DOWN to the right, tiny in the darkness, were red spots of flame. Laforay deliberated his thought aloud. The rail followed the ridge. The enemy might have split and doubled back. It was Carson, who came to decision.
“Chance it. Let’s leave the horses here, crawl in. See what’s what. We can lie hid all night.”
Laforay said: “If I see where those packs are, I sneak in when fires are out. Get packs and give ’em hell.”
They rode down a little way, left the horses safely, and then stole forward to stalk the camp.
The camp was on a little rise of ground; the fires had died to coals. An occasional brief up-flicker played upon the outstretched figures. After a time, a dying spurt of flame showed the three bales of pelts. All was quiet.
“No guard.” Herring’s words were a mere breath.
“I go in,” said Laforay. Carson put out a hand and pressed him down.
“No. My job. I speak Ute, if they hail me. Take care of my gun.”
He stripped off his powder-horn and left it beside the rifle, then wormed through the brush and lush grass for the up slope. No Indian could have done it more silently.
At length he topped the rise. The first fire-embers were startlingly close. He discerned a prone form, moccasins to the coals, head covered with robe. Other embers lay beyond, other forms radiating from them. The central pile of bales bulked in the starlight. Yonder were the horses, all too ready to snort alarm.
His head lifted, he planned the easiest passage to the bales, and then inched on again. Holding his breath, he rose and crept on, crouching on silent toes and fingertips. He skirted the shrouded heads, was by the last of them, within reach of the three bales. He gently came up. touched the uppermost bale—and the horse whinnied sharply.
The call was instantly answered by another animal. An Indian leaped erect. Carson turned, the bale in his arms, caught an ejaculation of alarm and made reply in Ute. Other voices rang out. The brave came for him with a leap. Then a spurt of flame, the whiplike crack of a rifle, and the warrior pitched forward, the death-cry bursting from him as he fell. The agile figure of Laforay swept forward and gripped another bale of loot.
Now the whole camp was on foot, a tangle of bewildered figures seeking the cause of alarm. Carson ran for it, bale in arms, and behind him came Laforay, venting the sharp, hissing Iroquois whoop for greater confusion: “Sassakway! Sassakway!” The eerie yell lifted high Redskins clumped together to bar the escape. Then a shot from below, the sharp crack of a second rifle, as Herring made use of the weapons left with him.
Again the death-shriek, and the amazed, ambushed warriors went flattening to earth, diving everywhere for cover. Carson and Laforay pelted away with their burdens, leaping down the slope to where Herring lay in the bushy bottom. Arrows paced them, and wild bullets.
“Ha! Got two bale!” prated Laforay in delight.
“Didn't know you were after me,” said Carson.
“Dream show you with scalp bloody. Looked like this time.”
“Come on,” put in Herring. “We’ve rattled the hornets' nest. Now git!”
Carson, still for attack and fight, yielded to sanity. There could be no surprise assault now. The camp above was yelling vengeance, but was staying close until the numbers of the assailants could be determined. Herring, gathering the rifles, set off for the horses. Carson and Laforay followed.
He wondered which bale had been left.
On they hurried, until the pointers of the Dipper said midnight, then halted and slept. Carson forced impatient uncertainty to rest. Too dark now to distinguish any details. What was done was done, for good or ill, and sleep was imperative while it could be had.
He wakened to gray morning. Laforay was exulting that the back trail seemed clean of pursuit. Carson went to where Herring, red-eyed from sleep, was blinking at the two wrapped bales. His eyes sought the markings on the bales. They leaped from one to the other, heart-hurried, and fastened dully upon the pair. The one bore Herring’s mark, the other that of Laforay.
Carson turned and eyed the back-trail silent. Chagrin and alarm spurred wrath anew, until the hot wave rose in him. Surmise and conjecture, sharp planning, balancing of the cost of another attack—ven as he weighed it, he knew in his heart it would be folly. Then he caught Laforay’s generous proposal.
“Kit! We turn round and go get your bale maybe tonight, huh? They won't look for us so quick.”
“No,” he said. “Make safe first.”
“That’s talk,” approved Herring. “Little Chief has good head, you bet! Keep what we got, including our hair. This is Ute country. We’ll cut in, trail ’em to their village, then wait our chance.”
They rode on, gradually circling back, at an angle from their old trail. Carson rode in a bitter reflection.
A valley broadened in the vista below and ahead. There was filmy smoke, and a faint yapping of dogs. A good two score of lodges, with figures moving about, horses herded under guard. A village was stationed there, beside a willowed stream.
“Utes,” said Herring. “We got ’em. That’s the village.”
Again Carson felt the heat of wrath simmering to boil.
“I'm going in. I mean to have my beaver or know why not.”
Laforay said: “No squaws yelling for the dead. The other party ain't in yet. Wait till they do; then—”
“No.” Carson swept the cautious advice away with a sharp gesture. “You stay here and keep your packs. If I don't come out, make tracks while you can. Adios.”
With the brusque farewell, he sent his horse straight on down the slope.
The quick eyes of the horse guards spied the approach. A blanket flourished the alarm signal, evoking excited voices and scurrying figures among the lodges. Carson rode in upon snarling curs, and curious gazes.
