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WITH CARSON AND
FRÉMONT
SECOND EDITION
THE “TRAIL BLAZERS” SERIES
CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY
An interesting work on the life and times of this famous soldier of
fortune and American colonist, intended primarily for the young, but of
such a character as to appeal to all.
_With Four full-page Illustrations in Color by_
HARRY B. LACHMAN
12mo. Cloth, $1.50
DANIEL BOONE, BACKWOODSMAN
By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY
It is such a story of stirring adventure in the wilderness, based as it
is on solid fact, that makes one thrill with pride in the bravery and
manhood of the pioneers.
_With Four full-page Illustrations by_
FRANK McKERNAN
12mo. Cloth, $1.50
DAVID CROCKETT, SCOUT
By CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN
A story setting forth all Davy’s versatility and recounting his many
exploits in the East and in the new South-West. It tells of him as
Indian Fighter, Bear Hunter, Statesman, and Defender of the Alamo.
_With Four full-page Illustrations by_
FRANK McKERNAN
12mo. Cloth, $1.50
[Illustration: “WE TAUGHT THOSE THAR RED DEMONS A LESSON THEY’LL NOT
FORGET.”]
WITH CARSON
AND FRÉMONT
BEING THE ADVENTURES, IN THE YEARS 1842–’43–’44,
ON TRAIL OVER MOUNTAINS AND THROUGH DESERTS
FROM THE EAST OF THE ROCKIES TO THE WEST OF
THE SIERRAS, OF SCOUT CHRISTOPHER CARSON AND
LIEUTENANT JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT, LEADING
THEIR BRAVE COMPANY INCLUDING THE BOY OLIVER
BY
EDWIN L. SABIN
AUTHOR OF “BAR B. BOYS,” “THE MAGIC MASHIE,”
“BEAUFORT CHUMS,” ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY_
CHARLES H. STEPHENS
_AND PORTRAITS_
“We live in deeds, not years.”
――PHILIP JAMES BAILEY
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED, OCTOBER, 1912
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
TO THAT BOYS’ BEST FRIEND
THE MOTHER
AND IN PARTICULAR TO MY OWN MOTHER
ESTHER FRANCES SABIN
ABOUT WHOSE GRACIOUS NAME
CLINGS THE EVERLASTING
SWEETNESS OF HER MEMORY
PREFACE
The trail journals of the first two government exploring expeditions
commanded by Lieutenant John Charles Frémont, of the United States
Engineers, and advised by Kit Carson, mountain-man, are to be found
together published, spring of 1845, as reports transmitted by the
Secretary of War to the National Senate and House.
These journals, recording peril and privation faced for the wide public
good and not for narrow private gain, occupy their honored niche among
the golden archives of the Republic, and should be better known in
American school and home. The trails themselves are eternal, denoted by
names which have endured, many of them, unto this day. Of the men who
may proudly and truthfully say, “I was with Frémont,” or “I was with
Carson,” few indeed remain; and they will soon be gone, for man passes
on, while that which he has wrought survives.
The Oliver Wiggins in this narrative is real. I have talked with him.
He was the little boy under the wagon, and he was the Taos lad who
won the Kit Carson rifle; he was upon the Frémont and Carson First
Expedition, and he was upon the Second Expedition, by way of the Salt
Lake to Fort Hall. However, there he turned back, with the other Carson
men. In taking him through, as in having him ascend the highest peak,
voyage the Salt Lake in the rubber boat, and be prominent in various
such adventures, I have added to his biography as told to me. Yet in
these credits I have not exalted him more than is his due, for brave
men rarely tell of all that they have done well.
The other personages also are real, as members of the Frémont or of
the Carson party. Some of the conversation is quoted from the Frémont
reports; the remainder is applied according to the characteristics
of the speakers, or is adapted from sentiments expressed at divers
times and places. The incidents of course are based upon the Frémont
journals, with sidelights from the recollections of Major Wiggins, and
from the Frémont “Memoirs of My Life,” and like chronicles bearing upon
the day.
The two principals, Lieutenant (later Captain, Colonel and General)
Frémont, and Scout (later Colonel and General) Christopher Carson,
thought highly each of the other; and this is warrant that they were
manly men. Manly men respect manly men. Lieutenant Frémont said: “With
me, Carson and truth are the same thing;” and he refers to their
“enduring friendship.” Kit Carson left all――new ranch, home, wife,
dear associates――which, save honor, he valued most, to accompany the
lieutenant upon a Third Expedition, and in every crisis of march,
camp, battle and politics he stuck stanchly to him. “I owe more to
Colonel Frémont than to any other man alive,” he declared. Thus friend
should stand by friend.
This Third Expedition, of 1845–1846, again into the Great Basin and
across the Sierra Nevada Range to the Valley of the Sacramento, was
timed to the conquest of California by American arms; but it is another
long story. Following the Third Expedition, having resigned from the
Army Colonel Frémont, in 1848–1849, voluntarily conducted a Fourth
Expedition, upon which many lives were lost to cold and hunger amidst
the winter mountains of south central Colorado; and in 1853–1854, a
Fifth Expedition, once more across the Great Basin to California. In
these two expeditions Kit Carson did not take part. He had the duties
of home, and family, which also are man’s duties; and the duties of
agent over the Ute and Apache Indians.
After that, came Civil War service for both friends, in fields separate.
EDWIN L. SABIN.
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA.
