellent substitute for soap. Prickly pears, Spanish bayonets, masses
of greasewood bushes and scattering fringes of short grama grass
completed the carpeting of the desolate plain.
Doggedly they pushed on, thankful for the heavy rains of the last two
days, which had reached even here and left little pools of bad-tasting
water for themselves and their beasts. At noon they stopped and built a
fire of stunted cedar, for in daylight its telltale flames told nothing.
They cooked another black-tailed deer, smoked some of the meat, and ran
bullets until they had all of the latter they could possibly use. On
again toward the Canadian until nightfall, lighting no fire, but eating
the meat they had cooked at noon. They arranged a four-shift watch and
passed a peaceful night. In their range of vision were Raton Peak,
Pike's Peak, and the Wet Mountain, that paradise for hunters; the twin
Spanish Peaks with their caps of snow, and behind these towering
sentries loomed the sullen bulk of a great mountain range under a thin
streak of glittering white.
At any distance their appearance hardly would tell whether they were
white hunters or Indians from Bent's, since their garb was a mixture of
both and their skins so tanned, their hair so long as to cause grave
doubts. More than once in that country two white men have exchanged
shots, each taking the other for an Indian. At Bent's Fort on the
Arkansas there were stray Indians from far-off tribes, and they dressed
in what they could get; and at The Pueblo, that little trading post
farther up on the Arkansas, Indians and whites lived together and
intermarried. Not one of the four but could speak more than one savage
dialect; and Tom's three companions possessed an Indian vocabulary which
left little to be desired. If it came to a test which might prove too
severe for him he could be dumb, and fall back on the sign language.
At last the Canadian was reached and passed, and Hank led them
unerringly up the valley of a little feeding stream which poured its
crystal flood down the gorges of a mountain range now almost over their
heads. Coming to a rocky bowl scooped out of the sheer, overhanging wall
at a bend, he built a fire of dry wood that was safely screened, and
from his "possible" sack he took various leaves and stems and roots he
had collected on the way. Four white men looking more like Indians had
entered that little valley just before dusk. In the morning at dawn two
white men, a Blackfoot and a Delaware, a hunting party from Bent's Fort
with messages for Bent's little Vermajo ranch, located in a mountain
valley, left the ravine and followed a little-used Ute trail that their
leader knew well. Hank wore the Blackfoot distinctive double part in his
hair just above the forehead, the isolated tuft pulled down to the
bridge of his nose, and fastened to his buckskin trousers were thin
strips of beadwork made by Blackfoot squaws.
The Mexican herder working for Bent uneasily watched them as they rode
up to his makeshift lean-to and demanded a change of horses, a report of
his stewardship, and the use of his fire. They were not bad fellows and
were generous with their heavenly tobacco, and finally his uneasiness
wore away and he gossiped with them while the night more and more shut
in his lavish fire and seemed to soften the guttural polyglot of the two
Indians. The white men did most of the talking, as was usual, and could
make themselves understood in the herder's bastard Spanish and they
answered sociably his numerous questions. Had they heard of the great
_Tejano_ army marching to avenge the terrible defeat inflicted by the
brave Armijo on their swaggering vanguard? It was the great subject from
the upper end of the Valley of Taos to the last settlement along the Rio
Grande and the Pecos. The ignoble dogs of _Tejanos_ had basely murdered
the brave Mexican scouting party near the Cimarron Crossing of the
Arkansas. What could the _soldats_ of Mexico do, attacked in their
sleep? Most of the murdered _soldats_ had come from the Valley of Taos,
which always had been friendly to Texas. Was it true that the _Tejanos_
spit fire on dry nights and could kill a full-grown bull buffalo with
their bare hands? Ah, they were devils and the sons of devils, those
_Tejanos_; and at night all doors were tightly barred in the settlements
and strange Americans regarded with suspicion.
Some nights later, down the rough, steep sides of the Arroyo Hondo,
through which trickled a ribbon of water from a recent rain, four
Indians rode carefully, leading two pack animals. They were two
Arapahoes, a Blackfoot, and a Delaware, and they followed the ravine and
soon came in sight of the little mountain pasture, dotted with cedar
bushes and sparsely covered with grass, which sloped gently down the
mountain side. In the fading twilight the so-called ranch stood vaguely
outlined, the nature of its log and adobe walls indiscernible, its mill
and the still house looming vaguely over the main building against the
darker background of the slope. The faint smell of sour mash almost hid
the mealy odor of the grist mill; hogs grunted in the little corral by
the fenced-in garden, while an occasional bleating of sheep came from
the same enclosure. Dark shapes moved over the cedar-brush pasture and
the frequent stamping of hoofs told they were either horses or mules.