Ahead was the large painted lodge of the chief, and he went straight for it. He slid to the ground and fronted the stoical, fixed gaze of the chief, who sat on a robe in the sunshine at the lodge entrance. Recognition was swift—Bear’s Tongue; this was the Bear’s village, then.
But a second figure sat beside Bear’s Tongue. Here was the tall Comanche who had been with Marie in Santa Fe, who had been in the war council. Now he sat there, at the left of the lodge entrance, like a guest of state. Carson’s blue eyes stabbed at him sharply, then went to the broad, dark, weathered countenance of the Ute chief.
“Little Chief comes on a visit?” asked Bear’s Tongue.
Carson was in no mood for politeness.
“We talk straight,” he said. “Since when have the Utes begun to rob traps, steal the furs of Americans?”
“Sit down.” The Bear’s dour countenance changed in not a muscle, but anger gathered in his glittering eyes. “What have you to say?”
Carson told him, with word and sign, making plea and accusation boldly swift. He ended with hot conclusion:
“When your young men bring in their dead, you will see my skins, and the stolen traps. Are the Utes making war on Americans?”
The Bear made answer with finality.
“They are not my young men. I know nothing about it.”
Carson’s fingers went into his shirt and brought forth the blood-black arrow, which he had retained. No words were necessary; here was mute accusation that shouted to heaven. The black eyes flitted over the shaft, then Carson saw a smile come into the dark face—a smile that sank his heart like stone. Somewhere he had slipped up.
“Little Chief is blind. Blood has got into his eyes and blinded them,” said the Bear, relishing deeply this chance to set the famed Little Chief at wrong. “Ute point, but a point is easily changed. Blackfoot feathers.” He snapped the arrow, disdainfully cast the shaft aside. “You must ask Plenty Eagle for your skins.”
Chagrin overwhelmed Carson. Blackfeet! Perhaps it was the same party of young men that had captured him. His mind brushed chagrin aside, went groping swiftly for the truth. The same party, yes! Even now, his life had been spared, though all furs had been lifted. Why, the three trappers might have been ambushed easily enough, in their camp! Then this must have been done by orders. Whose orders?
“I saw the Utes sitting in the same lodge with the Blackfeet,” he shot out. “Now I see Bear’s Tongue sitting here with a Comanche. Go Everywhere Woman is in your eyes and ears. She is here.”
“The woman is not here,” said the chief flatly.
Carson’s turn now. He took full advantage of it, conscious of other eyes and ears. For a moment he said nothing at all, but moved slowly. Suspense and curiosity rose high as he picked up the broken arrow and stooped to the dust with it, the dust at one side of the entrance. A short, involuntary grunt of chagrin broke from the chief, as he realized the footprint there, the tiny print of a woman’s moccasin, of a girl’s foot.
THE gaze of the Comanche glistened with appreciation. Carson knew his gamble was won; he himself had lifted in estimation. Bear’s Tongue spoke composedly enough, before there could be more words. He saved his own face by seeming to continue with his denial.
“The woman is not here. She was here, with the big red man. They have gone on across the mountains.”
“Do the Utes listen to the Comanches and the Blackfeet, and plan war?” snapped Carson. It was a bold question. But the Bear made uncompromising answer.
“I heard Plenty Eagle’s talk. It was a good talk. I heard the young woman sing. It was a good song. The Utes wait for the Blackfeet to pass the White Beaver medicine.”
So the Blackfeet were going to send out that medicine! A point learned.
“The arrow would say that two people are one.” And Carson dropped the shaft again. “The Blackfeet and the woman would lead you into trouble. White Beaver medicine? It is foolish talk. A girl has sung in your ears, and you are deaf to the speech of wise men.”
Then Carson turned and went to his horse. He mounted and rode out to join the waiting Herring and Laforay. Utter failure!
“Well?” prompted Herring. “You don't get the pelts?”
“No,” said Carson. “The party were Blackfeet, Bear’s Tongue says. True. That Comanche is here. Shunan and his girl were in the village for a sleep. They've gone on.”
“Ho!” said Laforay. “Maybe we ketch ’em and learn what she mean by telling us good hunting, huh?”
Carson glowered. Lost, lost! Then he quickened to a thought. Ten to one, the Blackfeet would not open that bale of furs. They would take it to the rendezvous; they would trade it to McKay of the Hudson’s Bay. There was a chance still, a long chance!
Herring said thoughtfully, “Blackfeet stole our traps. Why? Too lazy to use ’em, as a rule. Now why?” Carson’s brain jerked to the question.
The Blackfeet were going to pass the White Beaver medicine. Why? Because they were on the lookout for it. Blackfeet searching the beaver villages. Blackfeet trapping, outspread through the valleys and along the creeks. Blackfeet using American traps.
And all the while, unknowing, the prize of empire was in Blackfoot hands. A smile touched Carson’s lips; the sparkle came back into his blue eyes. There was a chance, a long chance!
“Let’s head on the rendezvous,” he said.
At the “Valley of the Green!”
A name to ring afar for a few brief years, then to die and be forgotten before new and more momentous events. This was no town, no permanent settlement, but an evanescent and lawless no man’s land, a spontaneous upgrowth of men from all quarters of the compass.
