"LOS TEJANOS!"
The encampment of the returning caravan was in a little pasture well
outside the town and it was the scene of bustling activity. Its
personnel was different from either of the two trains from the Missouri
frontier, for it was made up of traders and travelers from both of the
earlier, west-bound caravans. Some of the first and second wagon trains
had gone on to El Paso and Chihuahua, a handful of venturesome travelers
were to try for the Pacific coast, and others of the first two trains
had elected to remain in the New Mexican capital. While in the two
west-bound caravans there had been many Mexicans, their number now was
negligible. But this returning train was larger than either of the other
two, carried much less freight, a large amount of specie, and would
drive a large herd of mules across the prairies for sale in the Missouri
settlements, which would fan the fires of Indian avarice all along the
trail.
Uncle Joe and his brother had been busy all day doing their own work,
catching up odds and ends of their Santa Fe connections, and helping
friends get ready for the long trip, and they had not given much thought
to Patience, whom they believed to be saying her farewells to friends
she had made in the city. As the afternoon passed and she and her escort
had not appeared, Uncle Joe became a little uneasy; and as the shadows
began to reach farther and farther from the wagons he mounted his horse
and rode back to Santa Fe to find and join her. It was nearly dark when
he galloped back to the encampment and sought his brother, hoping that
Patience had made her way to the wagons while he had sought for her in
town. He knew that she had not called on any of her friends and that she
must have stolen a last ride through the environs of the town. The two
men were frankly frightened and hurriedly made the rounds of the wagons
and then started for the city. It was dark by then and as they rode by
the last camp-fire of the encampment, four villainous Indians loomed up
in the light of the little blaze and Uncle Joe recognized them
instantly. He drew up quickly.
"Have you seen Patience?" he cried, an agony of fear in his voice. "We
can't find her anywhere!"
The Indians motioned for him to go on and they followed him and his
brother. When a few score paces from the fire they stopped and
consulted, hungrily fingering the locks of their heavy rifles. While
they were sketching a plan a Pueblo Indian, following the trail to the
camp like a speeding shadow, came up to them and blurted out his
fragmentary tale in a mixture of Spanish and Indian.
"Salezar stole white woman on mountain. Put her in _carreta_ and went
back to Santa Fe. Tell these people, that her friends will know.
Salezar, the son of a pig, stole her on the mountain." He burst into a
torrent of words unintelligible and open and shut his hands as he
raved.
Finally in reply to their hot, close questioning he told all he knew,
his answers interspersed with stark curses for Salezar and pity and
anxiety for the angel senorita. His words bore the undeniable stamp of
sincerity, fitted in with what the anxious group feared, and he was
triply bound by the gold pieces crowded into his hands. After another
conference, not pointless now, a plan was hurriedly agreed upon and the
several parts well studied. The Pueblo was given a commission and loaned
a horse, and after repeating what he was to do, shot away into the
darkness. Uncle Joe and his brother grudgingly accepted their parts,
after Tom had shown them they could help in no other way, and turned
back into the encampment, where their hot and eager efforts met with
prompt help from their closest friends. Alonzo Webb and Enoch Birdsall,
mounted, led four horses out of the west side of the camp and melted
into the darkness; several hundred yards from the wagons they turned the
led horses over to four maddened Indians and followed them through the
night, to enter Santa Fe from the south. Not far behind them a cavalcade
rode along the same route, grim and silent. At the little corral where
the _atejo_ had put up the Indians got the horses which Turley had
loaned them, shook hands with the two traders and listened as the
caravan's horses were led off toward the camp.
Armstrong answered the knocks on his door and admitted the Delaware,
listened in amazement to the brief, tense statement of fact, strongly
endorsed Tom's plans, and eagerly accepted his own part. His caller
slipped out, the door closed, and the sounds of walking horses faded
out down the street. A few moments later, Armstrong, rifle in hand,
slipped out of the house and ran southward.