May 15, 1912.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. KIT CARSON TO THE RESCUE 17
II. UNDER THE WAGON 30
III. OLIVER WINS HIS SPURS 43
IV. WORD FROM OLD FORT LARAMIE 56
V. FRÉMONT SAYS “ONWARD!” 68
VI. INTO THE WILDER WEST 87
VII. OVER THE FAMED SOUTH PASS 96
VIII. PLANTING THE HIGHEST FLAG 111
IX. THE VOYAGING OF THE PLATTE 124
X. FRÉMONT CALLS AGAIN 135
XI. IN HOSTILE TERRITORY 147
XII. THE EMIGRANT TRAIL 155
XIII. TO THE GREAT SALTY LAKE 167
XIV. SAILING THE INLAND SEA 178
XV. ON TO THE COLUMBIA 192
XVI. SOUTHWARD FOR THE UNKNOWN 203
XVII. SCANT CHRISTMAS COMFORT 216
XVIII. FORCING THE SNOWY SIERRAS 225
XIX. AT THE LAST GASP 235
XX. DOWN THROUGH CALIFORNIA 248
XXI. THE VENGEANCE OF KIT CARSON 259
XXII. POOR TABEAU PAYS THE PRICE 276
XXIII. THE HOME STRETCH 288
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“WE TAUGHT THOSE THAR RED DEMONS A LESSON THEY’LL NOT
FORGET.” _Frontispiece_
CHRISTOPHER CARSON 22
JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT 71
THE FIRST BUFFALO HAD FALLEN TO THE CRACK OF KIT CARSON’S
RIFLE 104
AS THE BOAT CAME WHIRLING DOWN, HELPLESS AND INERT, HEADS
BROKE UP AROUND IT 130
KIT AND THE LIEUTENANT SHOWED THE THREE, BY SIGNS, HOW
FROM THE RIFLES AND CARBINES COULD SPEED A BULLET AND
BORE THEM THROUGH AND THROUGH 232
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE
CHRISTOPHER CARSON JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT
Born Madison County, Ky., January 21, 1813, born at
December 25, 1809. Savannah, Ga.
Father: Lindsay (Linsey) Carson, Father: John Charles Frémont, of
of North Carolina and France and of Virginia.
Kentucky.
Mother: Rebecca Robinson, of Mother: Anne Beverley Pryor, of
Virginia. Virginia.
Reared without education, on the Educated by tutor and college at
Missouri frontier. Charleston, S. Carolina.
Apprenticed to a harness-maker 1833–1836――Teacher of Mathematics
at Franklin, Mo.――1825. to Midshipmen on Sloop-of-War
Natchez.
On the Santa Fé Trail at 1836――Commissioned Professor of
Fifteen――1826. Mathematics in the Navy,
Assigned to the Frigate
Independence.
Interpreter and Teamster, in 1837–1838――Railroad and Army
New Mexico and Old Surveyor.
Mexico――1827–1829.
Trapper to 1838――Commissioned Second
California――1829–1830. Lieutenant, Topographical
Engineers, U. S. A.
Rocky Mountain 1838–1839――Government Survey of
Trapper――1830–1838. Upper Mississippi River, under
J. N. Nicollet.
Married an Arapahoe Indian 1841――Married Jessie Benton of
girl――1835. Washington.
Hunter and Captain of Trappers, 1841――Survey of Lower Des Moines
at Bent’s Fort and River.
Taos――1838–1842.
Hunter with the Frémont First 1842――First Government Exploring
Expedition――1842. Expedition, to the South Pass
and Frémont’s Peak.
Married Josefa Jaramillo of 1843–1844――Second Government
Taos――1843. Exploring Expedition, to the
Salt Lake, to the Columbia,
south through California, back
by the Spanish Trail and the
Rocky Mountains.
Hunter and General Assistant 1845――Promoted by brevet to
with Frémont Second First Lieutenant and Captain.
Expedition――1843–1844.
Goes to Ranching in New 1845–1846――Third Government
Mexico――1845. Exploring Expedition, across
the Great Basin into Northern
California.
Guide and General Assistant 1846――As Major Commands a
with the Frémont Third Battalion for the Conquest
Expedition――1845–1846. of California.
Scout and Express Bearer under 1846–1847――Military Commander
Colonel Frémont, Commodore and Governor of California.
Stockton and General Kearny,
in the Conquest of
California――1846.
Express Service with Despatches 1846――Promoted to
Across the Continent to Lieutenant-Colonel of Mounted
Washington――1847–1848. Rifles, U. S. A.
Commissioned Second Lieutenant 1847–1848――Court-martialed at
of Mounted Rifles, U. S. A., Washington for Insubordination,
but the Commission not Found Guilty, but Recommended
confirmed――1847. for Leniency.
Serves on Outpost Duty in 1848――Resigns from Army.
California――1847.
His Express Duty of 1848 1848–1849――Fourth Exploring
Completed, Becomes Private Expedition, into the Southern
Citizen at Taos――1848. Colorado Mountains; thence
Forced Back, and to California
by a Southern Route.
Seeks ranch life in New Mexico 1849–1850――Seeks ranch life in
――1849–1850. California.
Scout Duty against the Indians, 1850–1851――Senator from California.
with Army Detachments――1850.
Overland to California with a 1851–1853――California and
Drove of 30,000 sheep――1853. Europe.
Government Indian Agent over 1853–1854――Fifth Exploring
Utes and Apaches, Quarters at Expedition, across the Great
Taos――1854–1860. Basin of Utah and Nevada to
California.
Scout Duty against the Indians, 1856――Nominated by the Republican
with Army Party for the Presidency.
Detachments――1854–1855. Defeated by Buchanan.
Lieutenant-Colonel and Colonel, 1861――Major-General, Department
First New Mexican Infantry, of the West, U. S. A.,
U. S. Vols.――1861–1862. headquarters at St. Louis.
Colonel of First New Mexican 1862――Resigns from Army, after
Cavalry, U. S. Vols., service in Command of the
conducting campaigns against Mountain Department of Virginia,
the Apaches, Navajos and Tennessee and Kentucky.
Kiowas, New Mexico and
Arizona――1862–1864.
Military Service on the Santa Fé 1864――Nominated for Presidency.
Trail and Special Commissioner Withdraws.
to treat with Cheyennes and
Arapahoes――1865.
Lieutenant-Colonel (Brigadier 1866–1878――Railroad Construction,
General by Brevet, for etc.
