THE BULLY OF THE TRADING CAMP
After making sure that the bears were not returning, Kit Carson
shouldered his rifle and made his way back to camp through the
gathering dusk. It was dark when he reached there, and this made it
unadvisable to take a packhorse after the carcass of the elk; so the
trappers had to be content with rather short commons until the next
day, when their rifles came into play and meat was had for the larder.
Joined by a trapping party under Bridger, Kit went to the rendezvous
of the Rocky Mountain trappers on Green River. There were about two
hundred men in this big camp, which was for the purpose of selling
their furs and buying supplies. The trading being done, Kit joined a
trapping company journeying into the Blackfoot country at the head
of the Missouri River. But the redskins made such determined and
persistent attacks that the party was forced to retire from their
country.
They fell back to the Big Snake River, where they wintered. But the
Blackfeet still held the trail; in a desperate battle with this
dangerous tribe Kit was seriously wounded in saving the life of a
comrade named Markhead; in this fight the savages received a terrible
beating.
The spring season was a most fortunate one; beaver was very plentiful
and their taking of the fur was rich. Kit’s wound got well rapidly,
thanks to his strong constitution, and he was soon able to set his
traps with the rest of them.
The long journeys through the wilderness to Taos and Santa Fé were too
great a strain upon both horses and men; the dangers of the journey
were too grave to be undertaken several times a year; and so the big
trading camp on Green River grew very popular with the trappers. So,
the season being over, the different companies all headed toward this
station; the one which Kit Carson was with among them.
As the ponies pranced along the long street of the camp, and the pack
animals moved more soberly under their burden of furs, the bronzed
trappers waved their coonskin caps and shouted joyously to friends
whom they recognized by the way. This great fair of the Rocky Mountain
trappers occupied quite a beautiful site; circling it were the giant
hills, crowned with mighty forests; the huts of the trappers and
traders were built among the trees; some were after the fashion of
Indian lodges, others were of bark and poles and sod. But the traders
had structures of hewn logs to hold their stores.
Kit rode through the camp, speaking to his friends among those who
came forward to greet the newcomers. He was dismounting when there
came a rush of feet and he was seized by two pairs of strong arms. Two
enthusiastic voices cried, joyfully:
“Here you are, at last!”
“We’ve been waiting for you a whole month!”
“I knew you’d come, Kit!”
“We’re back again; and we’ve got news!”
The young trapper wriggled out of the clutch of his assailants; and one
look showed him that they were Dave Johnson and Joe Frazier.
Gripping their hands in welcome, he cried:
“Why, lads, this is a surprise, sure enough! I never expected to see
you so soon.”
“We came back with the same party we went out with,” said Dave. “We
heard at Taos that you were out in this region and that you would
probably put in the summer at this trading camp. So there was a chance
with a trader helping with the packhorses, and we jumped at it.”
“How did you find your father?” asked Kit of Joe.
“I never saw him looking better,” replied the boy. “But come over to
our place; we’ve got a shanty big enough for the three of us. And
hurry! We left a pair of prairie chickens roasting over the fire; and
we’re to have flap-jacks and coffee.”
Dave hurried to their hut, which was in a shaded place on the edge
of the camp, to see to the chickens; Joe and the trapper followed at
a slower pace. The two lads helped to unsaddle the mustang, and Joe
picketed him where the grass was rich and thick. Then they all sat down
and watched the fowls brown on the spit and the coffee-pot send up its
jet of steam.
“Your father wasn’t against your leaving him again, then?” said Kit.
“Father has gone back home,” said Joe. Then seeing the trapper’s
astonishment, he added: “You see, while he was at San Gabriel he
learned quite a lot of things. One of them was that even if we did
recover the map and find the place it indicated, we’d hardly be
permitted to wash the gold. The Mexican government and population are
afraid that the Americans will some day overrun California; and so they
do everything they can to discourage them, hoping to keep them away. So
father thought there was no use remaining and neglecting his business
at home.”
“But how does it come that you two were left behind?” asked Kit.
“Well,” laughed Dave, “we objected to going back so strongly and made
such a general fuss that uncle made up his mind that he’d let us have
another try. He took an American ship which sailed from San Francisco
and will land him in New York. If we have no success, we are to follow
next season.”
“I see,” said Kit. There was a pause, then he asked: “But the news you
spoke of? What is it? Did you find something out, among the missions?”
“Not a word,” said Dave, “and we spent a couple of months prowling
around among them. But,” and here he lowered his voice, “on our way
here with the trading party we stumbled upon something--as real a piece
of news as you could wish for.”
“Good,” said Kit, his gray eyes snapping, “and what is it?”
“There was a French Canadian named Shunan with the train, a big man,
very quarrelsome and ready with his weapons.”