High up near the roof of the composite building were narrow oblongs of
faint radiance, where feeble candle light shone through the little
squares of gypsum, so much used in that country in place of window
glass. As the four newcomers smilingly looked at the comfortable
building the foot-compelling strains of a cheap violin squeaked and
rasped resinously from the living quarters and a French-Canadian, far
from home, burst ecstatically into song. Dreaming chickens cackled
briefly and a sleepy rooster complained in restrained indignation, while
the rocky mountain side relayed the distant howl of a prowling coyote.
The leader drew the flap over the ultra-modern rifle in its sheath at
his leg and glanced back at his companions.
"Wall," he growled, "hyar we air; we're plumb inter it, now."
"Up ter our scalp-locks," came a grunted reply.
"Hell! 'Tain't th' fust time they've been in danger. They'll stand a
lot o' takin'," chuckled another voice. He softly imitated a coyote and
the sleepy inmates of the hen house burst into a frightened chorus.
"Hain't ye got no sense?" asked Hank, reprovingly.
"Wouldn't be hyar if I had. I smell sour mash. Let's go on."
Hank kneed his mount, no longer the one which had become so well known
to many eyes on the long wagon trail, and led the way down to the door.
At the soft confusion of guttural tongues outside the house the door
opened and Turley, the proprietor, stood framed in the dim light behind
him.
"'Spress from Senor Bent's," said the nearest Indian, walking forward.
"It's Hank Marshall," he whispered. "Want ter palaver with ye, Turley."
"Want's more whiskey, I reckon," growled Turley. "Hobble yer hosses on
th' pasture. Ye kin roll up 'most anywhar ye like. Fed yit?"
"_Si, senor; muchos gracias_," answered the Indian. "_Senor! cary mucho
aguardiente grano!_"
"Oh, ye do?" sarcastically replied Turley. "Whiskey, huh? Wall, ye'll do
better without it. What's Bent want o' me?"
"_Aguardiente de grano, senor!_"
Turley chuckled. "He does, hey? I say he picks damned poor messengers to
send fer whiskey! We'll talk about that tomorrow. Roll up some'rs in yer
blankets an' don't pester me." He stepped back and the door slammed in
the eager, pleading face of the Blackfoot, to a chorus of disappointed
grunts. The rebuffed savage timidly knocked on the door and it was flung
open, Turley glaring down at him. "Ye heard what I said, an' ye savvied
it! Reckon I want four drunk Injuns 'round hyar all night? We ain't
a-goin' ter have no damned nonsense. Take yer animals off ter th'
pasture an' camp down by th' crick! _Vamoose!_"
The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly,
sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under his
breath. "Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!"
he growled.
"_Mais, oui_," said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back under
his chin, and the stirring air went on again.
Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let his
eyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavy
pistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled a
throaty inquiry.
"It's me, Hank," came the soft reply. "Take that damned thing away!
What's up?"
Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their owners
stirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings as
their hands replaced what they had held.
"Nothin', only a courtin' party," chuckled Hank.
"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "but
never one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know some
damned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', at
yer time o' life? Somebody's wife?"
"We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git thar
th' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' up
everythin' like they has."
"Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley.
"Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost in
the darkness.
"Then ye come over th' wagon trail, an' up th' Arkansas?"
"Over th' wagon trail an' up th' Cimarron, with th' second caravan o'
traders. Come nigh straight acrost from Cold Spring."
"Wall, I'll be damned!" muttered Turley. Then he snorted. "Ain't ye got
no sense, ye Root Digger? Everybody in th' train'll know them hosses!"
"We swapped 'em at Bent's rancho on th' Vermajo--good gosh! Two o' 'em
come from them Texans!"
"They didn't have no brands," said Tom. "I heard 'em say somethin' about
gettin' some at Bent's. We got ter risk it, anyhow. It'll be like addin'
a spoonful o' freight ter a wagon load."
Hank's mind was running in a groove that he had been gouging deeper and
longer hour after hour and he refused to be sidetracked by any question
concerning the horses they had changed. "We want ter swap hosses ag'in
an' borry some rags fer clothes; an' before daylight, too."