Distinguished Service) in
command at Fort Garland,
Colorado――1866–1867.
Resigned from the Army, on 1878–1882――Governor of Arizona.
Account of Ill Health――1867.
Special Commissioner to Treat 1890――Appointed Major-General,
with the Utes, at on the Retired List.
Washington――1868.
Died at New Fort Lyon, Colorado, July 13, 1890, died in New York
May 23, 1868. City.
WITH CARSON AND FRÉMONT
I
KIT CARSON TO THE RESCUE
It was the middle of November, 1840; and across the sandy face of
southwestern Kansas was toiling, outward bound from Missouri, a Santa
Fé caravan: fifty-two huge, creaking canvas-topped wagons, drawn each
by six or eight span of mules or yoke of oxen.
In this day the so-called foreign government of Mexico extended north
through New Mexico to the Arkansas River in Colorado and southwestern
Kansas. The United States stopped at the Rocky Mountains; and,
moreover, from Missouri to the Rockies all was “Indian Country” and
the “Great American Desert.” From Missouri extended two long roads
or trails, separating like a “V” with its point near present Kansas
City. Up the Platte River, for the Northwest, ran the old trappers’
and fur-traders’ trail, now being made the Oregon Trail of emigrants.
Up the Arkansas River, for the Southwest, ran the trail of the Santa
Fé caravans. The desolate, unimproved Great American Desert was
like a sea; and across this sea sailed, spring and fall, upon an 800
mile voyage, fleets of American wagons, to trade with the capital of
northern Mexico.
They took out cargoes of calico, powder, lead, flour, shoes, and such
American products; they brought back, at profit in money and at loss
in life, cargoes of furs, hides, gold, gay blankets and such Mexican
products.
This caravan of November, 1840, with its fifty-two wagons and harnessed
teams, had at the beginning of the journey stretched out in a line
almost a mile of length. Each wagon had a teamster. Some of the
teamsters straddled the near animal of the wheel span (the span next to
the wagon); others, in their boots and flannel shirts and broad hats,
walked beside the wagon; horsemen, escort to the wagon-captain, who
was the boss of the train, led the march, reconnoitering ahead; other
horsemen paced at right and left; and at the rear of all, upon an old
mule, driving a collection of loose horses and mules, rode a ragged
little boy――Oliver Wiggins.
This was Oliver’s place――in the dust, at the tail of the long caravan.
His duty was to herd the “cavvy,” as was styled for short the
_caballada_ (Spanish for horse-herd). His pay was five dollars a month,
and the fun and the glory, and the work, of fifty days’ travel, at
the rate of fifteen miles a day, across the plains of sand and sage,
buffalo and antelope, hunger and thirst, storm and Indians, to strange
far-off Santa Fé.
At first the march had been very pleasant. The caravan sometimes had
spread out over the prairie in formation of four abreast. By day the
teamsters had sung and cracked their long whips, beside the wagons;
by night they had sung and told stories, beside the camp-fires.
Everybody had been happy. But within the last two days the atmosphere
had changed; for there had come riding fast, on the homeward way from
Mexico, two traders, and had left the word, with the captain:
“Watch sharp! The Kiowas are out!”
That was enough. Quickly through the caravan spread the news――“THE
KIOWAS ARE OUT!” All carelessness, all singing, ceased; and the order
of march was made double file or two abreast, so that in case of attack
the wagons could swing to right and left and quickly join in a great
circle.
The Kiowas! The fiercest fighting Indians of the Southwest plains
were they, outrivalled by neither Pawnee nor Comanche. Their name was
terrible to the Santa Fé traders. Their range was southwestern Kansas
and southeastern Colorado, thence south into the dread Comanche country
below the Arkansas. When the caravan had left Missouri, the Kiowas were
said to be at peace; but now they were said, on good authority, to be
_not_ at peace, and well might Wagon-Captain Blunt worry. He had a lot
of green teamsters, poorly armed with old smooth-bore yagers; and
whether, if given time to form a circle of wagons, they could beat off
the painted warriors, he did not know.
Holding the rear of all, boy Oliver Wiggins, aged thirteen, left to the
dust and the shuffling loose stock (defenseless beasts, a prize for the
Indians), also well might worry. He wished now that he had not run away
from home; and he began to wonder whether, after all, his pistol, about
the size of the palm of his hand, was large enough. This pistol had
seemed to him weapon in plenty for fighting Indians, in Missouri; but
the farther from Missouri he journeyed, and the more stories he heard,
the smaller the pistol grew.
Here in southwestern Kansas of to-day the Santa Fé Trail veered south,
beyond the Great Bend of the river, to cross and to head for the
Cimarron Desert and for New Mexico. This, the Crossing of the Arkansas,
was half way to Santa Fé; but the half already covered was the easy
half, the half to come was the dry, thirsty half, and the Kiowa and
Comanche half.
Through the shallow water and the quick-sands forged the wagons of the
Blunt caravan, upon the farther bank to halt, for camp and to fill
the water-casks. The sun was low and red in the west, the long, high
white-hooded wagons had been parked in the customary circle, outside
the circle camp-fires were curling, pots were bubbling, meat was
hissing, and before each camp tethered animals were grazing; sentries
had been posted, and boy Oliver, hungry and grimy, was guarding his
browsing cavvy, when a sudden commotion struck the peaceful scene. A
sentinel upon a sand-hill fired his gun to signal “Injuns! Injuns!” and
rushed like wild-fire the word. Every teamster sprang to round up his
picketed team, or to help collect the oxen; the sentries came in at a
gallop; and men sped to help Oliver with the cavvy. Through the opening
left in the circle of wagons poured men and animals, from outside to
inside. And against the sunset glow could be descried a long file of
black mounted figures, approaching at rapid trot.
However, Captain Blunt, viewing them by spyglass, shouted thankfully:
“Not Injuns, men! Whites! Look like traders.”
Whereupon a sigh of relief swept the tense cordon.