“I know him,” nodded Kit. “He’s a trapper, and,” in a puzzled tone, “I
don’t see what he was doing with the traders.”
“He was making for this fair,” said Joe. “He had been to the
settlements on a sort of mission.”
“A mission!” said Kit.
Both boys nodded.
“He’s quite loose with his tongue,” said Dave, “and we got the whole
thing, bit by bit, at night by the fire. He’d talk to the men, you see,
boasting of what he’s done and meant to do. He’d been sent in to Santa
Fé to look about and ask questions. The person who sent him was away in
the Blackfoot country, afraid to venture into civilization himself.”
Instantly Kit Carson’s quick mind grasped the situation.
“Moccasin Williams!” he cried.
“Right! And the person he was inquiring about was Lopez, the
half-breed.”
“Asking if he was in Santa Fé, or in the region round about?”
“Yes; and he found, as we did, that the half-breed was away north, also
in the Blackfoot country. This seemed to amuse him. Williams feared to
go back to Taos or Santa Fé; he feared to go to California; for there
he might meet Lopez.”
“According to what the Frenchman said, Williams is in mortal dread of
the knife of the man he robbed,” said Joe.
“And instead of being safe in the place he selected for hiding, he is
really in great danger, with Lopez searching for him, as Shunan heard,
from one Indian village to another. It would have been much better if
he had returned, or had gone to California.”
“Much better for him, perhaps,” said Kit, grimly. Then his expression
changed and he added: “Well, it’s good news enough, lads; and we’ll see
what can be done with it. The map is still in the hands of Williams;
if it were not he’d not be so anxious to get to California. And so, if
nothing else, it shows us that we still have him to look for. You were
in luck to meet this man, Shunan.”
At this the trapper noted the faces of the boys change in expression.
“I don’t just know about that,” said Dave.
“We were lucky, in a way,” admitted Joe; “but in another way we were
not so much so.”
“Something’s happened,” said Kit.
Dave and Joe nodded.
“Somehow,” said the former, “Shunan got to know of our interest in what
he said in his boasting. It may be that he had heard of us, and, now
that we’d got his attention, he’d placed us for the first time. Ever
since then he’s been trying to get up some sort of a quarrel with us.”
“Ah!” said Kit Carson.
He sat looking at the boys steadfastly; and they saw a dangerous,
narrowing light in his gray eyes.
“I know Shunan,” said he. “I’ve known him for some time; and as you
said when you first mentioned him, he’s quarrelsome and ready with his
weapons. For him to try and pick a fight with a man means only one
thing--and that’s a deadly one.”
The prairie chickens were done, the flap-jacks nicely browned and the
coffee piping hot when old Zeke Matthews came along. Immediately the
boys sprang up and greeted him; he was invited to join them and did so
with alacrity.
“Roasted birds we get out in the trapping country,” said he. “But
flap-jacks seldom, coffee seldomer, and coffee with reg’lar sugar in
it, never at all.”
And as Zeke ate of these delicacies, Kit told him of Shunan’s desire to
quarrel with the boys, though he did not mention the reason for it. The
veteran was indignant.
“What!” demanded he. “Can’t he find no one but a passel of youngsters
to fight with. Well, all I got to say is, let him look out for himself!”
Released from the restraint of the wilderness where they were ever on
the lookout for attacks of savage beasts or savage men, the trappers
relaxed; the trading camp was a hubbub of sounds. Songs, the squeak of
a fiddle, blustering talk and high pitched contention grew constant as
each night passed and the day began.
During one afternoon there was a turmoil at one end of the camp, a
clash of fists and the sight of bloody faces. Later there was still
another outbreak of the same sort. Then little by little the thing
increased until the camp roared steadily with strife.
“It’s all Shunan,” said a trader to old Zeke. “Fellows like that make
more trouble than a tribe of thieving Indians.”
Once or twice during the day Kit Carson caught sight of Shunan. He was
a burly fellow with the air of a bravo; his face was flushed and his
eyes gleamed with menace.
“A wolf,” said Kit to the boys. “So, to avoid trouble and keep the
peace, lay low. If you can avoid it, don’t let him see you.”
Both Dave Johnson and Joe Frazier were naturally boys of spirit; and
their two years in the wilderness with the trappers had given them a
confidence in themselves which they might not have had otherwise.
So the idea of concealment, of practically hiding from a bully, was
galling to them.
Kit saw this and said:
“Your keeping out of his way won’t be a mark against you boys.
Nobody’ll think the worse of you for it, for more seasoned men than
either of you will be for many years are dodging this man just now. So
take my advice. Lay low. I don’t think it will make any real difference
in the end,” as an afterthought, “for if he wants to force trouble on
you, he will. But, when the time comes, you’ll have the satisfaction of
knowing that it’s not your fault.”
