IN THE COUNTRY OF THE HOSTILES
Fitzpatrick, the head of the fur hunting expedition of which Kit Carson
now made one, was a hardy, courageous man, a good trapper, and knew the
country and its signs as well as any other man of his time.
He led his party almost north; this course they held until they reached
the head waters of the Platte.
Winter was now upon them in the midst of the mountains; the snow filled
the defiles, the icy wind moaned in the naked trees and among the
crags. But besides their buckskins the trappers now wore thick furs;
and the warm blood of a vigorous life in the hills and on the prairies
made the experience only one of increased pleasure to the hardy border
men.
At each camp enough “half faced” houses were erected to shelter the
men from the wind and snow. These were made of boughs, barks and skins
and were of three sides and a roof. The front was open, toward the
fire; the men slept on fur robes or blankets, their feet turned to the
blazing logs.
The Platte was followed slowly, the party taking furs all the way to
the Sweet Water, one of its tributaries; and this stream in turn was
trapped until they reached Green River. From there they progressed to
Jackson’s Hole, a fork of the Columbia; then on to the Salmon River
where a part of their own band, which had left Taos some days in
advance, joined them.
Old Zeke Matthews was among these new men; and at once Kit and the boys
began questioning him with regard to any news which he might have heard
of Gaunt’s men.
“Nothing at all,” replied the old fellow. “A couple of Injuns came
into camp one night and told us that some trappers were at work a
little west of us; but from what they said I’m pretty nigh sure they
were Sinclair’s party who left about the same time we did.”
The entire Fitzpatrick expedition now having gathered, a group of warm
huts was erected in a sunny valley, protected from the sweep of the
winds; and as the trappers meant to spend the remainder of the winter
there, they were at more pains to arrange the camp, and make themselves
comfortable.
Most of the time in this long encampment was spent in dressing pelts
and mending and making equipment and clothing. The only hunting done
was for food. They were in the country of the Blackfeet, a daring
nation of red marauders, but because of the cold the trappers did not
expect any troublesome attention from them.
“They’ll stick to their lodges,” said Zeke; “the varmints don’t like
hard weather.”
But that they had all reckoned without the wile of the red man and his
desire for the property of the whites was soon made evident. A herd
of buffalo was sighted one day on a plain, and a party of four of the
trappers mounted and went in pursuit. Just how their fate overtook them
will never be known; but that it was sudden and dreadful was plain to
their comrades. A band of Indians dashed down upon them and all four
lost their lives.
Vengeance shook the camp on the Salmon River; in a fury the trappers
armed; but for all their swiftness the savages escaped; not even an
eagle plume was seen; and their tracks were lost in the falling snow.
When the spring opened operations were commenced on the Salmon; at
length they reached the Snake or Shoshone River; and the giant falls
one day burst upon the vision of the boys. The lava peaks rose in wild
grandeur all about it; the mighty rush of the water awed and amazed
even the hardy spirits of the buckskinned adventurers.
Along the Snake they trapped to the Bear; and from there to the Green
River once more. Here they encountered a trapper band which proved to
be that of Sinclair, of whom Zeke had spoken.
“Captain Gaunt,” said head trapper Sinclair to Kit. “Why, yes, I’ve
heard of him now and then since we got up into this country. He put in
the winter on the Laramie River; and if I’m not much mistaken he’s now
trapping somewhere in the South Park.”
At once Kit sought out Mr. Fitzpatrick; he told the adventurous
Irishman as much as he saw fit of the hunt for Moccasin Williams and
the desire of himself and the boys to hunt up Gaunt’s band without
delay, now that it was located.
“Why, then,” said the chief trapper, “go, and good luck to you. And
it’s catch the thief of the world I hope you do. For the like of him is
a bigger danger than the Blackfeet themselves.”
Zeke Matthews and another seasoned adventurer named Gordon elected to
follow Kit and his young friends in their journey to the South Park.
“The Fitzpatrick company are about through their trapping,” said the
first of these veterans, “and there’s no use taking a long ride back
to Taos, only to turn about and make for the rivers again in a little
while after. Gaunt’s going to stay; he’ll cache his pelts until he’s
put in a couple of seasons.”
So the four, well armed, set out; and without any notable adventures
reached the trapping ground of Captain Gaunt. The latter was a hearty
man past sixty, a true type of the Westerner of the time. He welcomed
the visitors to his outfit with the utmost warmth. But when Kit spoke
of the object of their journey he frowned blackly.
“Moccasin Williams, do you say?” he almost shouted; before he could
continue Kit laid a warning hand upon his arm.
“Not so loud,” said the young trapper; “he’ll hear you.”
“Well, if he does, he’s got mighty good ears,” said the downright
Captain Gaunt. “For he’s away somewhere in the hills with the redskins.
