CAMP, now—camp, and traps out, short trail, eye alert, pelts to stretch. Here was the country of beaver, of hostile shaft and bullet, of chance taken for prime fur. Year by year the mountain men were pressing forward, past exhausted streams and valleys where the greenhorns might cull the last beaver, on into the country where no others dared risk hair.
Here were the men of Bridger’s detachment in central camp, when one day Laforay and Rube Herring came into camp from the morning trap-rownd with big news.
“Blackfeet gettin’ bad.” From the saddle, Laforay flung a beaver pelt for the camp squaws to dress. “Half the traps be sprung, no hair left. Rube nigh lost his, though.”
Herring, swinging to earth, nodded to Bridger and the others.
“Hull pack of the screeching devils whipped arrers at me from a patch o' bresh. One took my hat off; another cut my shirt—looky here! I got my hat, downed one hostile, made for my hoss, and lit out to join Laforay. But that ain’t all!” And Herring emitted a torrent of hearty curses. “We failed of a clean shot as the Old Nick himself—Plenty Eagle, in the flesh.”
“Sure it’s him?” questioned Jim Bridger shrewdly. “I knowed that snip o' white fur would give him the itch. Maybe it wa'n't him, though.”
“Seen him plain in the open, at dead range,” Herring said. “My sights lay dead center, too; the gun only flashed the pan. Laforay slipped his ball and drew a blank. Then we had to run again. Fresh priming, and a gun that never played false afore now!”
“Huh!” exclaimed Carson, tapping out his pipe. “I’ve got lead that’ll fetch his death yell.”
“I wish I’d never left Ohio!” This was young Stephens, startled by this talk of close escapes, by the obvious belief of these men in rank wizardry. “What a country this is! I can feel an arrow in my back every step I take outside of camp. I’ll never see my home folks again.”
Some of the men laughed. Bridger, with keenly appraising glance, said nothing. The boy was pallid, in a nervous funk.
“You’ll live till your time comes,” said Carson, essaying cold comfort. “If it’s due to come here in the mountains, that’s the how of it, and not to be dodged. Until then, you’re as safe here as in Ohio.”
With the morrow, Carson rode forth: he and young Stephens, Laforay and Herring, in company a little way. At a fork of the stream they separated to hunt in pairs.
“See you in camp, Laforay,” said Carson.
Carson grunted and rode on with his companion Stephens.
The inflowing fork again divided. A canyon, whose lower benches were sparsely grown to shrub alders and willows; it pocketed limpid pools and much beaver sign. Up there were the last of Carson’s traps; those of Stephens had been placed on along the main stream, meandering through the willow-channeled valley.
“Suppose you come with me,” Carson said. “Then we’ll run yours. Eh?”
Stephens laughed. “Nonsense, Kit! I'm all over my scare, now. No Indians around here. Anyhow, you were right; when the time comes, it’s not to be dodged. We've neither of us far to go. You've not seen anything suspicious?”
“Nary a sign.”
“Then you finish your traps, and I’ll finish mine. We’ll meet here.”
Carson found the first trap empty; he rode on for the other at the head of the canyon. Then he halted, startled. His eye caught a glint of white on the planted pole from which the chain led into the water. Anything new, anything out of ordinary, in this hostile country was sign of danger.
The glint of white beckoned him. With rifle cocked, he went on. This thing was not a bait. He found it a ragged scrap of paper, fastened about the pole by a tied buckskin thong.
Carson slipped off the string, opened the paper, read the penciled scrawl:
“Some day again, M. Kit—maybe soon. I look for you. The little squaw is good medicine.—Shunan.”
When he had deciphered it, Carson scanned the empty reaches of the canon. So Shunan was not on the Snake, but here with the Blackfeet! The insolence of the words sang in his blood. A red beard, a red scalp, against the near horizon. Good! The sooner the better.
He contemptuously tore the paper to fragments, shredded them on the air. Then he dismounted and went about his work. He followed the chain down into the water, stooped for it—came erect with spine stiffening and senses galvanized. What now?
A distant, far-off shot, and another. A medley of Indian yells. He could read attack, pursuit. More whoops, lifting from the canyon entrance, joyous and significant. Young Stephens had been jumped, was making a stand, was at bay.
With a leap, Carson was on his horse, heading down canyon. He made speed, but kept the beast in hand. A voice came up between the canyon walls, thin and yet carrying distinctly enough: “Kit! Here—quick!”
He pounded on, then tightened rein suddenly. A horse, at maddened gallop, with clang of hoofs and plash of water—a riderless horse, passing him with the stirrups a-toss. Stephens' horse.
On again, with rifle ready, but now the clamor had lulled and stilled. This ride had taken time. Sounds carried fast and far along those rocky walls. All were gone now. Carson rode on into an ominous silence.
Nearing the canyon mouth, Carson checked pace, so that his eyes might report on what lay ahead. He saw nothing, heard nothing, until Kit emerged at a cautious canter. And then, once outside the barrier, he heard and saw. Yells burst up in exultant chorus. A score of dark forms flitted out, with gun and arrow levelled. Carson saw himself flanked, the trail ahead closed to him, all retreat to camp cut off. Run the gauntlet and leave young Stephens? No sign of the boy, but his voice had made sign enough.
Carson let the horse go, slipped among the tumbled rocks that littered the canyon mouth. Guns banged; bows twanged; but the spatter of lead and arrow came too late.
