THE TRAPPERS TAKE THE TRAIL
“Pardon!” cried the Mexican, jovially, as he advanced. “I hope I do not
intrude, gentlemen.”
The chief of the trappers, who had approached the fires with him, bid
him welcome.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Young. “Glad to see you.”
The officer did so; and his men squatted within the circle of light,
blinking like so many owls and holding their muskets across their knees.
“Soon you will be leaving the Pueblo,” said the captain. “I am sorry.
Not once have you accepted my hospitality.”
The grizzled old trapper who had spoken to the boys when the company’s
venture was being related, laughed at this declaration when it was
translated.
“Trouble with that Greaser is that he is too public in his
invitations,” grinned he. “If he wants to treat us so consarned bad,
why don’t he do it privately? I reckon nobody here’d refuse.”
There was a laugh at this; and one of the Americans who spoke some
Spanish called to the captain across the firelight:
“Very well, señor, if you want to be sociable, we’ll not discourage
you.”
The Mexican smiled in an oily fashion and rubbed his thick, strong
hands. He spoke English very badly, but at once entered into a
conversation with some of the men.
Kit Carson, who, with the two boys, had not returned to the camp-fire
at the officer’s approach, stood leaning upon his rifle, watching the
strangers.
“Up to some of his games,” the lads heard him mutter. Then to them he
said: “Move quietly and follow me; I reckon I’ll be able to show you
the reason for the captain’s visit.”
Softly he stole away westward from the camp, the boys following in his
steps; when about two hundred yards distant he made a détour toward the
south and after some little time paused.
“I think the Greasers took this way when they approached,” said he.
Then slowly he stepped along in the direction of the distant
firelight; the night was a moonless one, but the stars twinkled in the
light-colored sky and they were enabled to see without difficulty.
Quietly they paced along among the trees, until at length the trunk of
a giant cottonwood reared itself a little to one side.
“Ah!” said the trapper, “I think I noticed that tree before.”
They approached it; upon the far side it showed a large hollow at the
base. The long rifle barrel was poked into this and struck something
that gave out an unusual sound.
“I thought so,” said Kit, and with that he put down his gun, reached
into the crevice and rolled out a heavy looking keg.
“What is it?” asked the boys, in a breath.
“Liquor!” replied the trapper. “And put here by that Greaser a while
ago. And before he leaves camp to-night he’ll see to it that our men
know where the stuff is hidden.”
“But what is his object?” asked Joe, puzzled.
There was a little pause; the trapper’s moccasined feet prodded the
keg; then he said:
“You see, all this region is claimed by the Mexican government. A
license is needed to hunt and trap hereabout. And they refused to grant
one to an American. When we reached here the captain undertook to
arrest us, but we showed fight. Ever since then he’s been trying to
get our fellows intoxicated; once let him succeed, and the rest will be
easy for him.”
[Illustration: “WHAT IS IT?” ASKED THE BOYS]
He drew a heavy, short-handled hatchet from his belt. With one blow the
head of the keg was stove in; the strong liquor rushed out and sank
into the ground.
“And so,” said Kit, humorously, replacing the hatchet in his belt,
“there’s that to set against the captain’s little game. There’s not
enough left to make even a tarantula feel lively.”
They took the same way back to camp; no one had missed them; and they
found the Mexican officer all smiles and ready to leave.
“Good-night, Señor Young,” he was saying to the leader of the trappers,
as he shook his hand. “Good-night and pleasant dreams. To-morrow, in
the morning, I will come again.” He said this with an unpleasant smile
which made Kit Carson nudge Dave Johnson meaningly. “In the morning I
will come again; and from then on, señor, I hope to see much more of
you.”
“Good-night,” said Young.
The Mexican hitched his sword belt into a more comfortable position.
“Good-night, gentlemen,” said he, with a wave of his hand to the
trappers. “You are all brave fellows; and like brave fellows the whole
world over, you accept all that circumstances put in your hands.”
As this was put into English for them by the comrade who knew Spanish,
the men laughed and exchanged mysterious nods and winks.
“You see,” said Kit, “he’s got them primed to fall into his trap. And
they’d do it as sure as shooting--if”--and he laughed softly--“the trap
was not already sprung.”
With a final wave of the hand, the Mexican officer strode away followed
by his men; and no sooner had he disappeared than Kit was at the side
of his employer telling of the plot. Mr. Young’s face grew dark with
anger.
“I’d like to repay him for that,” said he. “But,” with a gesture,
“what’s the use? I suppose, after all, it’s his way of doing his duty.”
Then with sudden resolve, “There will be a constant danger of that kind
all the time we are here; so at sunrise to-morrow we break camp and
head for the Gila River.”
As the leader turned away, Kit Carson turned swiftly to the boys.
