by Zane Grey
“I’ll bet you will be—if not tomorrow, then some day. . . . You shore knocked a Kiowa over, didn’t you, Buff?”
“Tom, I’m downright sure I didn’t.”
“Aw, I’ll bet you did! Uncle John says I hit one, an’ so does Jackson, the teamster who was next to me.”
“What?” gasped Clint.
“I guess I’ve downed my first redskin, Buff,” replied Tom, solemnly. “It was this way. There’s deep grass just out from our wagon, an’ a little step in the plain. I was restin’ my gun on the wheel, all ready, finger on trigger, when all of a sudden Injuns rose right up close, like ghosts. My gun was pointed right at one. Just then we heard Mr. Waters yell. An’ I pulled trigger before anyone else down our way. I couldn’t see what happened, but Uncle an’ Jackson positively saw my redskin go down like a fellar who’s knocked down.”
“Shake hands,” said Clint, with emotion. “An’ you wasn’t scared?”
“Who said so? Scared! Why, Buff, I was so scared my teeth clicked, my mouth watered, my throat choked up so I couldn’t swallow. I was colder’n ice all over. An’ deep inside was the most awful feelin’ I ever had in my life.”
That honest confession from Tom made a man out of Clint. All of a sudden he felt free of something sickening.
“Tom, you’ve said it. That’s exactly how I felt, only worse. . . . An’ I couldn’t shoot. I forgot I had a rifle.”
“Bah! Don’t come that on me, just to make me feel good,” returned the loyal Tom.
At daylight Jim Waters called for volunteers to trail the Indians. All the freighters wanted to go. He chose fifty men.
“Let me have your dog,” said Waters to Clint.
“Jack won’t trail anythin’ without me,” replied Clint, eagerly.
“All right. Come along an’ fetch him on a rope.”
They trailed the Indians to the river, and found many tracks where they had crossed. Couch pointed to the marks in the sand where something heavy had been dragged. Next Waters found blood on the leaves. The men crossed the river, which was shallow, and taking the trail again, followed it up into a cottonwood grove. Here Jack got to trailing so fast that he dragged Clint with him ahead of the others. Whereupon Waters hurried to grasp the rope from Clint’s hands.
Presently they came to a glade where the Indians had left their horses while they went on to attack the caravan. Horse tracks and dung were all over the glade, and fresh marks on the saplings, where the bark had been eaten off. The trail of the horses led out of the river bottom, up on the plain, and headed north.
“Raton Pass,” declared Waters. “Wal, we’ll shore have the pleasure of meetin’ up with old Satock again.”
The freighters hurried back to camp, where breakfast was ready, and after that the caravan was soon on the move. They drove until early afternoon. Waters chose the best available spot to stave off another raid, which manifestly he expected.
Forty men were sent out with the stock, and ten picked scouts rode out to look for Indians. About sundown the several scouts who had gone north came hurrying in with news everybody expected.
“Injuns comin,” they announced.
“Heigho! A freighter’s life is a merry one,” sang out a wag.
“Tolerable busy, too, if you want my idee,” contributed another.
“Roll the cannon out, boys,” yelled Waters. “Hoyle, have powder an’ slugs ready. Rest of you at your posts. If it’s a bunch of Kiowas, we’ll begin to shoot first, an’ give them terbaccor after.”
The approaching band, however, turned out to be cavalry, eighty-five men under Captain Graham, bound from Fort Wise, Colorado, to Santa Fé.
Clint was on hand to hear Waters and Couch greet the leader of the cavalrymen.
“Howdy, Jim!” said the captain, a ruddy-faced, square-jawed soldier of long service. “We took you for a bunch of Indians.”
“Wal Captain, we can shore return the compliment,” laughed Waters, and pointed to the ready cannon.
“Captain Graham, we were attacked by Kiowas last night, in the moonlight,” announced Couch. “We drove them off, an’ they never fired a shot. But we’ve been expectin’ another attack today, an’ sure one tonight.”
