was killed by accident François Badeau, who shot himself through the
head in drawing toward him his gun, muzzle first. He was buried upon
the bank of the stream, and there are his bones, to-day. He, too, had
paid the adventurer’s price, as well as, in his case, the price of
foolishness. The muzzle of a gun always is dangerous.
Lovely Utah Lake unfolded to the view. It was the property of the Ute
or Utah Indians, who made of it their fishing preserve.
Only some thirty miles to the north, and connected by a river was
the Great Salt Lake where in the previous September the company had
encamped. Therefore had they almost completed an immense circle of 3300
miles, and after nearly nine months they were within thirty miles of
the starting point.
Nevertheless, they had not crossed the Great Basin; they had only
skirted it, seeking an entrance. However, even the veteran Joe Walker
could give little definite information upon that unknown interior.
“No, sir; I never have been into the desert, west o’ here,” he
declared, to the lieutenant. “I’ve been in by north, along the Mary’s
River, an’ I’ve been in by south, along the Spanish Trail; but not by
the middle. The Diggers can tell little. But I’m pretty sure o’ one
thing: there are no rivers flowing out, to any sea. The desert has its
own system o’ lakes an’ rivers. It’s evaporation that drains the basin,
an’ not outflowing. There’s no Buenaventura, sir.”
“I believe so, myself,” agreed the lieutenant. “I’ve prepared what
I shall report; namely: ‘The Great Basin: four hundred miles long,
five hundred miles wide, surrounded by lofty mountains; contents
almost unknown, but believed to be rivers and lakes which have no
communication with the sea, deserts and oases which have never been
explored, and animals and savage tribes which no traveller has seen.’
Next time I hope to go into it, and fathom some of its mysteries. We
shall be better prepared. A good place to strike next time is right
through this gap of thirty miles; say by way of the south end of the
Salt Lake.”
“When do you calculate to make the trip?” queried Captain Walker.
“Next spring and summer. Kit has promised to come. Do you think you
will be free, captain? We’ll need a good guide for the desert; I’d like
to engage you.”
“I’ll do it,” said the captain.
Entrancing to-day is this Utah Lake, of fresh water lying blue between
the snowy Wasatch and the hazy Oquirrh or Squirrel Ranges, with the
Great Salt Lake showing silver sheen amidst the lowlands to the west
of north. When on May 25 the Frémont and Carson company arrived, two
villages of Utes were encamped by the lake, waiting for the fish to
ascend into the rivers. These fish were salmon-trout, but not so large
and so tasty as the salmon-trout of the Pyramid Lake, far across the
desert.
Attractive though the spot was, the Frémont and Carson company must not
linger; the Utes were greedy and troublesome, the trail yet was long,
for more than a year the lieutenant had been cut off from news of home,
well-nigh for a year Kit had not heard from his bride.
Under guidance of Captain Walker, up the Spanish Fork River which
from eastward enters the Utah Lake they journeyed, and from the head
of the Spanish Fork River north into the Uintah country of present
northeastern Utah. Here, latitude 40° 27′ 45″, longitude 109° 56′ 42″,
at the first forks of the Uintah River, above where it empties into the
mighty Green, was the fur-trading post of Fort Uintah, whose owner,
lean, swarthy Antoine Roubideau, or Robidoux, was a Taos man.
At Fort Uintah was enrolled by the lieutenant Auguste Archambeau, a
Canadian Frenchman, who wished to go on to Missouri, and who enlisted
as a hunter. Auguste speedily made himself a favorite, for he was well
built, cheerful, and a mountain-man equal to Alexander Godey.
On through rich mountain country, along the borderline of northwestern
Colorado and southwestern Wyoming, rode the company; as they went,
feasting upon buffalo, for the hunters’ rifles were ever busy. In the
morning of June 13 the Continental Divide of the Rockies was topped,
and with a cheer all hailed a little stream trickling for the east.
This was the Atlantic Slope of the continent; it was the United States.
Flowers bloomed, aspens quivered, grass and bush spread fresh and
green, clear and cold ran the streams, and on every side grazed
buffalo, elk, and antelope. South through the North Park of Colorado
turned the march, and down into Middle Park, where rise the waters of
the Grand River flowing west to join with the Green.