Captain Salezar, sitting at ease in his adobe house, poured himself
another drink of _aguardiente_ and rolled another corn-husk cigarette.
Lighting it from the candle he fell to pacing to and fro across the
small room. As the raw, potent liquor stimulated his imagination he
began to bow to imaginary persons, give orders to officers, and to
introduce himself as Colonel Salezar. From the barracks across the
corner of the square an occasional burst of laughter rang out, but these
were becoming more infrequent and less loud. He heard the grounding
gun-butt of the sentry outside his door as the soldier paused before
wheeling to retrace his steps over the beat.
The sentry paced along the narrow driveway and stopped at the outer
corner of the house to cast an envious glance across at the barracks
where he knew that his friends were engaged in a furtive game of
_monte_, which had started before he had gone on duty not a quarter of
an hour before. He turned slowly to pace back again and then suddenly
threw up his arms as his world became black. His falling firelock was
caught as it left his hands, and soon lay at the side of its gagged and
trussed owner in the blackness along the base of a driveway wall. Two
figures slipped toward the courtyard to the rear of the house and one of
them, taking the rifle of his companion, stopped at the corner of the
wall at the driveway. The other slipped to the door, gently tried the
latch and opened it, one hand hidden beneath the folds of a dirty
blanket. The door swung silently open and shut and the intruder cast a
swift glance around the room.
Captain Salezar grinned into the cracked mirror hanging on the wall,
stiffened to attention, and saluted the image in the glass.
"Colonel Salezar's orders, sir," he declaimed and then, staring with
unbelieving eyes at the apparition pushing out onto the mirror, crossed
himself, whirled and drew his sword almost in one motion.
The Delaware cringed and pulled at a lock of hair straggling down past
his eyes and held out a folded paper, swiftly placing a finger on his
lips.
"_Por le Capitan despues le Gobernador_," he whispered. "_Pronto!_"
The captain's anger and suspicion at so unceremonious an entry slowly
faded, but he did not lower the sword. The Delaware slid forward, abject
and fearful, his eyes riveted on the clumsy blade, the paper held out at
arm's length. "_Por le Capitan_," he muttered. "_Pronto!_"
"You son of swine!" growled Salezar. "You scum! Is this the way you
enter an officer's house? How did you pass the sentry? A score of lashes
on both your backs will teach you manners and him his duty. Give me that
message and stand aside till I call the guard!"
"_Perdon, Capitan! Perdon, perdon!_" begged the Delaware. "_Le
Gobernador_--" his hands streaked out, one gripping the sword wrist of
the captain, the other fastening inexorably on the greasy, swarthy
throat well up under the chin. As the grips clamped down the Delaware's
knee rose and smashed into the Mexican's stomach. The sword clattered
against a wall and the two men fell and rolled and thrashed across the
floor.
"Where _is_ she?" grated the Indian as he writhed and rolled, now
underneath and now uppermost. "Where _is_ she, you murdering dog?"
They smashed against the flimsy table and overturned it, candle, liquor
and all. The candle flickered out and the struggle went on in the
darkness.
"Where _is_ she, Salezar? Yore in th' hands of a _Texan_, you taker of
ears! Where _is_ she?"
Salezar was no weakling and although he had no more real courage than a
rat, like a rat he was cornered and fighting for his life; but Captain
Salezar had lived well and lazily, as his pampered body was now showing
evidence. Try as he might he could not escape those steel-like fingers
for more than a moment. With desperate strength he broke their hold time
and again as he writhed and bridged and rolled, clawed and bit; but they
clamped back again as often. His shouts for help were choked gasps and
the strength he had put forth in the beginning of the struggle was
waning.
The table was now a wreck and they rolled in and over the debris.
Salezar made use of his great spurs at every chance and his opponent's
clothing was ripped and torn to shreds wet with blood. His fingers
searched for his enemy's eyes and missed them, but left their marks on
the painted face. They rolled against one wall and then back to the
other; they slammed again at the door and back into the wreckage of the
table.