The cordon did not dare yet to open out again; nevertheless, as the
riders across the rolling sand-hills neared, they were seen by the
naked eye to be whites indeed. They resolved into a double file of
horsemen: trapper-clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggins, in
broad-brimmed hats, in moccasins, and every man carried across his
saddle-horn a tremendously long rifle.
“Mountain-men! Trappers!” announced Teamster “Dutch” Jake, in Oliver’s
hearing. “Now if we only had _them_ with us――――!”
“They’re the chaps to make the Injuns stand ’round,” agreed another.
And many a head nodded.
The cavalcade was within gun-shot. A man riding alone was leader; and
as on they came, at the steady, fast “rack” or single-foot, straight
for the camp, he held up his hand, palm outward, in a peace sign.
“High jinks! I know that man!” exclaimed “Dutch” Jake. And he added:
“If it only be, now.”
Captain Blunt and two or three of his lieutenants, carrying their guns,
walked outside a few steps to meet this leader. The conversation was
wafted clearly through the still, dry air, while all the camp listened.
“Howdy?”
“Howdy?”
“Who’s yore captain?” This from the horseman.
“I’m the captain.” This from Blunt.
“Wall, my name’s Kit Carson. We’ve come over from Touse to ride the
trail through Kiowa country, with anybody that needs us. S’pose you
know the Kiowas air bad?”
[Illustration: CHRISTOPHER CARSON]
“So we’ve heard. And we’re mighty glad to see you, Mr. Carson,”
declared Captain Blunt, reaching up and shaking hands heartily.
Kit Carson! Kit Carson! The name passed from lip to lip around the
wagon cordon; and a hundred eyes were fastened eagerly upon the spot
where now this leader squatted beside a fire, as guest and counsellor
of Captain Blunt.
The others in the party (which numbered about forty) had unsaddled like
lightning, had turned their horses out, under a guard, and starting
fires or gnawing strips of jerked meat were making their own camp
near at hand. Darkly tanned, long-haired, broad-shouldered men were
they, the majority heavily bearded. They moved lithely in moccasins,
their buckskin suits were patched and stained, they scarcely stirred
without rifle in hollow of arm, their belts bore pistol or pair
of pistols, and knife; their talk was a curious jargon, but very
expressive, and they themselves were exceedingly business-like.
But the wonderful Kit Carson, famous hunter and Indian fighter――was
that really he? Of course, everybody on the Santa Fé Trail knew about
Kit Carson, the free-trapper and captain of trappers, who as merely a
boy had made such a name for himself in the mountains and who recently
had come out of them, to live at Fernandez de Taos and to supply meat
for Bent’s Fort, north. Ere leaving the Missouri frontier little Oliver
had heard of Kit Carson as though he were ten feet tall and four feet
wide, and bore a pine-tree for a club; but now little Oliver beheld an
ordinary-looking person, not much taller than himself and not nearly so
tall as many of the other trappers; with wiry body, bandy legs, flat
features, and a voice so ridiculously low that his present conversation
with Captain Blunt did not carry beyond the camp-fire light.
Murmured comment by teamsters, here and there among the wagons, showed
to Oliver that he was not alone in his disappointment.
“That’s Kit Carson, is it?”
“That leetle feller, with the captain yon?”
“Wall, naow, I thought Kit Carson war some punkins!”
“A big Injun’s liable to pick him right up!”
“Whar’s his whiskers?”
But Dan Matthews, Captain Blunt’s first lieutenant, came hurrying, from
point to point in the circle.
“Turn out your critters, men; and you guards post yourselves as before.
Lively. There’s likely no danger to-night, Carson says; but keep your
eyes and ears open, jest the same.”
“Is that thar reely Kit Carson――that leetle chap?” queried Teamster
Henry, as the camp bustled to resume its routine.
“Yes.”
Henry grunted.
“Wall, he’s the smallest pea for the amount of pod ever _I_ see!”
“Don’t you be fooled, Henry,” retorted Lieutenant Matthews. “You wait a
bit, and if you don’t find that he’s got the biggest _do_ for the size
of his _tell_ that ever you ran across, I’ll eat my hat.”
“That’s right,” affirmed “Dutch” Jake, overhearing. “Brag’s a good
dog but he won’t fight; an’ you mustn’t jedge a race-hoss by the
color of his hide. You’re seeing one Kit Carson, a gentle-speaking,
mild-appearing, sort o’ nincompoop who you might think didn’t know
beans. But there’s another Kit Carson, half hoss an’ half alligator,
as they say on the Mississippi, or half grizzly b’ar an’ half charging
elk, as _I_ say; an’ I reckon you’ll see him, too, ’fore we’re through
Injun country.”
These words of “Dutch” Jake impressed Oliver deeply, for Jake spoke as
if he knew. At any rate, ’twas pleasant to have the reinforcements:
to watch their easy figures, to hear their voices, to stroll through
their camp and catch their conversation, to note their fringed, beaded
clothing, their worn weapons, and their wildly shaggy faces; and to
feel their presence, so handy, when in the darkness the fires died and
both camps went to sleep.
All the next day the march proceeded, southward from the Arkansas,
amidst sand hills and sparse vegetation. The trappers from Taos rode
in a line along either side of the train, with scouts ahead and out
upon the flanks. The men of the train laughed and talked, bantering
back and forth. And behind, in the reek of the procession, boy Oliver,
ragged and upon his old mule, driving the cavvy, strained eye and ear
to keep tab upon what was being done and said. At the noon camp he had
opportunity to scan, close by daylight, Kit Carson again.
Kit Carson proved to have a square face, rugged and weather-beaten,
with sandy moustache, and framed in long brown hair combed smoothly
down behind the ears. His cheek-bones were high, somewhat Indian-like,
his forehead was high and full, his mouth straight and his chin firm.
His most remarkable feature was his eyes――wide apart, level-set, and of
an intense steely gray that fairly bored a hole where they looked. His
movements were quick and sure; and how he stuck to a horse!
