men to meet him at Fort Laramie was urgent. And little time could be
spent preparing; none could be wasted; for as everybody knew, Fort
Laramie was four hundred miles from Bent’s Fort, and Bent’s Fort was
two hundred and fifty miles from Taos.
Now must the Kit Carson men at Taos fall to, making ready. Bullets must
be moulded, powder-horns replenished, repairs put upon saddle and shirt
and leggins, new moccasins found or the old ones soled again. Nobody
might tell whither this next trail led, nor how long ere it would turn
home; and few cared, even though they had just come in from another
trail of three months.
Two men were sent back to the summer camp to tell the Sol Silver party
what had happened; three were assigned to see the bales of pelts
through to market at St. Louis; and before noon of the following day
the rest, fifteen of them, under Lieutenant Ike, with plenty of horses
and mules for saddle and pack, clattered out of Taos, bound straight
for Fort Laramie, more than six hundred miles away.
Riding northward, on the sixth day the hurrying squad emerged in sight
of Bent’s Fort, above whose brown, high walls flew the Stars and
Stripes: a token and a challenge, planted here on the farthest border
where the United States met Mexico.
Fording the Arkansas, in this the southeastern part of present
Colorado, the Carson men were in American territory. Swarthy William
Bent, proprietor, who lived at the fort, and whose wife was a Cheyenne
woman, welcomed them into the broad gateway.
Mr. Bent was enabled to supply a little news.
“Why, yes, there’s a lot of talk this spring of emigration to the
Oregon country,” he said; “reports from Missouri are, that some one
hundred settlers, including women and children, left, middle of May,
over the trail for Oregon. And a government expedition’s afoot.
Maxwell’s been hired for it. Like as not you’ll find Kit’s mixed up in
some of that business, too.”
From Bent’s, with its brave flag, its brass cannon piece upon the wall,
and its sturdy garrison, on pushed the squad.
Two hundred miles more they rode, until, where green foothills met
green plains, under the eye of Long’s Peak, was stationed, as Oliver
well knew, Fort St. Vrain, brother post to Bent’s. He was wondering
whether Ike was not intending to swing into the west and visit this
post, when, like the others, he sighted a horseman approaching at a
gallop.
“Injuns!” cried voices in the cavalcade.
“White man, I reckon,” cried others.
“Close up, close up,” ordered Lieutenant Ike, gruffly. “An’ keep yore
eyes peeled for more.”
Rapidly the horseman approached. Nearer he drew, speeding recklessly,
his pony now and then jumping to avoid a badger hole or prairie-dog
hole. Presently could be descried his long hair and a kerchief turban
streaming in the breeze that he made; above his head he flourished his
rifle――its muzzle puffed smoke, as signal that he was a friend and was
coming with empty gun.
“White!” grunted several voices, simultaneously.
“Wagh!” uttered another. “Not exactly, boys. If that airn’t Jim
Beckwith, I’m a beaver!”
Jim Beckwith! Oliver knew Jim Beckwith――or Beckwourth, as he called
himself――and had seen him in Taos. He was a mixed blood, half French
and half negro, and was celebrated because, when early a trapper, he
had been adopted by the Crow Indians and made a head war-chief.
Arriving, while jogged the squad, he halted his pony by pulling it to
its haunches. A romantic figure he was, with head bare, Indian fashion,
with dark, handsome, almost Indian features, his sinewy, graceful
frame sheathed in gaily fringed and beaded buckskin.
“How,” he greeted.
“How,” and “Hello, Jim,” greeted the squad.
“From Touse?”
“Yep.”
“Where bound?”
“Up to Fort John.”
“What’s the news?”
“Nothing much. Kit sent for us, is all.”
“Wants you on that expedition.”
“What expedition?”
“Government.”
“How’d you know?”