"Where _is_ she?" panted the Delaware. "Tell me, Salezar, _where is
she_?"
The captain wriggled desperately and almost gained the top, and thought
he sensed a weakened opposition. "Where she will remain!" he choked.
"Mistress of the _palacio_--until he tires--of her. You--cursed _Tejano_
dog!" He drove a spur at his enemy's side, missed, and it became
entangled in the rags.
The Delaware, blind with fury, smashed his knee into the soft abdomen
and snarled at the answering gasp of pain. "Remember th' prisoners? Near
Valencia--Ernest died in the--night. You cut off his ears--and threw his
body in a--ditch!" He got the throat hold again in spite of nails and
teeth, blows and spurs. "McAllister was shot because he--could not walk.
You stole his clothes--cut off his ears and left--his body at th' side
of th'--road for the wolves!" He felt the spurs graze his leg and he
threw it across the body of the Mexican. "Golpin was shot--other side of
Dead Man's Lake. You took--_his_ ears _too_!" He hauled and tugged and
managed to roll his enemy onto his other leg. "On th' Dead Man's
Journey--Griffin's brains were knocked out with a--gun butt. _His_ ears
were cut off, _too_!" Hooking his feet together he clamped his powerful
thighs in a viselike grip on his enemy. "Gates died in a wagon near--El
Paso, of starvation, sickness--an' fright. You got _his_--ears!"
"As--I'll get--_yours_!" hoarsely moaned Salezar, again missing with the
spurs. "The senorita will be happy--in Armijo's arms. After that--the
soldiers--can have her!"
The Delaware loosened his leg grip, jerked them up toward the captain's
stomach as he hauled his victim down toward them, and clamped them tight
again over the soft stomach.
"Yore lies stick--in yore throat--Salezar!" he panted. "An' those
murders cry--to heaven; but you'll only--hear th' echoes ringin' through
hell--for all eternity. _You_ called th' roll of th' livin'--on that
damnable march; _I_'m--callin' th' roll of th' _dead_! Yore name comes
last! There's many a Texan would give his--chance of heaven to change
places--with me, _now_!" He raised his head in the darkness. "Oh,
Ernest, old pardner; I'm payin' yore debt, _in full_!"
The spurs stabbed in vain, for the Delaware was now well above their
flaying range; the nails scoring his face were growing feeble. He
shifted the leg hold again and managed to imprison one of Salezar's arms
in their grip. Lifting himself from the hips, he released the throat
hold and grabbed the Mexican's other arm, thrust it under him and fell
back on it as his two hands, free now to work their worst, leaped back
under the swarthy chin. The relentless thumbs pressed up and in.
The Blackfoot on guard at the end of the driveway thought he heard the
door open and close, but there was no doubt about the labored breathing
which wheezed along the dark wall. Stumbling steps faltered and dragged
and then the Delaware bumped into him and held to him for a moment.
"Git th' hosses, Hank!" came a mumbled command.
"Thar with Jim an' Zeb," whispered the hunter in surprise. "How'd ye get
so wet? Is that blood?"
"Spurred me--I'll be all right--soon's I git breath. He--fought like
a--fiend."
"Git his ears?" eagerly demanded the Blackfoot.
"Thar's been ears enough took--already. Come on; _she's_ in th'
_palacio_--with _Armijo_!"
"Jest what we figgered, _damn him_!" growled the Blackfoot, leading the
way.
In the stable at the rear of the courtyard a decrepit dog, white with
age, had barked feebly when its breath permitted, while the fight had
raged in the house. The Blackfoot had considered stopping the wheezy
warnings, but they did not have power enough to lure him from his watch.