Oliver the more believed that “Dutch” Jake and Lieutenant Matthews both
knew better than Henry and the other grumblers. Something about Kit
Carson said so.
Despite the rough joking, the march was an earnest one. No straggling
was permitted, to shoot antelope or elk. Yet the day was not
uneventful, for once a great brown-bearded man――his beard reaching
almost to his belt――who was Solomon Silver, a Carson man, dropping
back, rode beside the cavvy until, having good-naturedly eyed Oliver,
he joined him, to query, perhaps as a joke:
“Wall, boy; what’d ye reckon to do if the Injuns come down sudden?”
“I’d fight ’em,” said Oliver, bravely. “Here’s my pistol. See?”
“Haw! Haw!” boomed Sol Silver the trapper, in a rousing laugh; and
behind his beard he chuckled. “That’s right, boy. Let’s see that
shooting-iron o’ yorn,” and he laid it in the palm of his scarred hand.
“No use o’ Kit an’ us a-riding the trail, when this air riding it too.
I’ll tell him. ’Spec’ if you shoot an Injun with this, son, an’ he gets
to find out, he’d be powerful mad at ye! But thar, boy; do yore best.
Hyar’s ’nother kind o’ pistol. Ever see one?” And he pulled it from his
buffalo-hide belt.
“No,” confessed Oliver.
It was an odd-looking pistol, with long barrel and a round bulge
between barrel and stock.
“That air a pistol to shoot six times without reloading,” declared Sol.
“It has one barrel an’ six chambers, in this cylinder; the barrel stays
put, but the cylinder turns ’round, with a fresh load ready, whenever
trigger air pulled. Wagh! It air made by a man named Colt, in the
States; it air called Colt, but it air a full-size hoss.”
“Have you all got them?” asked Oliver.
“All we Carson men have ’em, an’ percussion-cap rifles, to boot. When
Kit Carson goes into a fight, he goes in to win, an’ the best weapons
air none too good for his men. We air Carson men.” Sol proclaimed this
with a certain degree of pride.
“Will the Kiowas attack us, sure?” invited Oliver.
“’Bout to-morrow, Kit thinks. When they do, you give us fellows a
chance ’fore you open up with yore battery an’ take all the scalps.”
But Oliver suspected that Sol was joking again. Still, he liked this
jovial, burly Sol Silver, and hoped that he _would_ tell Kit Carson.
Nothing especial happened this night in camp, save that Captain Blunt
and lieutenants passed about, examining all the guns and asking if
powder-horns were full. But at the breaking of camp, in the dawn, when
the wagons were forming to pull out in the double-column, something
very especial happened. Behold, into every wagon climbed a trapper
or two, and stowed themselves safely away amidst the goods under the
protective canvas hoods! Just a corner of the canvas was left looped
up a few inches, as if for air.
Now throughout the caravan eddied a gale of jeer and derision and
protest.
“This is the way they ride the trail with us, is it!”
“These ain’t mountain-men; they’re gophers!”
“Have we got to haul ’em an’ fight for ’em, both?”
Even Kit Carson had disappeared, for cover. But no response was made
by the trappers; Captain Blunt and his assistants bade the teamsters
“Ketch up!” and straighten out, for the march; and two by two on rolled
the wagons, the teamsters angry, the trappers comfortably inside, and
the trappers’ horses tethered to the end-gates.
The action on the part of the trappers seemed as strange to boy Oliver
as it did to the teamsters. Was that how Kit Carson men battled――by
hiding behind other men, and by crawling under cover and making the
people they were pretending to defend fight outside? Humph! Maybe this
wasn’t Kit Carson, after all.
The sand-hills were increasing in number and extent; dusty and dry was
the way but nobody could drink, for it was against orders to drink out
of the casks, or to fill canteens except once a day. The “dry march”
of over fifty miles was beginning, and sometimes water gave out before
it was traversed. So every drop must be cherished.
With the hot sun about two hours high the caravan was entering upon a
long, rather narrow swale leading between rounded sand-ridges whereon
only cactus and a few sprawly weeds grew. Captain Blunt and several
other riders were in advance; out upon the right flank, and somewhat in
advance rode Lieutenant Dan Matthews and two men, and similarly upon
the left flank rode another wagon-train lieutenant. They climbed hill
after hill, and ridge after ridge, and surveyed closely the country. As
a rear-guard, behind even Oliver, rode a squad of half-a-dozen traders
and free-lances. Thus the caravan was apparently well provided against
surprise; and as evidently the Kiowas were thought to be near at hand,
the rear-guard gave Oliver a more comfortable feeling.
If the train must take care of itself, with those trappers cravenly
putting greater store on their own hides than on the purpose for which
they had pretended to join, then the more precautions the better.
II
UNDER THE WAGON
How quietly wound the train, between the low dun hills! No lashes
cracked, no voices shouted, mule, ox and horse steadily plodded, and
the only sounds were the subdued words of the teamsters encouraging
their animals, and the creaking of the dry wagon-frames. But hark!
Right in the midst of this brooding atmosphere drifted down from the
hills upon the right a rifle-report; and when Oliver caught sight of
the place, here came, full tilt, from flankers’ duty, Dan and his
comrades; behind them the smoke of the report was still wafting.
“Injuns!” This was the alarm. Instantly the caravan was again in a
frenzy of commotion. Teamsters curled their lashes and sent their mules
into a lope, their oxen into a lumbering trot; loud rose a medley of
exclamations, orders, rumbling of wheels. From behind little Oliver,
who, his heart in his mouth, was shouting at his lazy cavvy, urging
them forward (Oh, such a long way must he go!), rode for him the
rear-guard.
“Quick! Roust these critters!” they bade, one to another, and helped
him. The cavvy was forced into a trot.