“’Cause part of it’s just passed on up through St. Vrain. I was there
and saw it. Young army fellow by name of Frémont’s captain, and he
said Carson and rest of the crowd are waiting at Laramie. Maxwell was
along, too, and he said same. Maxwell’s hunter, Kit’s guide. Kit took
one party up by way the North Platte trail, Frémont and Maxwell came
in ’cross country by South Platte. They’re all to meet at Fort John or
Laramie.”
“Heap doings,” muttered Lieutenant Ike. “What’s the lodge talk?” he
asked.
“Oregon trail’s being broken by settlers. First company’s already
passed Laramie. Sioux are bad, and Gros Vents and Cheyennes have joined
’em, for war-path up Sweetwater. They’re hot for Crow and white
scalps, and Snake hosses. You fellows are liable to lose ha’r.”
“Wagh! But what’s this hyar expedition for?”
“To make the trail wider. To tell the government at Washington where
South Pass is, near as I could find out from Maxwell.”
“But who doesn’t know whar South Pass air!” exclaimed a chorus.
“Wall,” quoth Lieutenant Ike, “if we’ve all been thar once we can all
go thar ag’in. Kit’s sent for us, an’ that’s ’nough. Come on, boys.”
V
FRÉMONT SAYS “ONWARD!”
“Thar’s Fort John,” directed Oliver’s trail comrade, William New.
This was the fourth day after the meeting with Jim Beckwith; the march
had been steadily northward, with snowy mountains distant on the left,
and with far bleak ridges showing ever more clear, in the north.
“Thar’s Fort John,” directed William New. “Those mountains beyond it
are the Black Hills, whar the Sioux an’ Cheyenne cache themselves.”
“Is that the same as Fort Laramie?” asked Oliver.
“Yep. That beaver has two tails, is all. John war what the Company (and
by this Oliver knew that he meant the great American Fur Company) named
it, an’ that’s what most o’ us old trappers call it; but ‘Laramie’ is
the general name ’mongst traders, an’ some trappers too. You see, it’s
on Laramie Fork o’ the North Platte, an’ that peak over it is Laramie
Peak, so ‘Laramie’ ’s a natteral word.”
While still riding northward as if to pass by Fort Laramie on the other
side of Laramie Creek, the squad encountered a plain trail, almost a
road, running east and west; and into this turned at once Lieutenant
Ike and fellow leader. Therefore turned into it all, as matter of
course.
“Hyar’s yore way to Oregon,” announced William New, for benefit of
Oliver. “But thar’s been a heap o’ people passed along since a year
ago. Wagh, thar has! Sign’s fresh, too――people, wagons an’ cattle!”
“An’ thar’s whar we find Kit, I reckon,” spoke a horseman of the pair
in front, nodding before.
“Yes; an’ Injuns, too,” added his comrade. “’Drather find ’em thar than
on ahead.”
“See those lodges?” directed William New, to Oliver. “Sioux lodges. Few
Cheyenne, but mostly Sioux――Ogalallah.”
Before, beyond the sparse willows and cottonwood of the creek, stood
forth boldly upon a little knoll the post of Fort Laramie or Fort
John. The walls were of adobe clay, like the walls of Bent’s Fort, but
whitewashed, after Mexican fashion, like many of the houses in Taos.
The fort had towers, at diagonal corners, square and peaked; and over
the principal gateway was another tower or sentry-box, floating the
Stars and Stripes. Along the tops of the walls stood, like teeth, a
row of palisades. Close beside the walls and below the post were a
collection of conical white tents――evidently Indian lodges of tanned
buffalo hides.
Many figures were strolling about: figures in buckskins and wool, as
well as figures in blankets and robes.
“Thar’s Kit, or else this chile’s eyes don’t know fat cow from pore
bull!” exclaimed a voice. “An’ thar’s more of ’em camped nigh the
river, up above!”
Through the ford, where had crossed the wheels and hoofs of preceding
companies, plashed the squad, at trot; at gallop mounted the rise which
waited; and with trapper whoop and Indian yelp, and “Whang!” of sundry
rifle, charged for the gate of old Laramie.