He had accepted the lesser of the two evils and remained on guard. As
the two Indians crept from the courtyard the aged animal burst into a
paroxysm of barking, which exhausted it. To those who knew the captain's
dog, its barking long since had lost all meaning, for, as the soldiers
said, it barked over nothing. They did not know that the animal dreamed
day and night of the days of its youth and strength and now, in its
dotage, in imagination was living over again stirring incidents of hunts
and fights long past. Gradually it recovered its strength from sounding
its barked warnings in vain, and pantingly sniffed the air. Its actions
became frantic and the decrepit old dog struggled to its feet, swaying
on its feeble legs, its grizzled muzzle pointing toward its master's
house. The composite body odor it had known for so many years had
changed, and ceased abruptly. Whining and whimpering, the dog searched
the air currents, but in vain; the scent came no more. Then, sinking
back on its haunches, it raised its gray nose to the sky and poured out
its grief in one long, quavering howl of surprising volume.
The sleeping square sprang to life, superstitious terror dominated the
barracks. Lights gleamed suddenly and the barracks door opened slowly,
grudgingly as frightened soldiers hurriedly crossed themselves. Don Jesu
and Robideau pushed hesitatingly to the portal and peered fearsomely
into the night. They suddenly cried out, drew their ancient pistols, and
fired at two vague figures slinking hurriedly along the side of the
house opposite. From the darkness there came quick replies. A
coruscating poniard of spiteful flame stabbed into the night. Don Jesu
whirled on buckling legs and pitched sidewise to the street. A second
stab of sparky flame split the darkness and Robideau reeled back into
the arms of his panicky soldiers. As the heavy reports rolled through
the town they seemed to be a signal, for on the southern outskirts of
Santa Fe gun after gun crashed in a rippling, spasmodic volley. A few
stragglers in the all but deserted streets raised a dreaded cry and fled
to the nearest shelter. The cry was taken up and sent rioting through
the city; doors were doubly barred and the soldiers in the barracks,
safer behind the thick mud walls than they would be out in the dark open
against such an enemy, slammed shut the ponderous door and frantically
built barricades of everything movable.
"_Los Tejanos!_" rolled the panicky cries. "_Los Tejanos! Los
Tejanos!_"
The wailing warning of the coming of a plague could not have held more
terror. Gone were the vaunted boastings and the sneers; gone was the
swaggering bravado of the dashing _caballeros_, who had said what they
would do to any Texan force that dared to brave the wrath of the
defenders of San Francisco de la Santa Fe. Gone was all faith, never too
sincere, in ancient _escopeta_ and rusty blunderbuss, now that the
occasion was close at hand to measure them against the devil weapons of
hardy Texan fighting men, of the breed that had stood off, bloody day
after bloody day, four thousand Mexican regulars before a little adobe
church, now glorified for all the ages yet to come. To panicky minds
came magic words of evil portent; the Alamo and San Jacinto. To evil
consciences, bowed with guilt, came burning memories of that sick and
starved Texan band that had walked through winter days and shivered
through winter nights from Santa Fe to the capital, two thousand miles
of suffering, and every step a torture. Texan ears had swung from a
piece of rusty wire to feed the cruel conceit of a swarthy tyrant.
"_Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!_"
At the _palacio_ a human brute recoiled before a barred door between him
and a desperate captive, his honeyed cajolings turning to acid on his
lying tongue. No longer did he hear the measured tread of the palace
guards, who secretly exulted as they fled and left him defenseless.
"_Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!_"
He dashed through a door to grab his weapons and flee, and in through
the open, undefended portal from the square leaped a blood-covered
Delaware, an epic of rags and rage, a man so maddened that all thought
of weapons save Nature's, had gone from his burning brain. Behind him
leaped a Blackfoot, dynamic and deadly as a panther, a Colt pistol in
one eager, upraised hand, in the other the cold length of a keen
skinning knife. Behind them from a wagon deserted in the square came the
sharp crashes of Hawken and Colt, and a shouted battlecry: "Remember th'
Alamo! Remember th' Alamo! Texans to th' fore!"