The lads acted upon this suggestion; and the result was that some time
went by without the bully encountering them. But his purpose was plain
enough; frequently he came to that part of the camp where the boys’
hut was located, and his remarks when any one happened to be in the
vicinity were brutal and offensive. Kit Carson, Zeke Matthews and some
others had erected lodges near that of the lads; and they frequently
listened to the bully’s boasts and threats and insults without a sign.
But finally the thing grew unbearable.
“Human nature,” said the veteran, Zeke, “can’t stand no more. He’s
getting worse. He thinks we’re afraid of him. Let him talk like that
just once more, and my rifle’ll answer him.”
At length the day came which brought the climax. The bully had kept the
camp in hot water all morning; he had engaged in a half dozen fights
with men weaker than himself, and beaten them; and so he came, roaring
like a mountain bear, toward the spot where Kit sat with his friends.
As it happened the two lads were in the party. Both looked up at the
Frenchman from where they lay stretched upon the ground; and neither
made an attempt to avoid him.
He had grown accustomed to their dodging him; and now that they failed
to move it seemed to inflame him more than ever.
“It’s a camp full of coyotes,” announced he, squaring himself before
them all. “Every one runs when a man comes along.”
There was an ominous silence on the part of the trappers; and he
proceeded:
“Did you hear me speak?” he demanded. “Did you hear me mention coyotes?
Where’s the Indian fighters that I’ve heard about? Where are they? Did
they ever fight a white man? Well, here’s their chance, if they’ve got
the stomachs to take it up. Here’s a man that’s willing to give them a
chance to make a reputation.”
The silence of the group was still unbroken and the bully’s sneering
look ran around the circle.
“All Americans, eh? Every one an American! Well, I’ve beaten all the
Frenchmen in the camp; and as for the Americans, I’ll cut a stick some
day and switch them around their own lodges.”
Again his sneering glance went over them; then he shrugged his huge
shoulders contemptuously, turned and started away. But he had gone
hardly half a dozen steps when a voice called sharply:
“Shunan!”
The man halted and wheeled. Kit Carson stood facing him. The difference
in the two was very great. The Frenchman was a Hercules; a towering
man, with a great chest and massive limbs; the American trapper was
small and quiet in manner and seemed in no way a match for him.
But Kit Carson was never a man to stand back because the odds were not
in his favor; so he advanced toward the camp bully.
“Shunan,” said he, coolly, his gray eyes fixed steadfastly upon the man
before him, “we’ve all listened to you talk for some time; and we’ve
said nothing. There are twenty men in this camp who could beat you in
any kind of fighting you could name. But they are not trouble seekers;
and so they’ve stood back. Now, I consider myself the least among them;
and being such I take it on myself to say that we are all tired of you
and your bullying. And, further, I want to say that you will, from this
time on, stop your threats, or I’ll shoot you.”
For a moment the Frenchman stood staring at the speaker, his eyes
glowing with fury; then he turned again without a word toward his own
quarters.
“Gone for his gun,” said old Zeke. “And from his looks he means
business.”
The group of trappers broke up immediately; sharp action was in the
air, and to meet this their experience told them to be prepared. But,
seeing, from their faces, what they meant to do, Kit shook his head
negatively.
“This is my affair, boys,” he said. “So I must ask you all to stand
aside while I go through with it.”
“But he’s got friends in camp,” protested old Zeke. “They’ll all be out
to see him through.”
“If they interfere,” said Kit, “then I rely on you to see me through.
But I don’t think they will. Shunan has had the run of this camp too
long to think he needs help in a little matter like this. It’ll be a
matter of pride with him; and you’ll see, he’ll handle it alone.”
Like lightning the news of the impending conflict ran through the camp.
The trappers and traders carefully drew out of what they thought would
be the line of fire, or placed themselves behind trees or the heavy log
houses.
The boys went after Kit and found him tightening his saddle-girth, a
little distance from his lodge.
“By all rights,” said Dave Johnson, “this fight should be mine or
Joe’s. We brought the man down this way; he was always looking for us
when he came. And now that trouble has come of it, I don’t see why you
should shoulder it.”
Kit slapped him on the back and laughed.
“The whole thing is a public one,” said he. “The man has come to be a
nuisance and a danger, and so a stop of some sort must be put to him.
We have no law in the wilderness, nor law officers. But we know what we
want, and somebody always comes forward to put a thing right. In this
case it is Kit Carson.”
Having saddled his pony to his satisfaction, he took out a heavy
dragoon pistol and looked at its priming with much care. This he placed
in his belt, then swung himself into the saddle. And as Kit rode out
from the line of the lodges, the sound of hoofs came to him. His quick
eye turned in the direction of the sound; and he saw the Frenchman
mounted on a powerful horse, a rifle in his hands, riding toward him.