And stole some of my best horses when he went.”
For a moment Dave and Joe felt that the mountains had toppled over upon
them; they had counted so strongly upon the result of coming up with
this particular trapping expedition that the shock of disappointment
was harder to bear than it had been at any other time. Gone! And they
had possibly been within a few days’ journey of him frequently; if they
had known where Gaunt’s men were working they could have set out for
his camp while there was still hope of success. But now that was at an
end.
“We’ve got it to do all over again,” said Joe in a weary sort of way,
for the long anxiety had told on him.
“Yes; we must begin at the beginning,” admitted Dave. “But,” and there
was a flash in his eyes, “we’ll find him for all that, and we’ll find
the map too.”
Kit and Captain Gaunt were conversing aside.
“I was warned against the fellow,” said the head trapper. “They told
me he wasn’t to be trusted.” Then with some curiosity in his voice,
“Anything particular you wanted of him?”
“A kind of private matter,” said Kit.
“Some sort of rascality, I’ll venture to say,” was the captain’s
comment.
Then the five wanderers from Fitzpatrick’s outfit held council
together. Zeke and the other trapper, as has been noted, intended to
join Gaunt’s party from their start for the South Park; and now Kit and
the lads could see nothing but the same process for themselves. Gaunt
was glad enough to secure them, as he had come out with fewer men than
he intended, so the routine of camp and trap and rifle was taken up
once more.
They had been with Gaunt’s men for some time, ever on the outlook for
news of a white man among the savages of the region, when one night a
band of marauders crept up to the camp. The guard was slack, perhaps;
but that the night was a dark one was a certainty. At any rate the
Indians managed to get among the horses without being detected; and
when dawn came, nine of the very best animals were missing.
Zeke Matthews made the discovery, and his whoop startled the camp.
“Injuns,” stated he, pointing to the ground, where the “signs” were
plentiful enough. “And they’ve driv’ off a lot of the hosses.”
From some articles of equipment lost by the savages, it was learned
that they were Crows; and their trail led broad and plain into the
hills. Captain Gaunt surveyed his men.
“I want a party to take the trail, bring back the nags and show the
thieves that there’s a punishment waiting for every one who doesn’t
respect the law of the wilderness,” said he. “Who will go?”
Kit Carson stepped out from among the men; the boys, who would have
followed him anywhere, did the same; in a moment there was a party of a
dozen saddling their mustangs and making ready for the chase.
“We’ll hold this camp until you return,” said Gaunt. “And bring back
the horses.”
Along the trail sped the twelve, Kit Carson riding silently ahead, his
eyes searching the ground. That the Crows were a rather numerous party
was evident from the hoof-prints of the ridden horses.
“They’re ten to one against us,” said old Zeke, who was one of the
pursuers and whose experienced eyes also searched the trail. “But that
ain’t of no account. A white man ought to be good for twice that many
redskins, any day!”
After following the trail something like five miles it grew greatly
confused. During the night a huge herd of buffalo had crossed and
recrossed it; but the genius of the wilderness was strong in Kit Carson
even at that early time; in spite of everything he never failed to pick
up the track each time it was lost.
“The foot of a horse is different from a buffalo’s,” said he, briefly,
in answer to a question of Dave’s. “And if you keep a sharp eye on the
trail, you’ll see the print of a horse every now and then, even among
all the buffalo tracks.”
All day they rode at a good pace; and by late in the afternoon they
had covered some forty miles. The horses were jaded, and if they were
to be kept fit to continue the trail the next day they must be rested
and fed.
There was a clump of trees near by their halting place which seemed an
excellent spot for a camp.
“We’ll take a rest here,” said Kit, “and have a snack. The nags can
pick up a little green stuff, too, maybe.”
Winter had come again, and the horses, from lack of herbage upon which
to feed, were in poor condition. There was a promise of soft boughs and
young bark in the grove; the trappers’ animals lived upon such fodder
in the cold months, and the prospect made them as eager and restive for
the camp as their riders.
They were within a hundred yards of the timber when a sound caught
their ears. There was a low command from Kit, and the trappers drew
rein instantly. Again the sound came to them, a sharp yelp as of an
animal in pain.
“A dog,” said Kit; “and on the other side of the timber.”
The presence of a dog in the wilderness is a positive indication of the
presence of man at no great distance. There was not one of the seasoned
trappers but knew this; and the minds of Dave and Joe seeing the effect
upon their companion grasped the fact instantly.
“Redskins!” said Kit Carson. “Look there.”
Above the tree tops two towering columns of smoke were ascending; that
a camp of some size existed among or upon the opposite side of the
trees the whites were now convinced.
[Illustration: “REDSKINS!”]