As the Delaware dashed past an open door he caught a flurry of movement,
the flare of a pistol and his laughter pealed out in one mad shout as he
stopped like a cat and leaped in through the opening. Another flash,
another roar, and a burning welt across a shoulder spurred the bloody
Nemesis to a greater speed. The wavering sword he knocked aside and near
two hundred pounds of fighting, mountain sinew hurled itself behind a
driving fist. The hurtling bulk of Armijo crashed against a wall and
dropped like a bag of grain as the plunging Delaware whirled to pounce
upon it. As he turned, a scream rang out somewhere behind him, through
the door he had just entered, a scream vibrant with desperate hope, and
he bellowed a triumphant answer. Here was his mission; Armijo was a side
issue. The governor, helpless before him, was forgotten and the Delaware
whirled through the door bellowing one name over and over again.
"Patience! Patience! _Patience!_"
"_Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!_" came from the public square.
"_Los Tejanos! Los Tejanos!_" quavered the despairing echo throughout
the quaking town, while from the south there came the steady crash of
alien rifles, firing harmlessly into the air.
Before him a Blackfoot methodically battered at a door, taking a few
quick steps backward and a plunging dive forward. The Delaware shouted
again and added the power of his driving weight. There came a
splintering crash and the door went in. The Blackfoot whirled and darted
to the great portal leading to the square, bouncing on the balls of his
feet like a cougar expecting danger at every point. The Delaware
scrambled to his feet and gathered a whitefaced woman in his arms,
crushing her to his bloody chest. He felt her go suddenly limp and,
throwing her across a bare and bleeding shoulder, he drew a Colt
repeating pistol and sprang after his Indian ally, not feeling the
weight of his precious burden.
Lurid, stabbing rapiers of fire still sprang from the wagon barricade,
making death certain to any man who opened the barracks' door. Between
their heavy roars the woodwork of the wagon smacked sharply in time to
bursts of fire from the barracks' few windows. The Delaware darted from
the _palacio_ door and held close to the wall, hidden by the portico and
the darkness. As he reached the end of the column-supported roof the
Blackfoot bulked out of the night on his horse, and leading four others.
The lost-soul call of a loon sounded and changed the deadly wagon into a
vehicle of peace and quiet as its Arapahoe defenders slipped away from
it. The sudden creaking of saddle leather was followed by the rolling
thunder of flying hoofs as the first three horses left the square. A
moment's pause and then two more horses galloped through the darkness
after the others, the Arapahoe rear guard sitting almost sidewise in
their saddles, their long, hot rifles pointing backward to send hotter
greetings to whoever might follow.
They raced like gambling fools through the dark night, the Blackfoot
leading the way with the instinct of a homing bird. Mile after mile
strung out behind them, pastures, gullies, knolls rolling past. While
they climbed and dipped and circled they gradually sensed a steady
rising of the ground. Suddenly the Blackfoot shouted for them to halt,
and the laboring horses welcomed the moment's breathing space. The guide
threw himself on the ground and pressed his ear against it. In a moment
he was back in the saddle and gave the word to go on again. He had heard
no sounds of pursuit and he chuckled as he leaned over close to the
Delaware who rode at his flank.
"Nothin' stirrin' behind us, fur's I could make out," he said. "They can
only track us by sound in th' dark, at any speed, an' I'm gamblin' they
wait fer daylight. Thar scared ter stick thar noses out o' doors _this_
night. How's yore gal?"
Tom's rumbling reply could mean anything and they kept on through the
night without further words. The trail had been growing steadily rougher
and steeper and the horses were permitted to fall into a swinging lope.
Another hour passed and then Hank signalled for a stop. From his lips
whistled the crowded, hurried, repeated call of a whip-poor-will. Three
times the insistent demand rang out, clear and piercing. At the count of
ten an echoing whistle sounded and a light flickered on the trail
ahead.
"J'get her?" bawled a voice, tremulous with fear and anxiety, and only a
breath ahead of another.
