[Illustration: “IT’S AN INDIAN,” SPOKE THE TRAPPER]
IN THE ROCKIES
WITH
KIT CARSON
_By_
JOHN T. McINTYRE
_Illustrations by_
Ralph L. Boyer and A. Edwin Kromer
[Illustration]
THE PENN PUBLISHING
COMPANY PHILADELPHIA
1913
COPYRIGHT
1913 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
[Illustration]
Contents
I. THE TRAPPER OF TAOS AND SANTA FÉ 7
II. AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE 24
III. THE TRAPPERS TAKE THE TRAIL 39
IV. INDIAN SIGNS--AND INDIANS! 53
V. WHITE MAN VERSUS RED ON THE COLORADO 67
VI. TWO NIGHTS OF DANGER 77
VII. HOW THE TRAPPERS RETALIATED 91
VIII. KIT REACHES SANTA FÉ ONCE MORE 102
IX. IN THE COUNTRY OF THE HOSTILES 124
X. A DESPERATE EXPERIENCE WITH GRIZZLIES 145
XI. THE BULLY OF THE TRADING CAMP 156
XII. LOPEZ RIDES INTO CAMP 175
XIII. THE VILLAGE OF THE BLACKFEET 191
XIV. THE LAST BATTLE 202
XV. SKETCH OF CARSON’S LIFE 212
Illustrations
PAGE
“IT’S AN INDIAN,” SPOKE THE TRAPPER _Frontispiece_
“WHAT IS IT?” ASKED THE BOYS 43
“SO YOU ARE HERE?” 113
“REDSKINS!” 137
In the Rockies With Kit Carson
CHAPTER I
THE TRAPPER OF TAOS AND SANTA FÉ
Late one afternoon when the sunlight was slanting through the trees and
wavering upon the adobe walls of the Pueblo of Los Angeles, when the
only sounds were the whispering winds in the higher boughs, and the
thrumming of a stringed instrument from the soldiers’ quarters, a tall
Spanish mule came clattering into the village with two boys astride its
back. They were bronzed, sinewy looking youngsters; each held a long
barreled rifle.
A barefooted sentry, his piece over his shoulder, looked up at the
sudden sound; and as the mule was abruptly checked beside him, and the
two lads slipped from its back, he whipped his weapon about and with a
brown thumb upon the trigger, cried:
“Halt!”
The elder of the two lads wiped his forehead with his sleeve; then to
the other he said:
“Hold tight to that old chap, Joe; we may have further use for him, you
know.”
“I hope not,” declared Joe, ruefully. “He’s got a back like a buck-saw,
and a gait like a dromedary. And between the two he’s the worst thing I
ever rode.”
The elder boy saluted the sentinel.
“We are strangers,” he said, in good Spanish. “We belong to the trading
schooner ‘Gadfly’ now off the coast; and we are in pursuit of a man
named Lopez who ran away.”
The sentry grinned.
“A deserter?”
“He is. But we don’t object to that so much as we do the fact that he’s
a thief as well. He robbed us, swam ashore, and the last seen of him he
was heading toward this village.”
The sentry placed the butt of his musket upon a stone and leaned
socially upon the barrel.
“There are some strangers in the Pueblo now,” he said. “But they are
Americans. And they are not sailors, but trappers. They came from Taos
in New Mexico,” wonderingly; “they crossed the desert where they might
have died of thirst. And all to trap beaver.”
“Lopez is a half-breed,” said the youth. “And he has a scar, made by
the slash of a knife, across his left cheek.”
The sentry shook his head.
“I saw no such man,” said he. “It may be that he went with the Hudson
Bay men who I hear were at work on the streams not far from here about
a week ago.”
“The man we are after left the schooner only this morning,” said the
boy.
“The señor captain may have seen him,” spoke the soldier, helpfully.
“It is his duty to ask all strangers for their passports.”
“Where is the señor captain to be found?” asked the boy.
The soldier shook his head, shouldered his piece and prepared to resume
his tramp up and down.
“At this hour,” said he, “the captain is always asleep. It is his
habit. Later, you can see him.”
Joe Frazier, from his post at the tall mule’s head, laughed.
“The habit is a bad one,” said he in reply to an inquiring look from
his friend. “And I think the quicker the señor captain is broken of it
the better. So I think, Dave, it’s your plain duty to do it.”
Dave Johnson turned soberly to the sentry. In careful Spanish he said:
“I am grieved to hear that your officer is asleep. Also I am sorry that
under the circumstances we shall be forced to awaken him. Give him our
compliments and say that two Americanos are here in a matter of much
haste.”
The sentry stared.
“Wake the señor captain! Never! He would beat me!”