But although glorious appeared the landscape, and “fat” it was with
game, Utes, Arapahoe and Sioux made of it a battle-ground; therefore
the march must be cautious. Each night the camp was fortified; by day
scouts were thrown out, ahead, from high places to examine the country.
The road was one made by buffalo, but it also was one used by the
Indians; and according to the moccasins found upon it, and the traces
of lodge-poles, an Arapahoe village must be travelling, before. The
lieutenant and Kit and all hoped that a meeting might be avoided; but
on the morning of June 18 Archambeau and Godey, among the scouts ahead,
from a butte shook a blanket, as signal of Indians in sight!
“Close up, close up!” warned the lieutenant and Joe Walker; and in
response to the word transmitted adown the line Thomas Fitzpatrick
hastened his pack-train. The flankers drew in a little; and at faster
pace proceeded the company, as a hollow square, animals in centre.
“Thar they come,” announced Kit. “’Rapahoes, too. Humph! Treat ’em as
well as we can an’ get rid of ’em quick as we can. They’ll be spoiling
for a fight.”
Along the valley were trudging and riding about thirty Indians, both
women and men. They boldly met the company, and demanded presents. They
claimed that they were going into the hills after roots and game; but
instead, as the cavalcade resumed the march, the bucks wheeled around
and galloped back in the direction where they said they had left their
village.
“We’d better be forting,” counselled Joe Walker. “Did you know any of
’em, Kit?”
“Never saw one of ’em at Bent’s, as I remember,” confessed Kit.
Down to the Grand River hurried the company, and to some willows
between the channel and an overflowed meadow. They had no time to
fort further, even by piling up their packs, when on came again the
Arapahoes, fully 200, painted and flourishing weapons and apparently
eager for a fight.
“Set that flag out, in front, somebody who talks Arapahoe, and tell
them if they pass it, we fire,” ordered the lieutenant.
Alexander Godey grabbed it; but Kit Carson rode out with him. They
planted the staff in the moist ground, and standing by the Stars and
Stripes signed to the Indians to halt. Kit shouted the instructions.
Two of the Indians rode forward, in token of parley.
“One o’ them’s a Sioux,” asserted Thomas Fitzpatrick. “Isn’t that so,
Auguste?”
“I think it is,” affirmed Archambeau. “Sioux an’ ’Rapahoe together mek
it bad; eh?”
The conference soon dissolved, and with one of the Indians Kit loped
back to the willows; Godey remained, amicably squatting and talking
with the other.
“They’re ’Rapahoes, an’ some Sioux,” explained Kit. “This hyar’s an old
Sioux chief, who wants to meet our head chief.”
The old Sioux――a grizzled, stout, but fine-looking veteran, wearing a
necklace of grizzly-bear claws――shook hands warmly with the lieutenant,
and delivered a harangue. Kit translated.
“He says he’s always been friendly to the whites. ’Fore that gang
started from the village they held a council, an’ most of ’em voted to
attack us, ’cause we’d been with the Utes, an’ like as not had sold ’em
guns an’ ammunition. But the Sioux, an’ a few ’Rapahoes who’d seen us
last year on the plains, an’ knew about us, voted ag’in it. He says the
Sioux air pore, an’ ought to be given a lot o’ valuable presents for
the way they voted. I expect the ’Rapahoes’ll want as much.”
“I suppose so,” groaned the lieutenant. “No matter how they voted,
they’ll want the presents.”
Therefore presents were liberally distributed, under the folds of the
Flag, gently waving, perhaps for the first time, here beside the Grand
River in north central Colorado.
Through Middle Park the trail continued, and so did the evidences of
the Arapahoes. At the south end of the park six beaver trappers were
met. They informed the lieutenant that two of their party already had
been killed by the Arapahoes, and that if he would wait they would like
to pack up and get out. He sent Kit and Archambeau and Godey with them,
to help.
When the squad again joined the command, they brought alarming news.