“So it was your caravan Satock jumped,” said Graham. “You were lucky. We passed Satock today. He had about one hundred an’ twenty Indians. They had a good many wounded and were a pretty sore bunch. Passed us and went north toward Raton. We knew, of course, they’d been up to some devilment, so we took their back trail. Found freshly dug ground covered with a lot of rock. They had buried a good many dead. So you must have given Satock a hard knock. It’s not likely they’ll tackle your caravan very soon again.”
“That’s good. Wal, Captain, get down, you an’ your soldiers, an’ have supper with us.”
“We’ll camp here and go on with you to Santa Fé,” returned Graham.
This good news, added to the remarkable luck attending the caravan of late, put the freighters in a happy frame of mind. They prepared a bountiful supper for Graham’s cavalry, after which soldiers and freighters squatted round camp fires for that most unusual circumstance—a pleasant evening while on the trail.
Captain Graham had been on the plains for many years, first in Indian campaigns, secondly in charge of numerous caravans of ’Forty-niners on their way to the California gold strike; and later performing the same army service for the caravans of freighters.
“I don’t see that conditions on the plains are any better than years ago,” he remarked. “Lately they’re worse. The Indian tribes are growing bitter. Arapahoes, Pawnees, Comanches, Kiowas, Apaches, all these southern tribes have grown steadily in hostility toward the whites. When you come to think of it, you can’t blame them. On the whole, the white invasion of the West is a deliberate steal. The time will come—not so far distant, in my estimation—when the Indians will grow to desperation. Some day the Sioux will be as bad as the Apaches. These old Indian chiefs, like White Wolf, are wise. They see the handwriting on the wall. They have trusted the white man, to their disillusionment. And if these wise old chieftains can band their tribes together, which they are trying to do, it will take a whole army to make the West safe. But some of these tribes have hated one another for hundreds of years. They will not easily be reconciled. That is hopeful for the whites.”
“Wal, Captain, I shore agree with you ’cept not blamin’ the Injuns,” rejoined Waters, puffing his pipe. “You see, I’ve got a hunk of lead in my hip, shot there by a redskin, an’ it doesn’t improve my disposition. Injuns are just varmints to me.”
“That’s not a very broad attitude, Waters,” replied the cavalry officer. “If you had stayed home, where you owned your land, instead of riding out with guns across the red man’s country, you wouldn’t be carrying that bullet around, and also a cantankerous disposition. Most of your frontiersmen are like that. But take a man like Colonel Maxwell. He hasn’t an Indian enemy on the plains. He treats every redskin the same as he does a white man. He told me something interesting last time I was at his ranch. He said one of the chiefs told him that it was the future the Indians feared. They see these wagon-trains of furs, pelts, and buffalo hides go trailing back East, and to them the sight is prophetic of the future. Some day the white men will go in to kill the buffalo on a great scale. And that will bring war between red men and white men. The Indian lives on the buffalo. He knows it. That conflict will come, but not for twenty years or more.”
“Meanwhile, for us, haulin’ freight an’ fightin’ Injuns is about all we can look for,” replied Waters.
“It’s all in the day’s work,” added Couch.
“Well, men, you can hardly say it’s monotonous, even if it is the same old thing over and over again,” said Captain Graham, with a laugh. “Traveling and fighting! That is all there is to the Great Plains these days, and all there will be for some time to come.”
“Some day, Captain, these Great Plains will be great farms,” said Couch, thoughtfully. “It’s rich
soil all the way across. Plenty of water. Wonderful pasture for stock. Shore millions of men could prosper.”
“Yes, and they will, but not until the Indian and the buffalo are gone,” concluded Graham. “Personally I shall be sorry to see both vanish, as they must, when the tide of progress moves westward. But long before that time comes there’s going to be war between the North and South.”
“Wal, we won’t argue aboot that,” replied Waters. “You’re a Northerner an’ I’m a Southerner, an’ I reckon we don’t think no more alike than the Pawnees an’ Comanches.”
“Jim, you an’ Captain Graham better talk Injun till we get to Santa Fé, anyway,” interposed Couch. And when the laugh subsided he continued. “It’s late an’ we better turn in.”
Clint Belmet, who had been sitting before the fire with eyes and ears open, went thoughtfully to bed, deciding that he admired and liked Captain Graham better than any one he had met on the frontier, unless it was Kit Carson.
“Paw, didn’t you cotton to that Cap Graham?” asked Clint.