Carson, arrived intent on business, closed his ears to the whoops of welcome, let Herring and Laforay drift whither they pleased, and cast about for Jim Bridger. Jim was something like head chief to all mountain men. second to none in his vast experience, his shrewdness, his ability and force of character.
At long length Carson sighted Bridger holding revel in a circle of whites and reds, and rode to the spot. Shouts of greeting and recognition met him. Bridger looked up with shrewdly puckered gray eyes in a square, lean, sparsely whiskered face of tanned leather.
“How, Kit! Light and join the council. Ain't seen you since last rendezvous.”
“Not now. I've business afoot. I’d like a word with you.”
Bridger rose to spare and powerful height, and stepped out quickly, rifle on shoulder. He led the way to where his own lodge was pitched. Carson dismounted, and they sat together under the cone of buffalo hides.
“Ears are open,” Bridger prompted. “What’s the word?”
Carson launched into unwonted garrulity.
“I wintered in Taos, went into the mountains on spring hunt out o’ Bent’s Fort—me, Rube Herring and Laforay, the Iroquois breed; we met up and went on. Our catch was prime. Blackfeet. trailed us and stole every trap and every pelt. Herring and Laforay got their bales back. I aim to get mine.”
Bridger sensed importance to come.
“What are the Blackfeet doing that far south?”
“A party of them were at Bent’s. I sat in a big council, biggest gather of a winter camp I ever saw.”
“Huh? You in council?”
Carson nodded. “Shunan, the Hudson’s Bay Frenchie, spread his blanket for me. Plenty Eagle said yes to it.”
“Shunan, hey! What tribes there?”
“Cheyennes, 'Rapahoes, Utes, Comanches, Blackfeet. a few Sioux. I've a yarn for you.”
“Shoot. Ears are open.”
Carson sped forth the story, all of it. keeping the most incredible fact to himself, but giving all he knew otherwise, all he had heard. He concluded:
“It’s war to wipe out the Americans, both sides the mountains; that’s the medicine. The Hudson’s Bay will keep Oregon, then push east and grab everything.”
Bridger said: “Shunan and his breed gal—I’ll tell Shunan his scalp’s mighty loose on his head. Gal wants you, hey? And you don't want her?”
“Anybody’d want her,” said Carson, not shirking the truth. “But I'm shy of Blackfoot blood. And Shunan—I ain't looking to get my hind paw in a trap.”
Bridger grinned, then frowned.
“White beaver as sign of strong-hearts? Injuns stealing traps for use? That beats any dream of mine. Sleep or wake, I never did see a white beaver.”
“Happens I have.”
Bridger swung alert unbelieving gaze upon him. “No! For sure?”
“In my own trap. A white she-beaver. I took the pelt, put it away safe, kept my mouth shut.”
Shrewd gray eyes probed. “When?”
“Last month. On one of the heads of the Arkansaw.”
Bridger whistled softly. “Your hair won't be safe till you've sold that medicine out of the country. Where’s the pelt?”
“In the middle of that bale the Blackfeet stole.”
Bridger straightened under the impact, straightened and sat in tense silence. He comprehended everything.
“That’s the spark for dry timber,” he said slowly. The vision was swift and sure, of that Great Spirit sign being taken from village to village, from tribe to tribe, of medicine men at work, of eager fanatic warriors lashed to frenzy.
“Does anybody know?” he shot out.
“Not from me. There’s a chance of getting it back. Is McKay here at rendezvous?”
“Yep. Over on the Big Sandy fork. Shunan and his gal are over there, too. She’s a fetching piece, right enough, but I’d as soon give lodge-room to a wolf with cubs.”
Carson nodded. “I'm carrying talk to Shunan. And to McKay. They’ll know where that bale of mine is.”
“Likely so,” agreed Bridger. “You get that bale ’fore it’s opened up by any Injun, or we’ll be flashing lead along the traplines for next 10 years!”
“Any ’Rapahoes here?” Carson asked. “How about Sights the Enemy?”
“Yep, he’s here, and his family, too.” Bridger’s eyes twinkled. “You’d better shine up to that gal. High time you set up a lodge of your own.”
“Thinking of that myself,” said Carson. “I've already made Sights the Enemy a present. Singing Bird ain't come to trap, but she’s willing, I reckon.”
He rose. Bridger followed him from the lodge, imparting his own news now.
Strangers in camp this season, Kit. Two missioners for Oregon. A sky pilot and a doctor feller. And say! I've got a yarn to pretty near beat your’n! The doc says that next year there’s be white woman on the trail!” Bridger guffawed. “I tell him the Green will dry up and South Pass be a hole in the ground before white women cross the mountains.”
“White women?” Carson stared. It was inconceivable. “What would they do if they did ever get across?”
“Well, he’s got a notion more will foller. Missioners' and settlers' women, both. He claims that once Oregon gets settled up with white families to lay holt of land, the Injun trade posts won't be nowhere. Queer feller, this doc. Ain't all crazy, though.”
Carson shrugged off the news with scant interest, and rode on to the Arapahoe camp.