Near the trapper camp they had suddenly been stayed by a band of
Arapahoes, much excited. The Arapahoes said that their people were
about to make a great attack upon the Utes, in the Bayou Salade (which
as South Park lies adjacent to Middle Park, on the south), and that
they had been sent to guide the white men back that they might help the
Arapahoes kill the Utahs! Kit had answered that the white men were far
ahead, and would join them in the Bayou Salade. Whereupon the Arapahoe
scouts rode off to their people. Kit chuckled.
“We’ll have to take care an’ not meet ’em. They’ve got us in a tight
corner. Back yonder on the river we swore we war the ’Rapahoe’s friend,
an’ had nothing to do with the Ute nation. Now if we won’t help our
friends fight, what air we? An’ if we do help ’em fight, whar’ll we be,
with the Utes.”
“Well, it isn’t our quarrel, that’s sure,” declared the lieutenant.
“The Indians can fight their own fights, and we’ll mind our own
business. The Arapahoes would like nothing better than to array the
Utes against us.”
Southward still, over the dividing range into the South Park they
hastened; and at the western verge sounded the warning, again:
“Injuns! Injuns!”
A mounted party of dusky, long-haired figures were descending from
a ridge which intersected the valley, before. If these were pesky
Arapahoes, once more, perhaps seeking the white men to escort them to
the battle, then the company must watch out.
“Make for those islands, boys,” ordered the lieutenant; and into the
shallow river, to a willow patch, plashed the Frémont and Carson men.
“Those are squaws,” cried Captain Walker.
Ute squaws they proved to be. They eagerly hastened to the company,
and with gestures and loud exclamations and weeping told their story.
Beyond the ridge was their village; early that morning the Arapahoes
had charged it, killed four men including the head chief, and driven
off many horses to a forted hollow a mile below. But the brave Ute
warriors, 300, had rallied and pursued them; and now a great fight
was in progress. If the white men would help the Utes their friends
kill those dogs of Arapahoes, they should have the best horses at the
village to carry them into the battle.
“Let’s get out o’ hyar. Have to get out o’ hyar. More trouble,”
announced Kit, shaking his head at the clamor of the Ute women.
Speedily the cavalcade was put in motion, to abandon the dangerous
neighborhood. Vainly the Ute women followed, urging, wailing, and
plucking at the clothing of the white men, to bid them join in the
fight. Turning off at the ridge, and keeping it between them and the
village, with a line of scouts riding the summit to watch the other
side, the company left the valley as rapidly as possible. Soon the
women must cease their urging, and gallop back to their village. The
spiteful cracks of rifles, and the whoops of the red warriors, now were
plainly heard; gazing down from a break in the ridge Oliver and all
could see the Ute village, in disorder, with dead and wounded being
hurriedly brought in. However, according to the Ute women, their braves
were having the best of the fight. It was the opinion of Kit and other
mountain-men, also, that warrior for warrior, the Utes could whip the
Arapahoes.
With course southeast, the company crossed from the South Park to the
tributaries of the Upper Arkansas; and penetrating through the rugged
country lying between Cripple Creek and Cañon City, Colorado, on June
28 arrived at the Arkansas River itself. Old friend was the Arkansas,
for now below, on it, waited Bent’s Fort, at the crossroads of the long
trail.
At sunset of June 29 the settlement of the Pueblo was reached. Here the
six trappers stopped, and here Kit received word that all was well at
Taos. Now Bent’s Fort was but seventy-five miles. The trail along the
Arkansas was broad and well beaten; the animals appeared to know that
something especial was just before, and they travelled briskly.
Ere mid-morning of the second day, July 1, from the advance Oliver,
greeting many a familiar object, spied it, ahead――that one object for
which in particular had he been peering: the plains citadel of Bent’s
Fort. Amidst the fringe of cottonwoods its massy dun clay walls were
limned against the flowering herbage and the sage.
“Hooray! Hooray!” Hats flew into the air, and the reports of the
carbines and rifles were answered by cannon.
The flag of the ramparts was streaming to welcome the flag of the
cavalcade; and as the cavalcade drew nearer, several horsemen clashed
from the gate-way, to give personal greeting.
“Thar’s George Bent. Reckon William air away,” commented Kit.