Carson peered forth, unhurried, holding his fire. He was in a stout fortress, with rifle loaded. A dust-devil danced and eddied, died down and sprang up again, whirled and gyrated and was gone. Carson glanced around. The higher ground behind commanded his position, but he had forted well; only a lucky ball or shaft would droop his flag.
But what of Stephens? No sign of him anywhere. As Carson squinted in search, he realized that the Blackfeet had scattered for shelter from his rifle, and had fallen back. A yell pealed up; an arm appeared, shaking something — a scalp. Other yells joined in, gleeful and promising him the same end. So the boy was dead, his hair a trophy.
A figure appeared, stalking forth from cover. There stood Plenty Eagle himself, feather in scalp-lock—a ready mark for a rifle ball! His voice lifted, while Carson’s trigger-finger itched.
“Little Chief! Come out.”
Carson answered only with the long iron poised over his parapet of rock, poised and levelled. To his amazement, Plenty Eagle laughed loudly and scornfully, flung words of derision at him.
“Come out, Little Chief, and you shall live for a little while. I think you look for somebody. Perhaps Little Chief would like to kill me? The scalp of Plenty Eagle would be a proud boast for any man. Very well; I am here Let Little Chief shoot.”
Carson probed. What was back of it? A trap to unload his rifle?
“Plenty Eagle has grown tired of life, then,” responded Carson. “He has grown old. He has forgotten the ways of young warriors. He has no heart for the red trail. He asks a young man of the whites to takes his scalp. But the scalp of Plenty Eagle is like that of a woman. Nobody wants it.”
THE gibes went home. The proud deep voice came back quickly, hotly “Little Chief cannot hurt me. I wear medicine here” — and Plenty Eagle tapped his chest — “that will blind your gun. Let Little Chief shoot me, and then my young men will tear off his hair before he can load again.”
Amazingly, the chief meant his words, believed himself invulnerable!
Carson’s brain raced, even while he listened. He had only this thing left—why not grasp it? Stephens was dead, could bring him no rescue. His arch enemy was here taunting him. Gun empty, the end would come, but a worth-while end. A mountain man lived by fighting, and could die no better than by fighting when the trail closed.
“Then we take the ghost-trail together!” snapped out Carson.
Abruptly he was firmed, eager lusting to even the score. He slipped a bullet into his mouth and shifted his powder-horn convenient to hand. He was prepared to reload at top speed.
The long barrel steadied like the choosing finger of Fate. The thin crest of the low knife-blade front sight notched in the rear bar, and cut the beaded medicine-sack hanging on that broad swart chest. Cheek cuddled stock; finger gently closed on trigger for the shot.
Upon this instant, another dust-devil lifted and whirled, charged across the open straight upon Carson and clawed him in the eyes. Too late to check himself. The rifle exploded, and as it did so, he knew the ball had gone wide of the mark.
Yelping whoops of glee arose. His hand darted to powder horn; Plenty Eagle stood unmoved, unhurt. There was an uprush of figures, but they suddenly halted and fell apart. Another shape appeared, came and stood before Plenty Eagle.
Carson’s eyes widened, but his hands were busy—powder in. bullet following powder. The dancing woman, Shunan’s daughter, there facing him. Her voice rang out to him, sweetly, piercingly:
“The medicine is against you; your gun shoots crooked. Stay there, and you’re dead! Come out, and you’re safe, I promise you. Look behind you!”
Carson looked not, save at her, but his ears told him enough. So did his twitching spine. While Plenty Eagle dared him, Blackfeet had got behind him. But the rifle was loaded now. He made jeering response.
“Aye, safe as in a whelping wolf’s den! My next ball doesn't miss.”
“Plenty Eagle has proved his medicine; your ball was turned aside,” she retorted. “Don't be a fool. You haven't a chance, unless you obey me. You may kill one man, and that’s the end. Believe me when I say you’ll not be harmed if you come out. Plenty Eagle wants to talk to you.”
“I'm listening,” said Carson grimly.
“Not here; it’s too important. In camp. You’ll find something there, my friend. What? Long life, maybe. Gamble that against one shot. Worth while? Of course it is. Your last chance. Speak up!”
In camp? What awaited him there? Shunan, perhaps; or perhaps Singing Bird. Some trick of this she-devil? Of course it was; yet without it. his end was sure and prompt. With Stephens dead, he could not hope for rescue from Bridger. They wanted to strike some bargain, wanted information about the white beaver, of a surety; nothing he could accept. But while man lived, man could seize chances.
So, running the matter over in his mind, Carson came to his usual quiet decision. He had lost face by that accursed shot, thanks to the dust-devil. If he fought it out, he was sure of death very quickly. Here was the chance to seize, the gamble to take. She was right.
Carson stood up, walked out. The air rocked to the wild whoops. He knew what to expect, and well that he did; life alone, nothing more. He kept firm grip on himself.
The Blackfeet were prompt to surge forth. He was astonished at the numbers of them. The group closed in upon him, jostled him hither and thither. His rifle was wrested away. In a moment he was stripped of everything save clothes. In another moment he was being buffeted and kicked and prodded.
He was hustled upon a horse and forced to cling fast to the warrior before him. Plenty Eagle and the woman had remained aloof. Now, in the midst of the painted crew, Carson was borne along at a gallop.
Setting sun rimmed the western horizon with light, broken by uplifts of ridges and buttes. It was half submerged when the tearing rout came whooping into camp. This was only a way station, a point of rendezvous for parties on the war trail. A few shelters of brush and hide, three or four squaws, a small gathering of waiting warriors, beside a stream in a grassy flat partly encircled by safely distant hills.