The Indians, blanketed to their chins, stoically stared; from the walls
and from the gateway the post employés witnessed, unperturbed, for they
were accustomed to such arrival; a few other trappers, lounging about,
whooped back, with wave of hand; and a wiry, sandy, short-legged,
broad-shouldered little man, vaulting upon a horse, dashed out, full
speed for the short distance, hat-brim flaring, hair and fringes
streaming, to meet the incomers.
“Told ’ee it war Kit! Rides like an Injun!” chuckled the previous
speaker.
“Hello, Kit.”
“Hello, boys.” He checked his horse as quickly as he had started it.
“Glad to see ye. Thar’s our camp, up above.”
“Wall, got yore express, an’ hyar we air,” volunteered Ike, as all rode
on. “What’s the news?”
“Government expedition to the South Pass; maybe further. Lieutenant
Frémont, army man, is boss; Maxwell’s hunter, I’m guide. The
lieutenant’s got twenty or so fust-class St. Louis Frenchmen hired for
the trip, but seemed to me I’d feel more comfortable if I had some
o’ my own crowd. So I sent those two Delawares to Touse, with the word.”
[Illustration: JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT]
As they were about to pass the post another horseman spurred out,
intercepting them. The fact that this was the “army man,” government
“boss” of the expedition, was impressed upon the cavalcade, and all
eyes turned to scrutinize the rider as he approached.
He rode well and easily――but with somewhat longer stirrup than the
short Indian-hung stirrup of the Carson men, and sitting rather more
erect than was trapper custom. His costume bore scarce a trace of army
uniform; he wore a short plain blue blouse, half unbuttoned, over blue
flannel shirt and ordinary jean trousers tucked into high moccasins,
while his head-gear was the broad curly-brimmed wool hat of the plains
and mountains. He carried no sword. However, athwart his saddle-horn
was lying the inevitable rifle. His figure was more slender than Kit
Carson’s; he was about two inches taller, and evidently he weighed
about the same. He had a full brown beard, rather compact and wavy,
oval face, white skin now tanned, bold clean-cut nose jutting like the
keel of a boat, and large eyes of flashing blue. He was not any older
than Kit, much handsomer, altogether a different style of man――more
excitable, more dashing, more like Kit was in an Indian fight. Yes,
here was another type of leader.
“Got your men, I see,” he addressed, reining in, with a rapid glance
along the column.
“Yep,” drawled Kit. “Hyar they are.”
“And one boy, too,” added the lieutenant, with a smile at Oliver. “That
will make my boys envious.”
“Wall,” remarked Kit, “he’s man an’ on the pay-roll. ’Tisn’t size that
counts, always.”
The camp was close ahead. It consisted of about a dozen small
cone-shaped tents of dingy canvas; one tent, slightly larger than the
others, and set apart, probably was Lieutenant Frémont’s tent. The camp
was thronging with whites in frontier costume, with Indians and dogs;
saddles and packs were stacked in piles; and out from the creek bank,
in a grassy place, were grazing horses and mules.
From the camp now came racing, like young Indians, upon their ponies,
two boys, as if eager to inspect. One was younger than Oliver, the
other was older. They, also, were dressed in easy but rough plains
costume, and the younger even wore Cheyenne moccasins. With brief
“Hello” they fell in alongside the leaders of the column, and
accompanied it while covertly eyeing its make-up. Oliver assumed his
best mountain-man pose, and with equal sly curiosity eyed them back.
“No, my men will mess by themselves,” was saying Kit Carson, to
Lieutenant Frémont. “O’ course, thar can be a general camp, but they’ll
make their own way. That’ll avoid any trouble.”
“Very well,” answered Lieutenant Frémont. “That’s understood, then. I
don’t feel authorized to enlist them.”
To the camp rode on the Carson squad; and at the lifted hand of Kit,
as signal, they were off saddle at once, to unpack and make another
camp――an extension of first. While Oliver was busy, a voice spoke to
him.