“This way,” said Kit, as he turned his horse. Some little distance
back, there was a rise in the ground; behind this he remembered to have
seen a clump of timber something like that which had just been the
object of their attention. Reaching the trees, they dismounted; the
horses were tied and then Kit said quietly:
“Boys, we don’t know what’s ahead of us; so the best thing is to have a
look over the ground before we make another move. I’m going across this
bit of prairie and have a look at that camp over there. It may be the
band we are after, or it may not be. In an hour you’ll know. Anyhow,
get yourselves ready for action, for we don’t know what may be the
outcome.”
He left them among the trees and advanced toward the timber from which
the smoke was still ascending. The prairie was a rolling one; here and
there cover was to be had; and Kit cautiously advanced from place to
place, his woodcraft making him invisible for the greater part of the
time from the grove ahead.
At length he reached the edge of the clump; upon his hands and knees he
crept forward, parting the undergrowth and low hanging limbs that his
body might slip noiselessly through. Finally he sighted the camp, and
as he did so he settled down with a quick intake of the breath.
Two large fires were burning; and at each was roasting a butchered
horse. A company of painted savages, full armed and with the feathers
of their war bonnets hanging down their backs, were grouped about. A
couple of lodges, strengthened so as to be used as places of defense
in case of need, were erected at one side; a little distance away were
tethered the horses stolen from the camp of Captain Gaunt, minus the
two roasting to provide a feast for the Crows.
Usually keen to suspect the proximity of a foe, the Indians now
displayed surprising laxity. Perhaps the great distance they had put
between themselves and the trappers was the cause of this; they thought
themselves beyond the reach of pursuit, and so were giving themselves
up to the enjoyment of their enterprise.
Kit watched them for some time; then as the shadows began to thicken,
he crept away across the stretch of prairie to the place where he had
left his friends.
“It’s the party we are after,” said he. “I saw the horses. The reds are
making preparations for a big feast, and haven’t any thought of danger.”
“Feasting, eh?” said old Zeke. “Well, boys, it seems to me we ought to
have a little to say in these festivities. Captain Gaunt reckons on a
trifle of powder being burned by way of protest against horse-stealing
in general, and it’s as little as we can do to go according to his
will.”
At nightfall the sound of barbaric song came across the prairie; and
as the trappers stole toward the Indian camp they saw the red glow of
the fires, and through the trees the swaying, contorting forms of the
warriors going through a savage dance of triumph.
The Indians had come from the north with their booty of horse-flesh,
and from the north alone they looked for pursuit; the trappers knew
that this would be the case, so they took care to approach the camp
from another side. When close enough to see all that went on at the
camp-fires of the Crows, they crouched down in sheltered places and
waited for the end of the feast.
It was a cold night, and there was some snow upon the ground. And as
they waited the whites grew chilled and stiff; their limbs quaked and
their teeth chattered. But when the braves had finally eaten their fill
and danced themselves tired they laid themselves down to sleep; and
soon a torpor overtook the camp.
This was the time for which the trappers had been waiting; Kit, with
five others, slipped away to the place where the horses were grouped,
freed, and drove them away. Some little distance away the remainder of
the party joined them; then a council in low pitched voices was held
as to what was the next step.
“We’ve got our horses,” counseled one of the men. “The redskins are
a pretty powerful band and we’re a long way from support. So it’s my
opinion that we ought to be satisfied with our good luck and start back
for camp right away.”
A number of the others agreed to this; but Kit Carson said:
“The thieves should be punished. Another thing, our nags are pretty
well done up and we’ll have to go slowly. Our trail will show the Crows
that there’s only a few of us; and they’ll pursue us. In a thing like
this there’s a big chance against us; so if we can, we had better shift
things around in our favor.”
“How’s that to be done?” asked the trapper who had favored letting well
enough alone.
“We have them now just where an attack would scare them most. Let us
throw a volley into their camp and charge them; they’ll start running
then, and the chances are we’ll have nothing more to fear.”
“Them words is words of wisdom!” declared Zeke Matthews, slapping the
butt of his rifle emphatically. “Strike hard now and we needn’t be
afraid later.”
The trappers, an adventurous lot by nature, at once fell in with the
idea. They looked to their weapons carefully; then with steps trained
to softness, they stole upon the Crow camp.
The fires had been allowed to die somewhat; the plumed head of a lonely
guard nodded at the edge of the firelight; the sleeping warriors, laden
with food, never stirred.
Then suddenly a lean dog arose; his ill shaped head lifted, and he
began to sniff, suspicion in every hair. Then he sprang forward,
barking loudly to arouse his savage masters. Trained to awake at such
an alarm, some of the Indians sprang up; and as they did so the long
rifles of the trappers lifted, and a volley went whistling into the
camp.