Читать книгу In the Rockies with Kit Carson - John T. McIntyre - Страница 4

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The two lads were warmly greeted by Mr. Ewing Young, the Taos trader and leader of the trapper band.

“A rather narrow squeak,” was his comment, when told of their misadventure; “the captain back there at the Pueblo is anxious to get his revenge upon an Americano because of the trouble he’s had with us, and you lads would have pleased him well enough.”

Ewing Young was a very well-known trader and trapper. Some time before he had sent out a company in search of fur from Santa Fé toward the Colorado River country. On their way they were attacked by an Indian war party; after a desperate fight against great odds, the hunters were forced to fall back and make their way toward New Mexico once more.

“But that just made me fighting mad,” said the trapper chief to the boys, “so I got together a party of forty Americans, Canadians and Frenchmen. At about the head of the Salt River we came on that identical war party which had so roughly handled my first company.”

Kit Carson laughed as though at some amusing reminiscence.

“I never saw any parsel of humans so tickled as those redskins were,” said he. “They had licked us once, and they figured they’d do it the second time even quicker than the first.”

The boys were seated upon a bearskin which one of the men had thrown upon the ground for them; night was settling and the camp-fires blazed cheerily; strips of venison, from the tenderest portions of bucks which had fallen before the rifle that day, were being roasted at each fire, and the savory smell filled the air. The horses and mules belonging to the outfit were safely picketed a little distance off; the adventurers laughed and chatted and performed the duties of the camp in high good humor.

“I reckon, Cap’n,” said one old grizzled fellow with a wrinkled, weather-beaten face and the clear eyes of a boy, “that them thar reds hadn’t any idee how many there was of us. If they had they’d not been in such a precious hurry to come to hand grips.”

“And the captain didn’t want them to know,” Kit Carson informed the boys. “He picked out a nice likely place and put about twenty-five men there in ambush. The Indians off there in front noticed us halt to do this, and got it into their heads that we were kind of chicken-hearted in the matter. And as the rest of us started toward them they made a charge. We fell back until they were well into the trap. Then the boys in the ambush jumped up and gave them one volley; and away went the whole band of warriors as fast as they could go, and never once looked back to see what had happened to them.”

“I counted fifteen braves who’ll never draw another bow ’cept in the Happy Hunting Grounds,” said the grizzled old trapper. “And besides that, there were the wounded. That’s the way to hit at the varmints; and it’s the only way to make it safe for a white man to set his traps along the streams in this region. Teach ’em a lesson, says I; and make it one that they’ll not forget, while you’re about it.”

But while the savages were defeated they were not altogether discomfited; for they doggedly held to the trail of the trappers. Along the Salt to the San Francisco River, they had pursued them, and all the way along this stream to its very head waters; their depredations were secret and under cover of darkness; the men learned to avoid the camp-fires, for at any moment a deadly arrow might come hissing from the darkness; horses and mules were killed and maimed; traps were stolen constantly.

“The loss of the traps crippled us,” said Kit, “and at the head of the San Francisco, Mr. Clark split the party in two; only what you see here continued on through the desert; the others took what pelts we’d trapped and turned face about for New Mexico.”

During all the talk of the company’s adventures and through the supper which shortly followed, Kit Carson noticed that the two boys were strangely silent. Now and then they showed an interest in what was said by the trappers about them; but for the most part they sat looking into the fire or talking in a low tone. But when the meal was done and the men broke up into small knots about the fires, the two approached the young trapper. They talked for a space upon different topics, and finally, after some little hesitation, Dave Johnson said:

“Being from Taos, you might know a half-breed Mexican named Lopez.”

Kit Carson smiled.

“Well,” said he, “seeing that half the Mexicans down that way are half-breeds, it would be a hard way to pick a man. But the name Lopez is not the same as Smith or Jones,” he added thoughtfully. “What kind of a man is your half-breed for looks?”

“Rather well made, wears rings in his ears and has a knife cut across his left cheek.”

A gleam of surprise came into Kit Carson’s face.

“Has the man anything to do with your being here?” he asked.

“He has,” said Joe Frazier. “We are in search of him.”

“I thought something was wrong from the way he acted when I saw him at noon.”

“You saw him!” Both lads came to their feet, their rifles in their hands. “Where?”

“Sit down,” said the trapper, quietly. “Don’t get excited. It’ll do you no good, for you couldn’t go looking for him to-night, anyway.”

And as the boys resumed their seats on the bearskin, he went on.

“I didn’t know this breed by the name of Lopez. I’d seen him often at the trading posts and the Indians called him Spotted Snake. To-day as I was riding back to camp here, with some small game that I’d been after, I met him on a badly winded horse. I was surprised to see him so far away from his usual hunting grounds.

“‘Hello, Spotted Snake,’ says I to him. ‘What are you doing here?’

“At first he set out to make believe he didn’t know me and that I must have made some kind of a mistake. But in a couple of minutes he saw that it wouldn’t do, and climbed down to real facts.

“‘You with some trappers?’ says he.

“‘Young’s crowd,’ says I.

“‘Does he want another man?’ he says.

“Now I know that Spotted Snake is a good trapper, so I says to him:

“‘Maybe.’