“Your name’s Oliver, Kit says.” It was Lieutenant Frémont, accosting
him with another frank smile; the two boys, bridle-lines upon arms,
were with him. “I want you young gentlemen to get acquainted. Oliver,
this is Henry Brant, and Randolph Benton, of St. Louis. They came out
by the North Platte trail, with Kit’s party.”
Oliver flushed, as he shook hands.
“Are you going all the way?” asked Randolph, eagerly. He was the
younger boy, with the Cheyenne moccasins; his age was about twelve.
“I don’t know. We go as far as Kit goes, I guess.”
“That’s all the way, then. You aren’t afraid of Indians, are you?”
“Naw,” grunted Oliver, disdainfully.
“We aren’t, either,” declared the older boy, Henry. He was about
nineteen. And he continued, gloomily: “But we can’t go on. We’ve got to
stay here at the fort, Mr. Frémont says.”
“A Cheyenne boy gave me these moccasins,” informed Randolph, proudly,
sticking out a foot.
“Yes. I knew ’em for Cheyenne moccasins, soon as I saw ’em,” answered
Oliver. “But why don’t you go on?” he invited――liking both boys. “Isn’t
the party going on?”
“Yes; but we’re too inexperienced, Mr. Frémont thinks. And he doesn’t
want to have the responsibility of us,” explained Henry; continuing,
gloomily as before: “_We’d_ go, if he’d let us; but if the Indians are
bad I suppose we might be in the way, and I’d rather stay here than get
anybody killed looking after us.”
“So would I,” agreed Randolph, quickly. He was the livelier of the
two. “We almost had a fight, coming out, anyhow; only they turned into
trappers instead of Indians.”
“We’ll have some fun, at the fort, I guess,” said Henry, more
hopefully. “But you finish up your work, Oliver. We’ll watch you.”
“Well,” admitted Oliver. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
He proceeded; his two friends strolled about, keeping in touch with him.
The Frémont party were composed all of St. Louis French――the majority
seasoned voyageurs and trappers who as American Fur Company men
had before met the Carson men on the beaver trail. They wore, some
buckskins, but the greater proportion baggy jean trousers stuffed
into high moccasins or boots, and belted at the waist, flannel shirts
adjusted outside the trousers, like blanket-coats and trimmed in red,
bright neckerchiefs, and handkerchief turbans or the wool hats. A
cheery, bustling, dark-faced and dark-eyed crowd they were, laughing
much and singing much and joking much.
“Let’s go down to the fort,” proposed Randolph, at once, when Oliver
turned from his last chore.
But the sun was setting behind great Laramie Peak of the Black Hills,
in the west; throughout the combined camps fires were blazing; and
Oliver, keenly aware of time and place, must reply:
“No; this chile’s wolfish, and pots are on the fire. Meat, first. Then
I’ll go.”
“You eat with us, at our mess,” invited Henry.
“Yes. You can, can’t you?” urged Randolph. “Buffalo meat, and coffee!”
“I suppose you’re used to buffalo meat, though,” hazarded Henry, as
they moved on.
“Yes. That’s what we live on, mostly. Don’t have much coffee. Didn’t
bring any, this trip.”
“We lost nearly all of ours――a whole bag full, in the Kansas River!”
chirped Randolph. “Almost as soon as we’d started. Our rubber boat
tipped over when we were crossing, and Kit Carson and Mr. Maxwell and
everybody had to jump into the river and rescue things. Some of the men
couldn’t swim, either; but they didn’t care! Kit Carson was sick two
days from his wetting.”
“He’s often been in rivers. Trappers wade to their waist in ice-water,
setting traps or finding ’em,” explained Oliver.
“Are you a trapper?”
“I’m learning,” answered Oliver, cautiously. And he added, with pride:
“I’m a Kit Carson man, though.”
“Do those tacks in your rifle mean scalps?”
“Yes.”