“Sure did, I’m glad you saw an’ heard him. Try an’ remember what he said,” replied his father.
“No fear of me forgettin’. He talked just like a book. . . . An’, paw, I hear more an’ more about this Colonel Maxwell an’ his ranch. Will you let me go there some day? They say anybody is welcome to come an’ stay as long as he likes!”
“Reckon you can, mebbe this trip out,” yawned Belmet, sleepily. “Go to sleep, you owl!”
The cavalry escorted Waters’ caravan on to Santa Fé, and then, without a day’s rest, hurried to the rescue of an emigrant train reported coming in from Texas.
The fur company in Santa Fé and Westport, for which Waters and Couch were hauling, had a huge consignment of stock to send back to the Missouri. Consequently Clint’s cherished hope of visiting Maxwell’s ranch could not materialize. He had to work like a trooper during the few days’ stop at Santa Fé, and the rest and good time of former trips were wanting.
Waters, owing to the luck of the caravan with Satock, decided to risk a short cut to St. Calra Springs, which drive was accomplished in twelve days. The next was over an old trail seldom used any more, owing to the difficulty in finding water, and this led down Purgatory Valley to Bent’s Fort. The caravan made it in twenty-five days. Only three of these days required a very long drive from water to water; the first being twenty-one miles, the second twenty-four, and the last, the longest Clint ever drove, totaled twenty-seven miles. On this whole short cut they had no fuel but buffalo chips. They did not see an Indian.
At Bent’s Fort the leaders of the caravan were advised to wait and rest a few days, because White Wolf, the Apache war chief, was in the vicinity on the warpath. Two troops of dragoons were out trying to locate the Apaches and fetch them in. But Waters and Couch, trusting to their big caravan of experienced drivers and fighters, proceeded toward Council Grove.
While they were in camp on Cottonwood Creek, twenty Pawnees suddenly appeared, as if they had dropped out of the sky, and rode in.
“Wal, of all things! More Injuns!” ejaculated Waters, dryly.
“By thunder! they’ve got nerve!” added Couch. “Mebbe they’re just a scoutin’ party.”
The Pawnee chief, who looked as lean and dry as leather, ran an appraising eye over the wagons.
“Heap big train! Heap men?” he said. “Heap!”
“Yes, we got three hundred men an’ five cannon,” replied Waters, in cheerful tones that brought smiles to the faces of his men. “Here’s one of them. It will kill two hundred Injuns in one shot. . . . Look! I’ll cut down that tree in one shot.”
The Pawnees might not have understood Waters word for word, but they certainly got the gist of his meaning, and they looked skeptical, not to say scornful. Finally the Pawnee spokesman replied, “White man dam’ big liar!”
Waters simulated great anger.
“WHAT! . . . You call me liar?” he roared, in outraged dignity, “I’ll show you. . . . See that tree. I’ll cut it down in one shot. Then you take back callin’ me liar—or I’ll turn my cannon on you.”
He pointed to a tree nearly eighteen inches through. It was a young green cottonwood. Then he bade the men roll the cannon out. Hoyle brought the fuse and more ammunition. The freighters, not neglecting their rifles, crowded forward in suppressed glee. The Pawnees began to look impressed. Some of them edged away.
Waters carefully sighted the cannon and touched it off. BOOM! It made a terrible roar. The concussion appeared to shake everything near at hand, especially the Pawnees.
The cottonwood tree fell, not cut off cleanly, but effectually enough to make good Waters’ boast. Waters had been clever enough to run the cannon pretty close to the Indians, so that they would feel and hear a terrific shock. They did. And that no doubt had as much to do with their discomfiture as the felling of the tree. They rode away a good deal faster than they had come. Then the boisterous merriment of those grim freighters was a spectacle to behold.
Waters’ caravan continued its overland journey to the Missouri without seeing any more Indians. Thus another record was added to the list of the old brass cannon.
Aull & Company owned a large tract of pasture and cornfield in the river bottom, part of which was fenced. The freighters made a deal whereby they paid five hundred dollars for it, with the understanding that if they loaded for Aull the next spring they would get half of it back, and if they returned from Santa Fé with Aull’s pelts intact they would receive the other half.
