HOW THE TRAPPERS RETALIATED
The Indian band lighted large fires upon the hillside that night;
the tall figures of the braves could be seen flitting to and fro in
mysterious activity. The trappers watched the unusual spectacle for
quite a long time without comment.
“They are fixing up some kind of a disagreeableness for us,” spoke old
Zeke Matthews, at length. “And I opine, Cap’n Young, that I’d better
take a little scout out in that direction and see what it is.”
“All right,” said the head trapper. “If you care to take the risk,
Zeke, go ahead. But I’m not asking you to do it, mind you.”
“I’m going to do this little pilgrimage for my own private amusement,”
said the veteran, humorously. “I always did get a lot of fun out of a
passel of redskins when they were getting downright serious at their
work.”
He took up his rifle; and a heavy pistol was stuck in his belt. Then he
crept out of camp and away into the darkness.
Two hours had elapsed when he returned. He put down his gun and warmed
his bony hands at the cheerful blaze.
“The varmints are having a mighty interesting time of it,” he said.
“That’s a council fire you see blazing up there on the hill; and
they’re sitting all around it, smoking their pipes and making speeches
to each other. Old Red Cloud is anxious to get his hands on our outfit,
I guess; but his braves want to see their way to getting it without
being hurt.”
“Council, eh?” said the chief trapper. “Well, we’ll have some kind of
action before long. It will be either one thing or the other.”
A powerful guard was placed all about the camp; but the night went by
without any hostile sound from that of the Indians’; toward dawn the
council fire upon the hillside died down; when the sun finally showed
its great, round, red face over the top of a distant mountain, the
whites, to their astonishment and relief, saw the camping ground of the
foes deserted. Not a savage was to be seen anywhere.
“It was a good council!” spoke Kit Carson, grimly. “Either Red Cloud is
a wise chief, or his young men have good eyes for danger.”
But there was no trusting the red men, who were known to be cunning
foes; a party of the trappers set out upon their trail and followed it
for some hours. There was no sign, by the end of that time, that the
retreat was a ruse; so the trailers returned to camp. The mules were
burdened with their packs of furs and camp equipment once more, and
again the outfit moved down the river.
“It seems a hardship to move away from the place where I know Lopez to
be,” said Dave Johnson to Kit, as they rode side by side.
“I feel the same way,” said Joe Frazier. “In the last hour I’ve had
it on my tongue a dozen times to say to you: ‘Let’s stay where we are
until we make that rascally half-breed give up his plunder.’”
Kit Carson shook his head.
“I understand just how it is, I think,” said he. “But to stay behind
here, just the two of you, would be to throw your lives away.” He
regarded them seriously for a moment, and then continued: “I’ve been
thinking over this little affair of yours, and about what Spotted Snake
had to say; and I’ve made up my mind that the best thing you both could
do would be to go right on to Santa Fé.” Again he paused for a moment,
then continued: “Your father’d be willing to pay a little to have this
map returned, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes,” said Joe. “That is, if we couldn’t get it any other way.”
The trapper laughed.
“Of course,” he said. “And we’ll try that other way first. I think it
is wrong to knuckle down to the half-breed’s demands. But Santa Fé is
the place to get in touch with him again, one way or the other; and I
think you can ease your mind and leave this section, knowing that it’s
the best thing you can do.”
This sounded like logic to the boys; and so they put all uneasy
thoughts behind them, and gave themselves up to the labor and
excitements of the trappers’ life. Day by day the expedition continued
down the Colorado, setting their traps and reaping a big harvest
of beaver fur. When they reached tide-water they changed the scene
of their efforts to the Gila River, which enters the Colorado at
about this point; and they trapped along the Gila day after day with
wonderful success until they came to the mouth of the San Pedro.
At this point the saddle-horses of the trappers had been pressed into
service to carry the treasure of furs. So fortunate had the trappers
been that with hundreds of miles of stream before them they had already
reached their transporting capacity.