“Did you take them?”
“No; but Kit Carson did, before he gave the rifle to me. It was his
rifle.”
“I’d like to be a Kit Carson man,” declared Henry.
“I’d as soon be a Frémont man,” retorted Randolph, loyally.
“Well, it takes pluck to follow either of them, I guess,” admitted
Henry. “They’re both brave. You ought to have seen them riding after
buffalo! Kit Carson’s horse put his foot in a hole and threw him head
over heels and ran away with the buffalo till Mr. Maxwell caught him;
and the lieutenant’s horse chased so hard and got so excited that it
regularly foamed at the mouth! It’s a trained buffalo horse; name is
Proveau.”
They squatted, trapper fashion, guns against knees, near a fire upon
which a pot of stew bubbled and steamed attractively. At other fires
men were toasting strips of meat held on sticks.
“You came up from Taos, didn’t you?” asked Henry.
“Yes.”
“We came clear from St. Louis. That’s about as far,” piped Randolph.
“But I came from Washington, too. We left Missouri――or Mr. Chouteau’s
farm just this side, the tenth of June and we got here July thirteenth.
We’ve been here a week.”
“Did you have any scrimmages, on the trail?” queried Oliver.
“Naw,” said Henry. “Once we thought we were going to, but they were
just a band of trappers on their way back to Missouri. We had some fine
buffalo hunts, though. But Lieutenant Frémont almost got into a big
Indian fight. He separated from us, part way; and he and Mr. Maxwell
and a couple of others followed up the South Branch of the Platte River
to the mountains, while we took the Oregon Trail route, up the North
Branch.”
“Yes; and about three hundred Injuns charged _them_, and there’d have
been shooting if Mr. Maxwell hadn’t recognized one of the Injuns and
shouted, just in time: ‘You old fool! Don’t you know me?’ Then they
all shook hands, and went to the Indian village. They were Arapahoe
Indians.”
“What’s this expedition for, anyway?” ventured Oliver.
“I’ll tell you,” proffered Randolph. “I know because Lieutenant Frémont
married my sister――――”
“And his father’s Senator Benton of Missouri, too,” further explained
Henry. “We’re second cousins. That’s why we were taken along, I guess.”
“Well, I’ve heard the talk, at our house in Washington, anyway,”
resumed Randolph, interrupted. “It’s claimed to be an army expedition
sent out by the Secretary of War to examine the country between the
Missouri frontiers and the Rocky Mountains, and to get the latitude
and longitude of the South Pass; but my father and some other men
in Congress hope it will encourage colonists over into Oregon by
describing the way to get there.”
“Have you been to the South Pass?” asked Henry, of Oliver.
“No, not yet; but most of our men have. That’s the big pass on the
regular trapper and trader trail, over the Rockies from this side to
the other side. Everybody knows the South Pass.”
“Wish we were going on,” repeated Henry, wistfully. “But I guess it’s
mighty serious when Kit Carson makes his will.”
“Did he?”
“Yes. You see, our party met a party under Jim Bridger――you know Jim
Bridger, another trapper captain? (Oliver nodded.) And they all said
the country beyond Laramie isn’t safe, because the Sioux swear they’ll
kill every white man they find there. That scared our men pretty bad,
and Kit Carson got alarmed, too; and at the fort he made his will, so
that in case he’s killed his little girl he left in St. Louis at school
will be provided for. She’s half Indian.”
“Well, he’ll go on, though, if Frémont goes on,” asserted Oliver,
stoutly.
“Of course. That’s why he made his will. He’s sensible. It isn’t
because he’s afraid.”
When supper was practically over with, and the men had lighted their
pipes for a few minutes preceding night chores, a figure stepped into
the midst of the lounging groups and lifted his arm, for attention. It
was a slender, quick figure――that of Lieutenant Frémont.