From right and left and before, the flankers and van-guard were
hustling in, bending low and lashing their horses. Now another report
of rifle drifted in; another, and another! Barely pausing in their mad
flight, Dan and his two comrades were turning in saddle and aiming to
their rear; jets of white smoke sped from the muzzles of their guns, as
one after another they fired. For there were the Indians――issuing from
the crest of the sand-ridge, as if springing out of holes, and pouring
over, down the slope, trying to catch Dan and the other men. They must
be Indians, because they flourished lances, and because they were
naked, with feathers streaming in the breeze.
But they couldn’t overtake Dan and his men.
Now from the opposite slope echoed more shots. Indians here also! See
them come, after that squad of scouts! Why didn’t the trappers get out
from the wagons, and help? Why didn’t the cavvy travel faster? What
a lot of Indians! And would the wagons be parked, in time, and would
there be a hole left for the cavvy? Supposing there wasn’t, and he,
Oliver, must stay outside!
“Roust those critters! Roust those critters!” urged the men with
Oliver, as in the dust and the hubbub and the excitement they all
shrieked together.
Almost crying, in his earnestness, little Oliver did his best.
As fast as they arrived at trot and gallop the wagons swung to right
and to left, tongues inside, front wheels locked with hind wheels
of the previously arrived, the teams were unhitched, the teamsters
knelt to thrust their yagers between the spokes and aim. Smaller and
smaller grew the opening, as the oval closed――but amidst yell and murk,
in through the opening galloped at last the cavvy, and like the rest
little Oliver, breathless, gasping, found himself “forted.”
None too soon was it! Down streamed, on either flank, the foe――a
hideously screaming, whooping, feathered, painted foe: riding, many of
them bridleless, most of them garmentless, brandishing tufted lance and
strung bow, with here and there a gun, face and body daubed lavishly
with red and yellow.
“Kiowas!” ran through the wagon-fort the muttered exclamation. And――――
“Get out o’ there, you trappers! You Kit Carson men!” rose the angry
cry. “Get out o’ yore holes an’ show what you can do!”
But from within the wagons answered never a sound nor a stir.
However, ’twas no time nor place, now, to berate the dastard
mountain-men, so false to their reputation. The teamsters were green;
the wagon-fort had been poorly formed, in the haste; the location was
bad, for defense; and darting from wagon to wagon, along the circle,
Captain Blunt and other leaders besought the defenders to keep cool and
hold their fire.
The painted Kiowas on-rushed as if they were to ride right over the
wagons! “Bang!” spoke the yager of a teamster. And “Bang! Bang! Bang!
Bang! Bangity-bang!” bellowed the smooth-bores as his excited mates
pulled triggers. In vain Captain Blunt and his aides ran, ordered,
implored, threatened. The Kiowas were two hundred yards away; too far
for a clumsy yager――but at the volley every one fell from his horse.
Were they all killed? Were they? Hurrah, thought little Oliver. No――a
fellow in bright yellow leggins was left! But at the “pop!” of little
Oliver’s pistol he, also, fell over! Then――――
No! More were left, on this side; and on the other side! See? Even
the yellow-leggins had come to life. Saddle-pad after saddle-pad
miraculously grew a figure, and on dashed the Kiowas again, as many as
ever, with joyous yelps charging empty guns. That was what they had
hoped for――empty guns.
Realizing, the panicky teamsters fumbled and made mistakes, as rattling
their pieces among the wagon-spokes they would pour powder, ram ball,
prime pan, cock, aim, fire. Disdaining to hang now by thong-loops upon
the opposite side of their horses, with bows drawn, lances poised, and
a gun or two speaking, the wild redmen of the sand-hills bore headlong
for the weakly answering caravan.
So swiftly they neared! Ere half the yagers had been reloaded they
were within fifty yards. Could anything stop them? With thud upon thud
their arrows pelted in and through. Their paint patterns were plain,
their faces glared, their guttural exclamations could be heard――and
boy Oliver, with one last frantic glance about, dived under a low-hung
wagon.
Even as he did so, he heard a new sound. It was not “Bang!” and “Bang!”
It was “Spat!” “Spat! Spat!” and “Whing!” The wagon over him swayed, a
fresh fume of powder-smoke floated to his nostrils. The trappers! He
had forgotten the trappers! They had fired, at last, from beneath the
wagon-covers――but they were too late.
It seemed to little Oliver that he waited a long time for the charge.
He still heard the whoops and grunts of the Kiowas, right at hand――they
were coming, coming, coming! They would scalp the whole caravan, and
steal all the cavvy! And while he waited, clutching his pistol, another
sound arose. Inside the wagon-fort was a new commotion――a clamor of
voices, a shuffling of hasty feet, a rattle of stirrup and a thud of
many hoofs!
Had the Kiowas broken through? They must! The wagon over him swayed
again, something struck it, almost shoved it to one side; he peered,
craning his neck to see into the dust――and a set of hoofs passed right
over his head. He glimpsed a buckskin rider, on the _outside_; a
trapper had forced his horse between the loosely locked wheels of the
two wagons, and was on the _outside_!
The Kiowas were here, too. Many were upon the ground, and the red which
stained them was redder than the red of vermilion paint. Yes, many and
many were upon the ground. But the others were charging about; little
Oliver had not been waiting long, after all. He knelt, trembling in his
eagerness. There were still a host of Kiowas, and they were very angry.
The wagon-fort must be fairly oozing trappers, mounted; for from either
direction they were galloping into the field, their lines loose, their
buckskin-clad, fringed bodies leaning forward, pistol in hand.
Across the little space, to the line of prone and doubled figures they
raced. “Bang! Bang!” jetted their pistols. The live Kiowas, dodging and
hanging to the necks of their ponies, parted before the counter-charge,
swerved at the volley, let the trappers into their midst――and with a
great savage yell of vengeance turned, to close. For the trappers’
pistols were empty, as the teamsters’ yagers had been! Now long scores
would be settled; a trapper’s scalp was worthy many a dance.