George Bent it was, younger brother of William, but a partner in the
Bent, St. Vrain & Co. firm. He was much at Taos.
“Hello, George.”
“How are you, Kit? Hello, Joe! Where’d you hail from? Come right along
into the post, gentlemen. Glad to see you back. How far have you been?”
“’Bout six thousand miles,” answered Kit. “How’s my wife, George?”
“Very well indeed, Kit. Nothing has changed since you left, I believe.
Let’s see――just about a year, isn’t it? We’ve all been looking for you.
They’d almost given you up for lost, in the States, lieutenant.”
Thus speaking, George Bent conducted the company to the post.
This was to Kit a second home: but he was anxious to turn south for his
first home――old Taos, where bided Josefa, his young wife. Oliver was as
ready, for at Taos was Ike, maybe, or Sol, or William New, to whom to
tell tales of the trail that they had missed.
However, at the post a “big” Fourth of July had been planned. The
lieutenant had decided to stay for a banquet, and Kit and Oliver must
stay. So they did. After the feast Lieutenant Frémont himself asserted
that not even in Washington or St. Louis had he ever sat down to
a finer menu than this, served in honor of the Fourth and of the
expedition, at Bent’s Fort in the Indian country, 500 miles from the
frontier.
On the fifth the lieutenant was to continue on for Washington. Fuentes
and Pablo, the two California Mexicans; the Chinook youth from the
Dalles of the Columbia; and Sacramento the iron-gray horse from
Sutter’s Fort, remained with him in his train. Captain Joe Walker
wished to stay at the post for a time. Alexander Godey was to seek
St. Vrain’s, his former station. Kit and Oliver were for Taos. The
lieutenant, last of all, shook hands with them.
“You’ll not forget next year, Kit?” he reminded. “We’re to try that
desert again, you know――and work north from Sutter’s to Vancouver. The
Sacramento Valley calls.”
“I’ll not forget,” promised Kit. “I’ll be ready.”
“And you, my lad――you’ve had enough of the explorer’s trail, I fancy,”
addressed the lieutenant, to Oliver.
“No, sir,” said Oliver, “I haven’t.”
“Bravo!” laughed Lieutenant Frémont. His fine blue eyes flashed.
“You’ll do. You’re one of my company. You’ve got the heart of a man,
and it takes a man to follow Kit and me.”
END.
_THE TRAIL BLAZERS SERIES_
With Carson and Frémont
By EDWIN L. SABIN
The daily life of these men who worked together to break the hostile
spirit of the Western wilderness was one filled with adventure and
danger, and this chronicle, written for boys, is almost a first-hand
story of the West in the early days. Mr. Sabin holds closely to
facts, and while writing an entertaining story has still presented an
inspiring episode in American history.
_Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net. Postpaid, $1.37._
David Crocket: Scout
By CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN
This volume sets forth all Davy’s versatility and recounts his many
exploits in the East and in the new Southwest. It tells of him as
Indian fighter, bear hunter, statesman and defender of the Alamo. Davy
had a keen sense of humor and a lovable nature, which at once endear
him to the reader.
_Colored frontispiece and three illustrations in black and white by
Frank McKernan. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50._
Daniel Boone: Backwoodsman
By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY
“Historical fact is made the basis of convincing fiction, and a better
book of its kind could not be placed in the hands of any American
boy. Boone stands out as a splendid figure of pioneer manhood,
who performed a work of incalculable importance in the settlement
of Kentucky by white men. True narrative impulse enters into the
story.”――_Philadelphia Press._
_Frontispiece in color and three illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50._
Captain John Smith
By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY
“It’s as exciting as if it were a tale of sword-and-mantle fiction by
a writer of the Stanley Weyman school. There’s fighting galore on its
pages; wild adventurings; ups and downs; and all shot through with an
unconquerable spirit. All of it is true and is stirring. It’s good
history, good biography and mighty good reading.”――_Cleveland Leader._
_Four illustrations in color. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50._
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS PHILADELPHIA
Transcriber’s Notes:
――Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
――Printer’s, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently
corrected.
――Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved.
――Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
End of Project Gutenberg's With Carson and Frémont, by Edwin L. Sabin