Tom arose on one elbow. "That's all right, fur's it goes; only it don't
go no-whar," he declared. "We want ter git rid o' these hosses, an' we
want th' clothes; but that ain't all. We want a job, Turley. Need any
mule wranglers ter take some freight inter Santer Fe?"
"Day after tomorrow," answered Turley. "We got ter git rid o' these
animals afore then, ye got ter git shet o' 'em afore mornin'. I'll send
Jacques out ter take 'em away as soon as I go back ter th' house. Arter
he leaves with 'em I'll bring ye some ol' clothes so ye'll look a little
different from them four fools that swapped hosses at Bent's rancho. Th'
peon up thar won't git away, nor mebby see nobody fer weeks; but we
better take th' pelt afore th' meat spiles under it. I got some hosses
th' Utes stole from th' 'Rapahoes. We stole 'em from th' Utes. They
ain't marked, an' they ain't knowed down in th' valley."
"But we'll still be four," commented Tom, thoughtfully.
"That's shore a plain trail," said Jim Ogden. "Here: You an' Hank take a
mule apiece an' go back th' way we come, fur a spell. Me an' Zeb kin
freight whiskey with Turley's _atejo_, an' meet ye along th' trail
some'rs, or in Santer Fe, at th' warehouse. Ye kin load yer mules with
faggots ter be sold in town, an' tag onter our mule train fer society
an' pertection. Yer rifles kin be hid under th' faggots."
"We'll be unpackin' th' mules noon an' night," replied Tom. "How 'bout
our rifles then?"
"Can't be did," grunted Hank.
"We got ter risk that peon seein' anybody ter talk to," said Tom.
"Anyhow, 'tain't nothin' unusual fer him ter see fellers from th' fort.
We'll go on with th' _atejo_, after we make a few changes in our
clothes, an' ride Turley's hosses 'stead o' Bent's. But we can't jine
that mule train as no party o' four. We got ter lose that danged number,
that's flat."
"You an' Hank," offered Zeb, "bein' Blackfoot an' Delaware, kin be
hunters from Bent's; me an' Jim, bein' 'Rapahoes turned friendly, kin
come from St. Vrain's post. Th' South Platte, up thar, is th' 'Rapahoe
stampin' ground an' we both know it from one end to t'other. That'll
count fer all o' us havin' first-class weapons. Somebody's shore goin'
ter notice them."
Turley nodded. "Yes; hyar's whar ye lose that cussed four. You two
'Rapahoes git scarce afore daylight, goin' on foot an' leavin' no trail.
Come back from th' way o' th' old Ute trail from th' Bayou Salade. I'm
runnin' a little herdin' up o' my hosses on th' side o' th' mounting;
they're scatterin' in th' brush too much. Fer that I'll be needin' all
my men that ain't goin' as muleteers. I'll hire you boys, two at a time,
ter go 'long with th' _atejo_ as guards. Thar's thieves atween hyar an'
Santer Fe that likes Turley's whiskey an' ground meal. I'll give ye a
writin' ter my agent in town to pay ye off, an' ye'll git through, all
right. Do ye reckon ye'll have ter git outer Santer Fe on th' jump?
Seein' as how yer so danged careful how ye git inter th' town, it may be
that ye ain't welcome a hull lot. Knowin' Hank like I do, makes me
suspicious."
"We'll mebby git out quicker'n scat," answered Tom, chuckling. "They'll
mebby be touchy about strangers, with them Texans prowlin' 'round. If we
git ter goin' strong as a Texan raid an' they find out that it's only
four no-'count Injuns full o' Taos lightnin', they'll mebby move fast.
We may make quite a ruckus afore we git through, if they find out who we
air."
"What th' hell ye aimin' ter do? Capture th' town?" demanded Turley,
unable to longer hold down his curiosity.
"Aimin' ter git our trade goods money, see a young lady, hang 'round
till th' return caravan start back fer th' States, an' mebby squar up
fer a few o' them Texans that _didn't_ git ter Mexico City," answered
Tom.
"This hyar's th' Tom Boyd that slapped Armijo's kiyote face," explained
Hank. "We hears th' Governor is lonesome fer his company."