All the members of the caravan regarded it as a very good deal, whether they hauled Aull’s freight or not. Feed for stock was at a premium on the Missouri. They spared every man available to work on repairing the fence, and in twelve days had it in such condition that they no longer needed to worry about the horses and oxen.
Belmet bought some lumber and a stove. He and Clint built a board frame, over which they stretched the tent. They laid buffalo robes on the floor and otherwise added to their comfort for the long winter months. Belmet also invested in books and magazines, and spent most of his time reading. Clint and Tom made a serious business of studying together, each teaching the other the subject in which he was most proficient. On pleasant days they took their guns and followed Jack through the thickets of the river bottom, a procedure that elicited great fun and also added materially to the larder.
So the winter passed, and when spring came Waters loaded freight for Santa Fé and Couch loaded for Fort Wise, Colorado. But the two caravans pulled out together, passed Wasarus Creek, went on to Diamond Springs, crossed the Little Arkansas, and then under **ook the long drive to Cove Creek, where they ran right into a large band of Indians that evidently was lying in ambush under the creek bank. But frontiersmen like Waters and Couch were seldom trapped.
The savages, about three hundred strong, were painted and had on feather war bonnets. Seeing they were discovered, they leaped on their mustangs and charged like a tornado, yelling like a horde of demons.
The freighters had time to get half prepared, and Jim Waters stood beside his cannon, ready to spread destruction in their ranks, should they attack. Evidently the Indians were loath to close in, and instead they adopted one of their old tricks of galloping close, yelling hideously, and waving their buffalo robes and red blankets in an attempt to stampede the stock. It almost succeeded as far as the horses were concerned.
But on their second circle of the caravan, Waters selected a massed bunch of Indians and fired his cannon into it. The thunder of the report and the wide swath of destruction turned the tables on the Indians, and they were the ones to suffer a stampede.
Clint gasped at the mêlée and the wild chorus of yells and snorts. Mustangs by the dozens went down with their riders; others tore away, riderless; some kicked in frantic terror, dragging at the crippled Indians who still clung to them. Yet so wonderful and loyal were these savages, that those who were capable endeavored to save the wounded ones and to carry off their dead. The steady
rifle fire from the freighters did not daunt them.
Then, BOOM! went Waters’ cannon again, this time more heavily charged with powder and slugs.
The discharge, ruthless as shrapnel, flung devastation into the middle of that plunging mêlée of Indians and mustangs. The freighters lowered their rifles, prone to pity. Even Jim Waters made no move to reload the cannon. And the able-bodied Indians, profiting by this restraint, got horses and cripples straightened out and beat a hasty retreat.
Search discovered the bodies of sixty dead Indians and eighty dead or crippled horses. It was the most complete rout Waters had ever engineered. He ordered the injured horses shot, but left them and the dead Indians unburied on the plain.
The men straightened out the teams and by brisk driving reached Fort Zarah at three that afternoon. Waters reported to Captain Selkirk the conduct of the Pawnees. A detachment of fifty dragoons was sent out on their trail.
Then the double caravan drove on to Pawnee Rock, to Ash Creek, and Pawnee Forks, and in six days more went into camp at the Cimmaron Crossing for the last time together. It was rather a sad encampment. A hundred and seventy freighters who had driven, camped, and fought together for months, and had made a success out of every trip, found the fact of parting something to deplore. They stayed up late that night. Next morning they arose at dawn, but, owing to more and yet more handshaking, the sun rose and still the caravans did not separate.
Waters crushed Clint’s hand and said: “Buff, this don’t seem right, you leavin’ us to get along as best we can without you an’ Jack.”
“But, Mr. Waters, you have the cannon,” replied Clint, significantly.
“Good luck, lad. You’ve a head on your shoulders. You’ll be a great frontiersman some day.”
And so at last the caravans parted, Waters taking the dry trail to Santa Fé and Couch pushing north to Fort Wise. For many miles and hours Clint’s keen eye marked the long winding wagon-train moving at a snail’s pace across the plains. He thought the one drawback to an overland freighter’s life was the ever-recurring farewell to beautiful and interesting places, to friends and comrades, and to loved ones.