"Hell yes!" roared Hank. "Got Salezar, Don Jesu and Robideau, too; only
we left _them_ behind--with thar ears!"
In another moment Uncle Joe and Adam Cooper took the precious burden
from the Delaware's numbed arms, someone uncovered the lighted candle
lantern, and saddles were thrown on fresh mounts. The Pueblo pushed
forward and peered into Patience's face, and his own face broke into
smiles. His torrent of mixed Spanish and Indian brought a grin to Hank's
painted countenance.
"This hyar shore is good beaver," he chuckled, clapping the Pueblo on
the shoulder, "but thar's more good news fer _you_." He put his mouth
close to the Pueblo's ear and whispered: "Yer friend Salezar will be
leadin' a percession ter th' buryin' ground. That Delaware thar killed
him with his bare hands!"
The Pueblo touched Tom's arm, his hand passing down it caressingly, to
be seized in a grip which made him wince; and when Adam Cooper offered
him a handful of gold coins the Indian drew himself up proudly and
pushed them away.
"For his friends Pablo do what he can," he said in Spanish. "I now take
these horses back on the trail to make a puzzle in the sand that will
take time to read. Pablo does not forget. _Adios!_" He vaulted onto his
horse, took the lead ropes of the tired mounts, and was lost in the
darkness, eager to weave a pattern of hoof marks to mock pursuing eyes.
The little cavalcade pushed on, following a trail that wound along the
sides of the mountains, passing many places where a handful of resolute
men could check scores. The cold mountain air bit shrewdly, and
occasional gusts of wind blustered along the timbered slopes and set the
pines and cedars whispering. Higher and higher went the narrow trail,
skirting sheer walls of rock on one side, and dizzy precipices on the
other; higher and higher plodded the little caravan in single file,
following the unhesitant leader.
There came a leaden glow high up on the right. It paled swiftly as a
streak of silver flared up behind the jagged crests of the mountains,
here and there caught by a snow mantle to gleam in virgin white. On the
left lay abysmal darkness, like a lake of ink, and slowly out of it
pushed ranks of treetops as the dawn rolled downward and the mountain
fogs dissolved in dew. Deep canyons, sheer precipices; long streaks on
mountain sides where resistless avalanches had scraped all greenery from
the glistening rock; green amphitheaters, fit for fairy pageants;
velvety knolls and jewels of mountain pastures lay below them, with here
and there the crystal gleam of ribbon-like mountain brooks, their waters
embarked on a long, depressing journey through capricious oceans of
billowy sands and the salty leagues of desert wastes. Birds flashed
among the branches, chipmunks chattered furiously at these unheeding
invaders of their mountain fastness; high up on a beetling crag a
bighorn ram was silhouetted in rigid majesty, and over all lazily
drifted an eagle against the paling western sky, symbolical of freedom.
There came the musical tinkle of falling water and Hank stopped, raising
his hand. Into the little mountain dell the caravan wound and in a
moment muscles tired and cramped from long, hard riding found relief in
a score of little duties. While the animals were relieved of saddles and
packs and securely picketed, and a fire made of dry wood from a bleached
windfall, Hank climbed swiftly up the mountain side for a view of the
back trail. Perched on an out-thrust finger of rock high above the dell
he knelt motionless, searching with keen and critical eyes every yard of
that windswept trail, following it along its sloping length until it
shrunk into a hair line across the frowning mountain sides and then
faded out entirely. Below him grotesque figures moved about like gnomes
performing incantations around a tiny blaze; dwarfed horses cropped the
plentiful grass and succulent leaves, and a timid streamer of pale blue
smoke arose like a plumb line until the cruising gusts above the
treetops tore it into feathery wisps and carried it away. Across the
valley the rising sun pushed golden floods of light into crevices, among
the rocks, and turned the pines and cedars into glistening cones of
green on stems of jet.