"Great Jehovah yes!" exclaimed Turley. "Boyd, ye better jine that thar
caravan from Bent's, meetin' up with it at th' Crossin'. Armijo combed
these hyar mountings fer ye, an' watched my rancho fer nigh a week. He'd
'most give his right hand ter git a-holt o' you; an' if he does, you kin
guess what'll happen ter you!" He peered curiously at the young American
and shook his head. "I'm bettin' ye _do_ leave on th' jump, if yer lucky
enough ter leave at all. Ye'll need fresh hosses, another change o'
clothes an' a cache o' grub. Tell ye what," he said, turning to Hank.
"Ye know that little mounting valley whar you an' me stopped fer two
days, that time we war helpin' find th' hosses that war run off Bent's
Vermajo rancho? Wall, I'll fix it so these hyar hosses will be waitin'
fer ye up thar. I got some men I kin trust as long as I'm playin' agin'
th' greasers. I'll cache ye some Dupont an' Galena, too," he offered,
referring to powder and lead. The latter came from Galena, Illinois,
and took its name from that place.
"An' forty pounds o' jerked meat a man," added Hank. "We might have ter
go clean up ter th' South Park afore we dast turn fer Bent's. Hang it on
that thar dead ash we used afore, or clost by if th' tree's down. We
better leave ye some more bullets as will fit our own weapons without no
doubt. We kin run more in th' warehouse in Santer Fe if we need 'em.
Keep yer Galena, Turley, an' leave some patches, instid, along with our
bullets."
"But we'll still be four arter we leave hyar," objected Jim.
"No, ye won't," replied Turley. "Ye'll show up in pairs, ye'll jine in
pairs, ye'll ride an' 'sociate in pairs, an' thar'll be a dozen more
mixin' up with ye. Wall, talk it over among ye while I gits busy afore
it's light," and the friendly rancher was swallowed up in the night.
A few minutes later Jacques, sleepy and grumbling, loomed up out of the
darkness, collected the six horses and departed up the slope. Shortly
after him came Turley with a miscellaneous collection of odds and ends
of worn-out clothing and soon his friends had exchanged a garment or two
with him. Tom and Hank parted with their buckskin shirts and now wore
coarse garments of Pueblo make; Zeb had a Comanche leather jerkin and
Jim wore a blue cotton shirt patched with threadbare red flannel. They
bound bands of beadwork or soft tanned skin around their foreheads, and
Hank's hair proudly displayed two iridescent bronze feathers from the
tail of a rooster. If Joe Cooper, himself, had come face to face with
them he would have passed by without a second glance.
Silently Zeb and Jim melted into the night, while Tom and Hank arose and
went around to the wall of the still house, rolled up in their
newly-acquired blankets against the base of the adobe wall and slept
until discovered and awakened after dawn by one of Turley's mill hands,
who paid them a timid and genuine respect.
They loafed around all day, watching the still house with eager eyes.
Their wordless pleading was in vain, however, for Turley, frankly
scowling at their first appearance, totally ignored them thereafter.
Just before dusk two half-civilized Arapahoes from St. Vrain's South
Platte trading post swung down the mountain side, cast avaricious eyes
on some horses in the pasture, sniffed deeply at the still house, and
asked for whiskey.
"I'll give ye whiskey," said Turley after a moment's thought, a grin
spreading over his face, "but I won't give it ter ye hyar. If ye want
likker I'll give ye a writin' ter my agent in Santer Fe, an' he'll give
ye all yer porous skins kin hold, an' a jug ter take away with ye."
"_Si, senor! Si, senor! Muchos gracias!_"
"Hold on thar! Hold yer hosses!" growled Turley. "Ye don't reckon I'm
makin' ye no present, do ye? Ye got ter earn that likker. If ye want it
bad enough ter escort my _atejo_ ter th' city, it's yourn. I'm combin'
my hosses outer th' brush, an' I'm short-handed. By gosh!" he chuckled,
smiling broadly.
"Thar's a couple more thirsty Injuns 'round hyar, some'rs; hey, Jacques!
Go find them watch dogs o' th' still house. They won't be fur away, you
kin bet. These two an' them shore will scare th' thieves plumb ter death
all th' way ter town. I kin feel _my_ ha'r move!"
Jacques returned shortly with Bent's thirsty hirelings, and after some
negotiations and the promise of horses for them to ride, the Indians
accepted his offer. They showed a little reluctance until he had given
each of them a drink of his raw, new whiskey, which seemed to serve as
fuel to feed a fire already flaming. The bargain struck, he ordered them
fed and let them sleep on the softest bit of ground they could find
around the rancho.