But what a surprise! With “Bang! Bang!” the pistols spoke again and
yet again and again, and needed no reloading! Down from their ponies
plunged stricken Kiowas, fierce career ended; around wheeled the
unstricken, lying low upon pony backs, hammering pony sides with
desperate heels, fleeing the wondrous medicine of the whites. And
through the lodges of plains and desert spread the wail: “White man
shoot one time with rifle and six time with butcher-knife!” Thus before
the eyes of boy Oliver, under the wagon, was broken by Kit Carson and
his men the power of the caravan pirates.
Cheering and lashing, the trappers made pursuit clear out of sight.
All around the wagon-fort the battle had resulted the same. With
that result the teamsters really had little to do, after their first
ineffective volley; and they could only stare, open-mouthed, when so
unexpectedly the trapper rifles emptied the saddle-pads in earnest, and
without hesitation out the trappers charged. They still were staring,
scarcely crediting, when back the trappers rode, in little squads, grim
and weary, but not without their banter. Slipped under the belts they
brought scalps. Oliver saw Sol Silver, and he recognized others――and he
found Kit Carson.
Kit Carson chanced to ride close in, past Oliver’s wagon, and paused
here to shake hands with Captain Blunt. His face was flushed and his
lips tight together; and his eyes! They were terrible eyes, not now
steel-gray but a vivid blue, flaming like living amethysts or like blue
stars.
“Yes, sir,” he said, in reply to Captain Blunt’s congratulations. “We
taught those thar red demons a lesson they’ll not forget. It’s all
over. Go ahead with yore caravan.”
Hearing, Oliver shame-facedly crawled out from beneath the wagon; and
it seemed to him that Kit Carson the Great saw him, and smiled friendly
at him.
Some of the teamsters would have liked to mingle with the trappers and
to rehearse what had been done, and what had not been done, and what
might have been done, in the short fight; but “Catch up! Ketch up!” and
“Fall in, men!” rang the sharp orders of the caravan officers. Time had
been lost, water was dwindling, every moment was precious; the march
must proceed at once.
So team after team settled to collar and yoke, wagon after wagon
lurched forward; and presently little Oliver was once more in the rear
of all, driving his cavvy through the drifting dust. Strangely enough,
not a man of caravan or trappers had been wounded, and only one mule
had received an arrow, in the hip.
“Wall, boy, how’d you like the Kiowas?” It was Sol Silver, again, back
beside Oliver. Brown-bearded and burly, he looked the same as ever and
as if he had not been in any fight. But tucked in his belt were two
scalps. “Whar’s yore pelts for trophies?”
“I haven’t any. I wasn’t close enough,” answered Oliver, truthfully.
“Didn’t I see you chasing the chief on yore mule?” invited Sol. “Kit
took one chief an’ you took t’other.”
Oliver flushed, and shook his head.
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t try.”
“Whar war ye, then?”
Oliver flushed more and hung his head.
“Under a wagon.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol, and chuckled through his beard. “What war the
matter?”
Oliver wanted to cry.
“I guess I was afraid.”
“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol. “Guess mebbe you war.” Then he sobered. “You
fetched yore cavvy in, though, I hear tell.”
“Men helped me.”
“But you come in behind an’ not ahead, jest the same,” asserted Sol.
“That war right. Warn’t ye afraid the Injuns’d get ye, ’fore you war
forted?”
Oliver nodded.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Sol. “You corralled yore cavvy fust,
an’ then you crawled under the wagon. Don’t blame ye for being afraid.
Only a fool’s never afraid. Being afraid doesn’t make anybody a coward.
I ’spec’ you thought us trappers war afraid, too, when we crawled into
the wagons, ’fore you crawled under one.”
Oliver must nod again.
“We warn’t; not this time. But I reckon we’ve all been afraid, many
another time. This time we crawled into the wagons so the Injuns
wouldn’t see us. If the Injuns spied Kit Carson men riding with a
wagon-train they’d never attack, you bet. These Southwest Injuns know
us Kit Carson men by sight, now. An’ you jest say ‘Kit Carson’ to ’em,
an’ out comes the peace-pipe mighty quick. They can depend on Kit to
fight ’em if they’re bound to fight, or to talk straight with ’em
if they want to talk straight. He air a bad enemy, an’ he air a best
friend. He shoots plumb centre, with both tongue an’ rifle.”
The noon camp was very brief; long enough only for the animals to
breathe, and for the men to munch a strip each of dried meat, while
coffee boiled. But it was long enough for Oliver to sidle near where
Kit Carson appeared to be telling stories to a group of caravan men.
Anybody should know that Kit Carson must have marvellous stories to
tell.
“But what about that time you sneaked on hands an’ knees, through the
snow, close to the Injun fort, near head o’ the Arkansas, an’ cut the
hosses loose an’ drove ’em off with snow-balls?” asked Teamster Henry.
“When war that?” inquired Kit Carson, as if mildly surprised.
“Some years back. When you fust went into the mountains.”
“Oh,” said Kit Carson, slowly rubbing his chin. “That war some o’
Captain Gant’s men. Captain Gant had lost some hosses, by these
Crows, an’ his men went an’ got ’em. Can’t do without hosses, in the
mountains.”
“But weren’t you along?”
“Wall, I might have followed,” drawled Carson, uneasily. “I don’t
exactly remember ’bout that. They war brave fellows, though. They――――”
“Reckon you’ve made a heap o’ Injuns run, all the same,” interrupted an
admiring caravaner.
“Sartinly, sartinly,” agreed Kit Carson. “Part the time I’ve been
running after them, an’ most the time they’ve been running after _me_.”
“You gave ’em a good dose this time, though.”
“Wall, we had to; we had to. My men had to,” declared Kit Carson, and
he brought down his clenched hand. “But we didn’t like to; that is,
we oughtn’t to like to. Nobody likes to kill human beings; an’ these
Injuns, pore critters, ain’t been raised to know any better’n to rob
an’ murder. They think this hyar’s their country, an’ we whites air
using up the game they depend on. But o’ course, these Kiowas come down
’specting to wipe out a defenceless train that warn’t doing ’em any
harm, an’ we simply _had_ to shoot into ’em. If this caravan didn’t
lick ’em, proper, some other caravan must. Now the job’s over.”