“‘Good,’ says he. And then: ‘Going away from here soon?’

“‘Not for a week,’ says I.

“And with that,” said Kit Carson, his eyes on the boys, “he lost all interest in joining us. A few hours later I saw him headed south with a band of Pueblos and Mexicans who had been making ready for a big hunt.”

There was a moment’s silence; then Dave Johnson asked:

“What sort of a country is it to the south?”

“Fine country if you stick to the water-courses. Lots of game; and,” as an afterthought, “lots of redskins.”

“To-morrow,” said Dave to his friend, “we’ll send the mule back to the man we borrowed it from. Then we’ll each buy a horse and some other things that we need, and we’ll be off to the southward after Lopez.”

Kit Carson regarded the lads quizzically.

“It’ll take a good trailer to follow that party with any chance of overtaking them,” he said. “And outside that, it’s a mighty dangerous thing for two people to get out there without anything to back ’em up. The reds would gobble ’em quicker’n it takes to tell it.” He studied them for a moment longer and then said quietly, “If the thing’s not too much of a secret, let’s hear it. You’ve got a reason for wanting to come up with Spotted Snake; and, who knows—maybe if it’s a good enough one—I might be able to help you.”

“It seems to me,” said Joe, sturdily, “every person we’ve met to-day has to listen to our troubles. But I guess,” comically, “we’ll have to saddle you with the story, too, Mr. Carson, if you’re to understand how we came here and what we’re after.”

“It has been all of six months ago,” spoke Dave, “though I’ve about lost track of the time, that we left New Orleans in the bark ‘Gloria Santos.’ She traded all along the coast until we came to Rio Janeiro; then we shifted to the English square rigger ‘North Star,’ which carried us around the Horn and to Valparaiso. At that city we got passage on the trader ‘Gadfly,’ which worked along until we reached the mouth of the Los Angeles River.”

“You came alone on this trip?” asked the trapper.

“No,” replied Joe.

“That’s what I thought,” said Kit. “But go on.”

“My father’s been thinking of making the voyage for the past five years,” said Joe. “And he thought he’d wait until Dave and I were old enough to join him. Dave and I are cousins, you see.”

“But we never knew what his object was until we reached this coast,” said Dave. “Then we found that he had a sort of map or plan of a particular place on a California river, which had been given him by an old seaman for whom he had done an important service while they served under MacDonough on the Lakes in the last war with England.”

“Plan of a place on a river, eh?” spoke Kit. “Well, I’ve trapped along all these streams and while they’re good for beaver and other fur bearing critters, still I don’t see anything about them that would take a man all that way a-looking for them.”

Dave glanced about at the groups of trappers as though to make sure that he was not overheard; bending forward he whispered something in Kit Carson’s ear.

“No!” exclaimed the trapper, incredulously.

Both boys nodded a vigorous affirmative.

“The old seaman who gave my uncle the map,” said Dave, “had visited the country years ago. He was sure that there were great quantities of gold in the beds of all the streams. He was very old when my uncle met him, and that is why he didn’t make the venture himself. The map was made by him on a spot where he had seen the Indians washing out gold to make ornaments.”

“It may be so,” said Kit, slowly. “They find it just that way, I’m told; so why not in California as well as any other place?”

“The captain of the ‘Gadfly’ was short handed when we got to a village down the coast, and he hired a Mexican and this half-breed, Lopez, to help work the schooner. The Mexican deserted at the next stop, but Lopez remained with us. In a little while we found why this was. Things began to be missed. Two nights ago as I came on deck I found him lying on his stomach looking down the open skylight into my uncle’s cabin. There was a light burning in the cabin and my uncle sat at a table with a small metal box before him, going over its contents. It was in this box that he kept the map and his other valuables. I spoke to Lopez; he got up, muttered something and walked away. This morning the half-breed was missed; a half hour later the box was also discovered to have disappeared. It took us only a moment to put the two things together; then Joe and I put out on board the mule, looking for him.”

“Your father didn’t join in the hunt?” said Kit to Joe, and there was an inquiring note in his voice.

“My father,” said Joe, “isn’t able to ride. He’s a cripple; lost his right leg by a cannon shot at the engagement on Lake Champlain.”

“I see,” said Kit. “And if the map was to be recovered, it was for you two boys to do it.” There was a short silence; then the trapper spoke again. “I see now why Spotted Snake was so anxious to get away from this section as soon as he could.” Then inquiringly, “Is it your idea that he took the box just because of the money value of the things in it?”

“He couldn’t have known of the map——” began Joe breathlessly. But the trapper interrupted him.

“Don’t be too sure of that,” said he. “You are never sure of what a fellow like that knows. He goes sneaking about, peeping and listening, and often he finds out more than he’s given credit for.”

Dave was about to make a reply to this, when suddenly there was a commotion in the darkness. The voice of one of the trappers posted to the north of the camp as a guard was heard calling sharply:

“Halt! Stand where you are!”

Instantly the groups about the fires melted; each man seized the ever ready rifle and fell back out of the red glow. The chief of the trappers, Mr. Young, went forward, and voices were heard in a sort of parley. Then the two boys saw the captain of the Pueblo advancing, a half dozen of his soldiers at his back.