“Men,” he addressed, clearly, “to-morrow we break camp, for the outward
trail again. We’re well armed, we know how to take care of ourselves,
in a fight, and Mr. Bissonette, head agent at Fort Platte, has agreed
to go with us, as far as we need him, as interpreter. He is a friend
of the Sioux and Blackfeet, and can talk with them if we meet them.
But as to these threats by the Indians and these rumors of danger, you
know as well as I do how much they can be relied upon. You’ve all been
in the Indian country before; you can’t expect to travel in it and not
risk a fight or two. In fact, you knew it before we left St. Louis. You
knew there that the Sioux and Blackfeet were unsettled, in the Laramie
region. I’m going on, right on, ready for peace or war. I don’t see any
good and sufficient reason why any of you should break your engagement
with the government and me; but I don’t want anybody in my party who
feels afraid or repents of his bargain. Let him step forward at once,
and I’ll release him with his discharge and his pay up to date.”
There was an instant of silence, broken by a laugh as one man arose,
and defiantly stood.
“You wish to stay, do you?” demanded Lieutenant Frémont.
The man nodded.
“Are you sick, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Tired, then.”
“Yes.”
“You did not know that the South Pass was beyond Fort John, I presume!”
pursued the lieutenant, sarcastically――creating another laugh.
The man maintained sulky silence, hanging his head.
“Well, my poor fellow, we are very sorry for you,” continued the
officer. “You are welcome to your pay and discharge, and you can be
making garden at the post so as to have nice vegetables ready for us
when we come back!” Thus having ridiculed him, the lieutenant asked,
generally: “Is there anybody else who is tired in heart or feet?”
None answered――for which Oliver was glad.
“Humph!” criticised Randolph, as the three boys trudged off to visit
the post. “Wish now they’d take us instead. But they won’t. I’ve got to
stay and wind the old chronometers every day!”
The next morning Oliver (accompanied by the envious and disconsolate
Henry and Randolph) was paying another visit to the fort. Lieutenant
Frémont, and Kit Carson and Lucien Maxwell and several of the French
trappers in the Frémont company had entered the office of Mr. Boudeau,
the agent, as if to say good-by; when through the gate and across
the court, for the office, stalked, with great dignity, half a dozen
Sioux――all chiefs. They were finely built men, several of them old.
A clerk at the door of the office would wave them away; but they acted
as if they did not see him, and past him they shouldered, and on in.
“Come on!” whispered Randolph, to his comrades. “There’s something up.
They’re from Fort Platte, at the Platte River a mile below. I’ve seen
’em there.”
So, the way apparently being open, in after the Indians sidled the boys.
Lieutenant Frémont was just opening a folded note, evidently brought by
the Indians. They had seated themselves upon the floor, along the wall,
and were waiting for the result. The white men were eyeing the missive
anxiously, and waiting also.
“This is a note from Mr. Bissonette at Fort Platte,” announced
Lieutenant Frémont; “as follows,” and he read, in French. Then he
continued: “In case some of us may not have understood it all, I’ll
translate.” And again he read――flushing more as he proceeded:
“FORT PLATTE, July 1, 1842.
“Mr. Frémont: The chiefs in council have just told me to warn
you not to set out before the party of young men which is out
shall have returned. Moreover, they tell me that they are very
certain that they (the young men) will fire upon you at the
first meeting. They ought to be back in seven to eight days.
Pardon me for thus addressing you, but it seems to me that I
should warn you of the danger. Furthermore, the chiefs who
forbid you to set forth before the return of the warriors are
the bearers of this note.
“I am your obedient servant,
“JOSEPH BISSONETTE,
“by L. B. CHARTRAIN.
“The names of some of the chiefs――The Otter Hat, the Breaker of
Arrows, the Black Night, the Bull’s Tail.”
As the lieutenant finished, one of the seated chiefs arose, and
dropping his blanket, as signal that he was about to speak, in guttural
tone, with now and then a gesture, delivered a short harangue. Mr.
Boudeau, the American Fur Company agent in charge of the post,
translated sentence by sentence.