Dave considered, still gravely.
“That would be awkward,” he decided. “And I wouldn’t care to see it
done. So to save you trouble, I will awaken him myself.”
And before the astonished soldier could prevent him, he strode to the
door of the adobe dwelling and began thundering upon the door. A sleepy
muttering was the answer.
“Take care!” cried the dismayed sentry, apparently at a loss as to how
to deal with the situation. “He has an evil temper, señor!”
As the knocking went on, the muttering within swelled into a roar; then
the door was flung open and a squat, heavy-faced man with small, angry
eyes, and a brass-hilted sword in his hand, appeared. He glared at
Dave, the little eyes seeming to snap.
“And so,” said he, “you will come knocking, will you, my brave fellow!
Nothing will do but I must be disturbed, eh? Not a wink must I get
after all the labors of the day. Very well, señor; we shall see.”
He spoke quietly, but there was a menace in his tone which did not
escape Joe Frazier.
“Careful there, Dave,” he called in English. “I think he’s up to
something.”
The little eyes of the Mexican officer now went to the sentry.
“And my commands are worth nothing, are they, my man? I waste my breath
telling you that I must not be disturbed, and you allow the first
rascally Americano who comes along to come thundering at my door. Very
well! It will be your turn later!”
Again his glance shifted to Dave. The young American saluted in stiff
military fashion.
“Pardon me, señor,” he said. “It is my misfortune that I had to break
in upon your slumbers. The fact is----”
But the man stopped him sharply.
“Enough!” said he. “Who are you?”
“We belong to the schooner ‘Gadfly.’”
“What are you doing here?”
Dave related in a few words the same story he had told the sentry. The
officer listened, all the time prodding the sun-baked earth before the
door with the point of his sword; there was a scowl upon his heavy
face, and the small angry eyes looked red and threatening.
“A pretty story,” said he. “Your passports!”
“They are on board the schooner. In our hurry to pursue Lopez we
forgot them.”
The captain showed his teeth in what was meant for a smile.
Unquestionably this fact pleased him.
“Give the sentry your arms,” he said. “You are under arrest.”
Dave fell back a step or two.
“He means business,” he called over his shoulder to his friend in
English. “And once he gets our guns there’s no knowing what will
happen.”
“Well, we don’t give them up until we’re sure,” answered Joe promptly,
throwing his weapon forward as he spoke, and covertly preparing for any
action that might be forced upon them. “Talk to him, old boy; maybe you
can bring him around.”
The Mexican had followed Dave with cat-like tread; his sword was now
held at arm’s length, the point not more than a foot from the lad’s
chest.
“Halt!” commanded he. And as Dave turned his face toward him once
more, the man went on: “I have met with impudent Americanos before
this. And I know the way to deal with them. Lay down your rifles!”
Instead of doing so, Dave’s grip tightened about the stock of his
weapon; the officer saw this and without another word his arm drew back
for a swinging cut. Dave threw up the barrel of his rifle to guard his
head; the barefooted sentry saw the motion and read in it peril for his
officer, for his musket lifted instantly, pointing at Dave. But Joe, in
his turn, saw this, leaped forward and grasped the sentry’s arm; the
muzzle of his piece was thrown up just as it exploded; and the captain
went staggering back, fear in his face.
“Guard! Guard!” he shouted. “Help! Would you see me murdered! Guard!”
From the soldiers’ quarters straggled the guard, as unkempt a lot
as one would wish to see; each grasped a musket, and each was much
excited by the shot and the sudden alarm. A horde of Indians, men,
women and children, also made their appearance and pressed toward the
scene of action. There was an excited hubbub of voices; the musket
barrels shone in the sun; and the tattered soldiery eagerly fingered
the locks as though anxious to take up their duties at once. At a word
from the excited captain they formed a slovenly line.
“Disarm those Americanos!” directed the officer. “And put them under
a close guard. We shall see if our lives are to be threatened by
intruders in this way.”
The grim mouths of the Mexican guns were turned upon the two lads who
now stood with their backs to an adobe wall; for a moment or two things
looked very bad for them; but then a new element showed itself which
put a new face upon things.
Through the press of Indians, who made no offer to take a part in the
proceedings, a half dozen buckskin-clad men shouldered their way. From
their coonskin caps to their moccasined feet they looked a hardy lot;
and in their faces was that resolution which comes in time to all those
who are accustomed to face danger.
Each carried a rifle in the hollow of his arm; and silently they placed
themselves between the two boys and the soldiery. One of them, a rather
small young man with sandy hair and mild gray eyes, stepped toward the
captain.
“Just a moment, señor,” said he, in Spanish. “If you’d like to listen,
we’ve got a word or two to say for the boys, before your men carry the
matter further.”