“And, so there you are!” said he. “You have the luck with you, boys.
It’s the best chance that could turn up. Come with us and you’ll be
following right in the trail of Spotted Snake.”
“But my father,” cried Joe, as he caught his breath.
“We’ve got an Indian boy here that’s been hanging around camp,” said
Kit. “He’s to be trusted. Send him back with your mule, and also write
a message to your father. Tell him to come ashore and hire a couple
of Pueblo Indians to carry him in to the Mission of San Gabriel. The
priests will look after him; they have good food and he’ll be safe.”
“But,” said Dave, “couldn’t we start for the coast now and make
arrangements with him in person? It’s only a little more than thirty
miles there and back. We could make camp again by sunrise.”
This seemed to strike Kit as a good notion; he sought out Mr. Young and
put the case of the boys before him. The chief trapper nodded, slowly.
“I don’t like the idea of greenhorns,” said he. “And then we’re out to
catch fur, and not to trail thieving half-breeds. But if the thing’s
important and there’s no other way of doing it, all right.”
“Well,” said Kit, to the boys, “as there isn’t any time to lose,
let’s see to your mounts.” He led them to the place where the horses
were picketed; the animals lifted their heads at the approach of the
trapper; some snorted and pawed the ground as though anxious to be
off on the trail once more. Mr. Young pointed to a pair of fair sized
mustangs which stood side by side.
“They ought to do,” said he. “They are sound, not excitable and have
speed.”
“Couldn’t have made a better pick if you’d gone over the entire lot,”
said Kit, approvingly.
“But won’t we be depriving some one of a mount?” asked Joe.
“Horses are plenty in this country; and cheap, too. You can have these
for the price we pay for the ones we buy to replace them.”
This was eagerly agreed to; there was little more said; the mustangs
were led out, bridled and saddled; and the boys, good riders both,
swung themselves upon their backs.
“By daylight,” cried Dave, as he waved his hand.
“And if we’re a little late,” called Joe, his impatient mount prancing
under him, “we’ll try and pick up your trail.”
“Good lads,” laughed Kit Carson; and then with another salute they were
gone into the darkness.
A strong guard of trusty men was kept about the trappers’ camp that
night; Mr. Young was an experienced frontiersman and so took no chances
with an enemy of the Mexican captain’s type. No one was permitted to
leave camp for fear that the keg discovered by Kit was not the only
one “planted” by the cunning official. At the first streak of dawn the
trappers were astir; breakfast was cooked, traps and other equipment
packed upon the horses used for that purpose, and everything was ready
for the start.
“Looks as though our young friends were going to fail us,” spoke Mr.
Young. “If they do, I’m out the price of two good ponies.”
“They’ll not fail unless something happened them on the way,” said Kit
Carson, who had taken a fancy to the cousins. “They are a clean-looking
pair, and I think I’d back them to do more than hold to a bargain.”
The trappers, with their packhorses in the center of the column, moved
off down the Indian trail; they had gotten entirely out of sight of
the Pueblo of Los Angeles, when a distant shout caught the ear of Kit
Carson; his sharp eye swept the hills which rose about them; across a
ridge to the north two horsemen were coming like the wind.
The trapper wheeled his mustang and dashed back; the newcomers were
Dave and Joe, weary and sore from the unaccustomed labor of the night,
but both game and willing, for all.
“It was all right,” proclaimed Joe, delightedly. “Dad didn’t take to
the thing at first, but we had him talked over in half an hour. The
captain of the schooner knows a priest at San Gabriel; they are going
to get a party of the mission Indians with ponies and a litter as you
suggested; and he’ll stay at the mission till we return, or he hears
from us.”
The cavalcade reached the Mission of San Gabriel in the afternoon. This
mission was the most wonderful sight in the Californias of that period.
It had farming land stretching for miles about, tilled by the thousand
Indians which it maintained; over its ranges wandered seventy-five
thousand head of cattle, also huge herds of horses, mules and sheep.
Mr. Young had no difficulty in replacing the ponies sold to the boys;
horse-flesh was low as he had said, and, especially at San Gabriel,
very plenty.
Kit Carson earned the friendship of a young Pueblo, loafing on the
steps of the mission building, by presenting him with a small trinket.
“Some Mexicans and Indians went through here yesterday,” said he.
“Trap!” said the youthful savage, laconically. “Much hunt on Gila
River.”
“A man was with them--much cut on face,” and the trapper illustrated
the character of the scar.
The young Indian nodded.
“Big cut!” agreed he. “Long time ago.”
Kit nodded to the boys as they turned and rode after their party.
“We’re right behind them! If we have good luck, Lopez, or Spotted
Snake, as we called him in Taos, will be where we can get our hands on
him by sundown to-morrow.”