“How many did you kill, of ’em? You got the chief, didn’t you?”
“Me?” queried Kit Carson, again mildly surprised. “Oh, thar war jest a
lot o’ shooting an’ riding around, an’ we did the best we could. We war
lucky to have these six-shooter pistols――revolvers, they call ’em. Ever
see ’em before?”
“You’ll never get him to talk about himself,” warned a trapper to a
listener near Oliver. “Sometimes he will, with Injuns, ’cause they
understand boasting, an’ they all know Kit Carson. But ’tain’t white
man way with him. So you might as well quit. He hates the leetle letter
‘I.’”
“That’s heap weepon, shorely,” commented a teamster, examining. “Beats
the big gun of that boy, yonder.”
Now, this caused everybody to look at Oliver, which was most
embarrassing. He was well aware that his little pistol was not so grand
as these new-style revolvers; and he did not like to be laughed at. But
Kit Carson, as if glad to change the subject from himself, smiled and
said quickly:
“Hello, boy. You’re safe, they say, an’ so’s yore cavvy. You’ll make a
warrior yet.”
Oliver must hang his head and turn and twist. He didn’t deserve such
praise.
“Yes, sir; but I crawled under a wagon,” he blurted. “I didn’t fight
any.”
“Haw! Haw!” rose the laughter.
“Wall,” remarked Kit Carson, quietly, but clearly, “I’ve seen many a
time when I wished I war under a wagon, myself.”
At this moment “Catch up! Ketch up!” sounded the calls, and the talk
must end, while the caravan resumed the trail.
Not another Indian came into sight, as the train plodded on, with the
Kit Carson men still acting as escort. At sunset camp was made for the
night, beside a dried water-course where grew a few hardy cottonwoods.
Sitting wearily his old mule, watching his cavvy until the night
guard should relieve him, little Oliver wished that he was by one of
the trappers’ mess-fires instead, where Kit Carson might smile upon
him, again. However, while he sat upon the mule, a figure rode to him,
through the dusk. It was the booming Sol Silver, once more. Sol spoke
direct.
“Boy, Kit sent me to ask how’d you like to go on to Touse with us,
’stead o’ to Santy Fee with the caravan?”
Oliver gasped.
“Can I? With you!”
“If you want to, an’ if Kit decides so. We take the Touse trail in the
morning. Now, if you’re to come, thar’ll be a fire made at the foot o’
that thar cottonwood, standing out alone. See it? Wall, if you see the
flare, pretty soon, you’ll know. But you’ll lose yore wages from the
caravan. They’ll not pay ye less you go through to Santy Fee with ’em.”
“I don’t care,” stammered Oliver. “I’d rather go to Touse, with you.
Can I be a Kit Carson man?”
“Reckon you can, some time, if you got it in you; an’ if Kit thinks you
have, you have. All right; don’t say anything, an’ watch for the fire.”
Sol rode back to his mates. Oliver watched anxiously. Hurrah, the fire
flared, just as he was trudging to supper. And when, in the morning,
caravan and trappers parted company, into the west on the Taos trail
rode with the Kit Carson men little Oliver Wiggins.
III
OLIVER WINS HIS SPURS
That evening, with clatter of hoof and volley of victorious whoops
and rifle-shots, amidst the sunset they galloped into the New Mexican
village of Don Fernandez de Taos, sixty miles west from where they had
parted with the Santa Fé bound caravan.
Taos, or “old Touse,” as it was affectionately styled, lies in a
mountain valley eighty miles north of Santa Fé. Here had his home
and headquarters Kit Carson, captain over his company of forty-five
trappers. He lived in one of the box-like clay houses, with his little
daughter Adaline. Adaline, four years old, was a dark, elfish lass,
half Indian; for her mother, Kit Carson’s wife, had been an Arapahoe.
Kit had married this Arapahoe in the mountains, in the summer of 1835,
but she had died soon after the birth of little Adaline.
“Kit thought a heap o’ Alice,” declared Sol Silver, to Oliver. “Some
trappers jest take a squaw as cook an’ lodge cleaner, an’ all that. But
Kit air true man. He named his squaw Alice, an’ when she died he felt
mighty bad. He’s got that gal to raise, now.”
The Kit Carson company of trappers were divided into two bands, under
Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain and Lieutenant Sol Silver. They took turns
going upon excursions after beaver――or sometimes they all were out
together.
Besides the beaver-hunting, there was the buffalo-hunting for Bent’s
Fort. Northeast of Taos, 250 and more miles, upon the Arkansas River
in southern Colorado of to-day, was the large clay-built trading-post
of Bent’s Fort, or Fort William, its hardy garrison trafficking with
20,000 wild Cheyennes, Utes, and Arapahoes.
Kit Carson had the contract for supplying the garrison with meat. So
twice a year, in spring and in fall, the Carson men gathered at Bent’s
Fort, for a great buffalo-hunt. Into the fort were brought thousands of
pounds of buffalo-meat.
The great Kit Carson did not seem to think much of Oliver, after
landing him in Taos. He gave him a place to sleep and a place at table;
but he did not send him out to trap beaver, or hunt buffalo, or rescue
traders. He put him upon the shabby mule, and set him at his old job of
tending a horse-herd.
“It’s this way, boy,” consoled Sol Silver, when Oliver would complain.
“You do well what’s yores to be done, an’ chance at more will come.”
The extra horses and mules belonging to the Kit Carson company were
pastured in the open on the outskirts of town. Every morning they must
be driven out to graze, and every evening they must be brought back to
the corral. It was Oliver’s business to drive them out and to drive
them back――which he did with many shouts and much rope-waving and
gallant racing by his ancient mule. Thus for a year he was the official
herder for the Carson company.