"Wall," said a voice below him, "hyar I am. Go down an' feed. See
anythin'?"
Hank leaned over and looked down at the climbing figure, whose laborious
progress sent a noisy stream of clicking pebbles behind him like sparks
from a rocket.
"Nothin' I ain't plumb glad ter see," replied Hank. "This hyar beats th'
settlements all ter hell." As Jim's horrible face peered over the edge
of the rock balcony Hank eyed it critically and shook his head. "I've
seen some plumb awful lookin' 'Rapahoes; but nothin' ter stack up ag'in
you. Vermillion mebby is yer favorite color, but it don't improve yer
looks a hull lot. Neither does that sorrel juice. How's th' gal?"
"Full o' spunk an' gittin' chipper as a squirrel," answered Jim. "Who's
goin' ter git th' blame fer last night's fandango?"
"Four murderin' Injuns, a-plunderin' an' a-kidnappin'," chuckled Hank.
"Woodson's goin' ter raise hell about th' hull Cooper fambly bein'
stole. Armijo'll keep his mouth shet an' pass th' crime along ter us,
an' make a great show o' gittin' us; but," he winked knowingly at his
accomplice in the night's activities, "chasin' four desperite Injuns
along an open trail, whar his sojers kin spread out an' take advantage
o' thar bein' twenty ter one is _one_ thing; chasin' 'em along a trail
like this, whar they has ter ride Injun fashion, is a hull lot
diff'rent. They've had thar bellies full o' chasin' along Injun trails
in th' mountings. Th' Apaches, Utes, an' Comanches has showed 'em it
don't pay. Thar's sharpshooters that can't be got at; thar's rollin'
rocks, an' ambushes; an' chasin' murderin' Injuns afoot up mounting
sides ain't did in this part o' th' country."
"Meanin' we won't be chased?" demanded Jim, incredulously.
"Not meanin' nothin' o' th' kind," growled Hank, spitting into three
hundred feet of void. "We killed some of th' military aristo-crazy, as
Tom calls 'em, didn't we? We made fools outer th' whole prairie-dog
town, didn't we? An' what's worse, we stole th' gal that Armijo war
sweet on, an' Tom knocked _him_ end over end--oh, Jim, ye should 'a'
seen that! Six feet o' greaser gov'ner a-turnin' a cartwheel in his own
house! _Chase_ us? Hell, yes!"
The Arapahoe rubbed his chin. "Fust ye say one thing, then ye say
another. What ye mean, Ol' Buffaler?"
"I'm bettin' thar's a greaser army a-poundin' along th' wagon road fer
Raton Pass," replied Hank, spitting again with great gusto. "We're a
Delaware from Bent's, a Blackfoot from th' Upper Missoury, an' two ugly
'Rapahoes from 'tother side o' St. Vrains, ain't we? Wall, if ye know a
fox's den ye needn't foller him along th' ridges." He chuckled again.
"We're goin' another way over some Ute trails I knows of."
"But s'posin' they foller us along this trail?"
Hank looked speculatively back along the narrow pathway, with its
numerous bends, and then glanced pityingly at his anxious friend. "I
jest told ye why they won't; an' if they do, _let_ 'em!"
Ogden looked steadily southward along the trail and suddenly laughed:
"Yes; _let_ 'em!"
* * * * *
In the great courtyard of Bent's Fort one evening more than a week
later, three trappers sat with their backs against the brass cannon that
scowled at the heavy doors. They were planning their winter's trip in
the mountains, figuring out the supplies and paraphernalia for a party
of four, when Hank, glancing up, saw two people slowly walking along the
high, wide parapet on the side toward the Arkansas. He raised an arm,
pointing, and his companions, following it with their eyes, saw the two
figures suddenly become like one against the moonlit sky.
Hank sighed, bit his lip, and looked down.
"Better figger on a party o' three," he said.
End of Project Gutenberg's Bring Me His Ears, by Clarence E. Mulford