For a moment it seemed as though the Mexican officer would order his
guard to fire upon the intruders; but the cool, resolute air of the
men in buckskin caused him to alter his mind. Holding up a hand in a
gesture which bid his men await his further commands, he said surlily:
“Well, señor, and who are you?”
The young spokesman of the party smiled.
“What! and is it possible that you’ve forgotten me so soon?” said he.
“Are you the Hudson Bay man?”
“No.”
A light seemed to break upon the Mexican.
“You are of Young’s band of trappers,” said he with a smile which held
an under-current of cunning. “To be sure. I had all but forgotten you.”
The young spokesman nodded, good-humoredly.
“That you’d done so, señor, shows that we’ve been giving you little
trouble,” said he. “And now,” with a certain bluntness of manner,
“let us come to the present matter. As it happened, we saw the affair
between you and these lads. As far as I can see they are in no way to
blame. It was your sentry who fired the shot, and----”
“Wait!” interrupted the commander of the village. To the sentry he
said: “Rascal, did you fire your piece?”
“My officer,” replied the man, “I thought you were----”
“Enough!” snapped the captain. “I will see to you later.”
With a wave of the hand he dismissed the guard; the men went straggling
back to their quarters; the group of Indians, puzzled and disappointed,
also melted away; then the captain turned to the spokesman of the
trappers.
“You see, señor, I am fair. I want to do only what is right. Please so
inform your comrades, for I see they know little Spanish. And then----”
here he leaned forward, with a cunning look in his eyes, and whispered
the remainder of the sentence into the young trapper’s ear.
But the latter, a frown wrinkling his forehead, cut him short.
“No,” said he, “nothing like that.”
“But consider,” pleaded the captain; “out of good fellowship.”
The young man paid no heed; to his comrades he said:
“Now, boys, back to camp.” Then to Dave and Joe he added, “Get your
mules and come along. I reckon you’re not just what I would call safe
in this village.”
The two lads, Joe with his arm through the bridle rein of the tall
mule, trudged along at their new friend’s side.
“I’m a thousand times obliged to you,” said Dave Johnson. “There’s no
telling what might have happened to us if you hadn’t come along.”
The trapper smiled boyishly.
“Well,” said he, with a little drawl in his voice, “I reckon the
captain was a trifle anxious about you two.” Then inquiringly, “Know
much about these parts?”
“No,” replied Joe Frazier. “We’re just from on board ship.”
The other nodded.
“I thought it was something like that,” he said. “If you had known the
lay of the land, you’d not have been so ready to tackle the captain.
He’s just the very person you’d ’a’ fought shy of. You see, the Mexican
government has these pueblos, or Indian villages all along here, and
they don’t like Americans to come prowling around and finding out
things. If you haven’t a passport they’ll arrest you, steal everything
you’ve got and drive you out of the country. Or it might even be worse.”
“We knew that passports were needed, but we left the schooner in a
hurry, and never gave them a thought. And,” added Dave, “they were very
difficult to get in the first place.”
The trapper chuckled.
“I don’t know much about getting them,” said he. “Fact is, I never
tried. None of Young’s men have ’em, and the captain back there’s
been walking on thorns ever since we’ve been here trying to find a way
of arresting us.” Seeing the boys’ inquiring look, he added, quietly,
“There’s eighteen of us in all, and each one knows a trifle about
shooting. So you see, the captain hasn’t found the job an easy one.”
They had walked on some little distance, when he continued:
“A couple of days ago the captain hit on a neat little plan. You see
some of our men,” and his voice lowered a trifle so that the trappers
in advance might not hear, “are a kind of a rough lot, and they’ll
drink if they get the chance. The captain’s plan is to give them
liquor, and then when they’re helpless, take away their rifles and
hatchets and knives, and pen them up somewhere. Young got wind of it,
and we’re keeping our eyes skinned until we’re ready to take the trail
back to Taos.”
About a mile south of the Pueblo of Los Angeles they came upon the
trappers’ camp, a row of huts made of boughs, sod and bark. A number
of buckskin-clad men lay about upon blankets or buffalo robes; others
were cooking the evening meal at the camp-fire; while others again were
cleaning their rifles or honing their broad-bladed hunting knives.
“There’s Young, the trader who took out this expedition,” said the
young trapper. “What are your names, boys? I’ll introduce you.”
“Mine’s Dave Johnson; I’m from Boston,” announced that young gentleman.
“And I’m Joe Frazier, from Charleston,” said the other. Then,
curiously: “What’s yours?”
“My name’s Kit Carson,” the trapper informed them; “once of Kentucky,
later of Missouri, but now of Taos and Santa Fé.”