THE LAST BATTLE
Making sure that the savages were merely in the first stages of their
preparations for departure, Kit and his little party of scouts crept
away through the trees and grass to the place where they had left their
horses. Mounting, they gained the trappers’ camp just after nightfall.
When the news was broken, the woodsmen gathered about their fires in
council. After some discussion a plan was agreed upon.
“Kit will take half of you,” said the chief trapper, “and ride to the
attack. The other half will stay behind with me to guard the pack
animals and the furs.”
“But don’t stand still,” was Kit Carson’s advice. “Advance slowly in
our track. Then you’ll be a kind of reserve in case we need you.”
Everything agreed upon, the trappers rolled themselves in their robes
and blankets around the fires; and at dawn next day they divided
according to their plan; Kit and his fifty taking the Indian trail at a
swinging pace, every man in the advance eager for the fight.
“After to-day,” prophesied Zeke Matthews, “those varmints of Blackfeet
won’t be so quick with their monkey shines. They’ll get a lesson
they’ll remember for some time to come.”
They approached the Indian town without being discovered; the savages
were in the heart of their own country, never dreaming of attack, and
therefore had out no sentinels. The trappers, each well mounted, rifle
in hand and side arms ready to be grasped at a second’s notice, drew up
in a line.
“Now, men,” said Kit, his eyes running over them, to make sure that
all were prepared. “At full speed! Charge!”
Like a thunderbolt the woodsmen struck the Blackfoot village; a
volley from the long rifles swept among the warriors and a dozen of
them pitched headlong. A shrill yell arose; the savages gripped their
weapons and fell back from their town, fighting every step of the way.
The Blackfoot was a fighting man of craft, courage and generalship.
Unlike the Crows and more southern tribes, he did not go mad with
excitement when he faced the superior weapons of the white man. On the
contrary he always fought them according to a carefully laid out plan.
From behind rocks and stumps and fallen trees the long arrows began to
wing their deadly way; taking the cue the trappers protected themselves
in much the same fashion, and their rifles continued to speed bullets
wherever a tufted head showed itself.
For fully three hours this sort of warfare continued; the Blackfeet
fought with courage and judgment; craftily they drew the fire of the
trappers until the supply of ammunition began to grow low.
As this latter grew apparent to Kit he passed the word to slacken the
fire.
“Don’t press a trigger unless you are sure of a redskin,” was his
command.
And as the rifle fire slacked the Indians grew more bold. They
understood what had happened, and crept forward from tree to tree, from
rock to rock, meaning to get near enough for a grand rush and then to
engage the whites hand to hand.
“I notice,” said Dave Johnson, as he lay at full length behind a stump,
his rifle advanced, his eyes on the dark-skinned enemy, “that there’s
a bullet comes now and then from over there to the right. One of the
braves must have a rifle.”
“It’s Moccasin Williams,” replied Kit Carson, from behind a near-by
tree. “He’s behind that big cottonwood at the mouth of the ravine,
trying some sharpshooting.”
“I’d like to get a----” but Dave never finished the sentence, for Kit’s
rifle cracked and the bark flew from the big cottonwood in a shower,
leaving a deep seam to show the track of the bullet.
“Missed!” said Kit, coolly. “But better luck next time.”
In a little while the Indians pressed forward under cover; then,
thinking themselves near enough for a rush, they leaped from behind the
trees and with shrill yells and brandished hatchets and knives, darted
at the trappers.
The long rifles greeted them once more; but as they still came on, the
pistols were discharged in their very faces with terrible effect. This
was more than savage fortitude could bear up under, and they sought
cover once more with howls of rage and a fresh flight of arrows.
Then closer and closer they drew and slower and slower grew the fire
of the whites. There were but few charges of powder left. Another rush
of the savages, and there would be no more.
“It looks bad,” said old Zeke, as he drained his powder-horn of its
last grain. “But we’ll give a good account of ourselves for all.”
But a last desperate struggle with knife and clubbed rifle was not to
come, for as the powder was quite exhausted, word was brought to Kit
that the reserve of trappers under Fontenelle had arrived. And soon
after, each horn was refilled, each rifle recharged, and with the
confidence of increased numbers the trappers advanced, firing as they
went.
In the van of the whites was the half-breed, Lopez; he held his rifle
ready, but seemed to reserve his fire. Kit Carson, firing and loading
and firing and loading, noticed this.
“Anything wrong with your shooting iron, Spotted Snake?” asked the
trapper.
“No,” replied the half-breed, never taking his eyes from the flitting
line of savages as they moved from cover to cover. “But the bullet
that’s in it is meant for Moccasin Williams, and him only.”
Steadily the trappers pressed forward; quicker and quicker grew the
flitting of the savages from rock to tree and from tree to stump; and
at length the crafty retreat began to weaken, then to waver. There was
less purpose in it; finally the braves at one side broke and ran; then
the entire line followed suit.
Now for the first time since he entered the action, the rifle of Lopez
lifted. The boys saw an ungainly white man in the rush of the fleeing
savages; he had sandy hair and a thin, fox-like face. A dozen steps he
took, the fox-face turned over his shoulder to observe the pursuers,
then Lopez’ piece crashed and the man pitched forward to the ground.
With a shrill, throaty cry of exultation, Lopez darted forward; the
boys saw him reach the prostrate form, a knife in his hand. But as he
bent over it the form showed unexpected life. Moccasin Williams sprang
to his feet, drawing an Indian hatchet from his belt as he did so, and
both men struck at each other. Both blows took effect; then their arms
encircled each other, there was a frenzied clutching at each other’s
throats, and they fell to the earth.
And when Kit Carson returned from the pursuit of the Indians, which was
but a short one, he found the boys standing above the two dead bodies.
“Your property?” he asked, his swift eyes telling him what had occurred.
“Here,” said Joe, and he held up a folded paper.
“Good!” said the trapper. “Take care of it, for you’ve had a hard fight
to get it back; and the next time you might not be so lucky.”
The blow dealt the Blackfeet that day was a heavy one; and they
remembered it, as Zeke Matthews had prophesied, for a long time after.
Great good luck followed the Fontenelle band in their labors after
this; and when they finally journeyed to the trading camp, held that
year on Mud River, they took with them a great wealth of furs.
And it was on Mud River, some weeks later, that Kit Carson parted with
the boys, who proposed to join an ingoing party as far as Santa Fé, and
then take ship at one of the Gulf ports for New York.
“Good-bye, lads,” he said, as he pressed their hands. “Some day I may
go east, and if I ever do, I’ll be sure to look you up.”
“East!” exclaimed Joe. “West, you mean, Kit. In a year we’ll be in
California again, digging and washing along that wonderful river which,
as old Goat Beard said, runs with gold.”
And Joe was right as to place. But he was wrong about the time.
The next time the three met it was in California; but fifteen years or
more had passed. The boys had become bronzed men and were accounted the
richest in the New Eldorado. And Kit Carson was then the most famous
man in the great west; his fame as an Indian fighter and pathfinder had
gone around the globe.
“You found your river of gold then,” said he, as they gripped hands
once more.
“Yes,” laughed Dave. “It proved to be the Sacramento.”
“But we had to wait until the United States took California over, after
the war with Mexico,” said Joe, rather ruefully. “It was a long time,
but,” and his eyes laughed much as they used to do, “it was worth the
waiting.”
“I should think so, indeed,” said the trapper.