“It is a hardship for us to have to let this great chance slip,” said
Young one night at the camp-fire. “Beaver has never been so plentiful,
and I feel sure that it will continue so all the way up the river. But
there is no sense in our going on taking furs if we have no way of
carrying them; so the only thing I can see to do is to take the trail
for New Mexico and sell what we’ve got.”
Old Zeke Matthews sat listening to the head trapper, honing the edge
of his great hunting knife and nodding his head in agreement with him.
But at the proposition that they leave the remainder of the stream
untouched, and make for their market, he protested.
“It’s just flying in the face of Nature, that’s what it is,” said he,
earnestly. “Here we have luck raining down on us; and we’re going to
turn our backs on it.”
Kit Carson smiled at the old man’s indignation.
“Well, Zeke,” said he, “what else is there to do? If we have no horses
to carry the pelts, what’s the use of taking them?”
“Get horses,” returned the old fellow, laconically.
There was a general laugh from the men lounging about the fire.
“Where can we get them?” asked Young, good-naturedly.
“The Injuns have ’em,” declared Zeke. “There’s a village less than two
hours’ ride from this camp where there’s a whole drove of horses and
mules that the reds have stolen from the Greasers.”
There was a silence; Zeke rubbed away at his knife and went on:
“They’re a thieving lot, and it’d be a just punishment on ’em to lose
the nags. And that ain’t all! When we set out on this trip who went
for us tooth and nail but this same gang of varmints? We punished ’em
for it, but we didn’t punish ’em enough. If white men are to come into
this country the redskins must be taught to go easy on the bow and
arrow, and the hatchet and knife. So I’m for giving ’em a lesson before
we strike this camp.”
A murmur went up from the men. The idea pleased them. They had not
forgotten the attack of the Indians upon their venturing into the
wilderness; and to strike a blow in retaliation, more especially such a
businesslike blow as that suggested by Zeke, appealed to them.
Long and earnestly the matter was discussed; and finally it was agreed
upon. It was a savage country and a rough time; and the thoughts and
opinions of men are always moulded by their surroundings and their
needs. However it may look to us to-day, to impress the herd of mules
was not from the trappers’ point of view at all contrary to the laws
of justice. They regarded it in the same light as the commander of an
army did the requisitioning of supplies in the country of the enemy.
Next day a half dozen men were left to guard the camp; the balance
of the party, with Dave and Joe pressing joyously on in their midst,
set out upon their errand. After a ride of a couple of hours the band
sighted a large mixed herd of horses and mules. These were grazing some
little distance up the San Pedro; and a scout or two was sent to locate
the Indian village.
“It’s off to the west, there,” said old Zeke. “I was there once,
trading; and the varmints robbed us of everything we had.”
After a short time the scouts returned. The village, a clutter of
dirty huts, lay in the direction indicated by Zeke; and the band of
buckskin-clad trappers rode toward it under cover of the timber.
“There it is,” said Kit Carson, at length pointing through the trees.
The village lay quietly in the sun; it was a barren, neglected place;
the bucks lolled in the doorways of the low huts; in the narrow fields
the women were preparing to plant the scanty crops.
At a word of command the trappers shouted to their mounts; at full
speed they dashed into the village, their firearms rattling and
snapping briskly. Yells of fear and rage went up from the savages; they
grabbed up their arms, and their deadly arrows began to hiss through
the air.
“Open order,” called the chief of the trappers. “Don’t ride so close
together. Load and hold your fire until I give the word!”
The horses were brought to a standstill outside the town; the trappers
reloaded their rifles and looked to the state of their pistols. During
this pause in the attack the savages recovered from their surprise;
and upon a sort of plain, stretching away to the river, they rallied
their forces. The village was quite a large one; several hundred
warriors faced the trappers, and from their furious actions it was
plain that they meant to make a most desperate defense.
“Ready?” called the head trapper.
“All ready,” was the answer from his men.
“Hold your fire till I give the word,” said the leader, once more. Then
lifting his hand: “Charge!”
Down rode the trappers upon the redskins; and the latter bent their
bows with practiced hands, the keen eyes of each selecting a mark.