Fighting Caravans

by Zane Grey

  Clint tied the gray, clawed feet together and twisted the string round a stout stick. Lifting the gobbler, he drew it over his back. But he found he could not hold the weight with one hand, so he stuck his rifle barrel between the legs of the turkey and tried, successfully this time, to lift it over his back. And then the red head dragged in the grass. Although the whole walk back was downhill, his burden grew so heavy that he had all he could do to reach camp. And when Clint laid that gorgeous wild turkey in front of his father and their camp associates, he enjoyed revenge for the many times they had poked fun at him.

  “Wal, we’ll shore hev to call him Turk now,” remarked one.

  Report of hostile Kiowa Indians along the eastern border of New Mexico put an end to Clint’s hunting. As to that, the approach of winter would very soon have had the same effect. Moreover, Clint had to abandon a cherished hope of riding to Taos to call on Kit Carson and of seeing the famous Maxwell Ranch, which was reported to be the most interesting and wonderful place on the frontier.

  Presently Clint settled down to his books and labored over them hours on end. A majority of the camp chores fell to his hands, because little by little his father, along with many other freighters, found diversion in the gaming dives of Santa Fé. Belmet was not a drinking man, nor an inveterate gambler, but the loss of his wife had struck him deeply and the monotony of camp life palled on him. All of which worried Clint exceedingly. He fed the stock, chopped and hauled wood, built the fires. What with this work and his studies the days and weeks flew by.

  When spring came and the roads dried up, Captain Couch and his followers took a contract to haul furs, buffalo robes, and pelts for Aull & Company. While the men were busy packing, which was no slight task, a caravan of seventy men happened along from Taos. These freighters were mostly old frontiersmen. The two caravans joined for the long and dangerous haul east, and in the aggregate there were one hundred and forty-four men. Such a company was practically immune from raids.

  This long wagon-train left Santa Fé the last of May. They made slow progress at first, saving the oxen for the heavy part of the road.

  They crossed the Pecos River and camped at Mora, the ranch of a Colonel St. Vrain, one of the oldest frontiersmen then living. He had come west in 1819, hunted and trapped for years, fought through the war with the Navajos in 1823, became major of a regiment in the Texas invasion of 1842, and a colonel in the American invasion of 1846, and had retired from the army in 1849, to reside on his ranch. Clint met the old frontiersman, who looked like a southern planter. He had a pronounced interest in boys, to which fact Clint could have attested.

  Travel on to Fort Union was slow, uninterrupted, and uneventful. Some days were raw and chilly. Clint did not have any liking for the dust storms. At Fort Union a government caravan was making ready for the drive east to Fort Leavenworth. Captain Couch decided to wait for it. Clint had four more idle days to watch frontier life at the post. In one instance he saw considerably more than was good for him, as he had the bad luck to be witness to a knife fight between two men.

  An entire troop of dragoons made ready at Fort Union to escort this unusually large caravan. The freighters were jolly. No fear of Indians this drive! The wagons rolled down upon the plains, and once more, for days on end, Clint gazed out over the prairie, with the vast circle of boundless horizon calling. Clint remembered the camps and many landmarks he had become familiar with on the way out.

  When they reached Council Grove the government caravan took the road to Fort Leavenworth, while the remainder went on toward Westport Landing. Thus Clint did not pass the scene of his mother’s death and burial. But that place was not so very far, as distance counted on the prairie, and for several days Clint was prey to melancholy.

  Captain Couch’s caravan unloaded at Westport, then proceeded out along the Missouri River to camp and rest and feed the stock. Always that was a paramount issue. The weeks of steady pulling wore out the animals.

  While fishing one day in a creek that flowed into the Missouri, Clint was approached by a lad about his own age, who announced that his uncle had joined the freighters and was going to take him along. His great glee was manifest. Clint looked at the lanky, red-headed, freckle-faced boy with considerable disfavor, solely because he had apparently the most ridiculous misconception of this freighting across the plains. Far, indeed, was it from fun.

  “My name’s Tom Sidel,” he confided, agreeably. “I know yours. It’s Clint Belmet.”

  “Howdy! Who told you?” replied Clint, drawing in his fishing-line. No one could talk and fish at the same time.

  “Your dad. He knows my uncle. An’ he said he was glad we were goin’ to freight goods, because I’d be company for you.”

  Tom made this statement with a humility and a hopefulness not lost upon Clint. He was disposed to be friendly, though he had his doubts about this boy.

  “Reckon it’d help some—if you are up to a man’s job,” replied Clint, with a matured air.

  “I’m strong, but ’course I couldn’t be a driver yet,” said Tom. “Not many boys of thirteen could.”

  It appeared that the lad was approaching this connection more satisfactorily to Clint.

  “Can you shoot?” queried Clint.

  “No, nothin’ to brag of. But mebbe you could teach me. I heard about your huntin’ an’ the names you got—Buff an’ Turk. Think I like Buff better.”

  “How are you with an ax?”

  “Uncle says I’m just no good,” rejoined Tom, frankly.

  “Will you be afraid when the Indians raid us?”

  “D—do—do they? Is it a—a sure thing?” faltered Tom.

  “Sure. Next drive out we’ll have a fight. You see, every night when we camp we drive the wagons in a circle, close together, except at one end, where we leave a hole for the stock. We couldn’t risk lettin’ the horses an’ oxen feed outside. An’ we keep twenty guards watchin’ all night. Sometimes even then the Indians slip up on us. They did once, an’ if it hadn’t been for Jack, my dog here, we’d have been killed an’ scalped. . . . I—I lost my mother.”

  “Aw! She was killed?” burst out Tom, awed.

  “Yes. Shot right through. She sent me runnin’ after paw, who was out fightin’. An’ she died after we got back.”

  “I’m very sorry. I lost my mother, too. But not Indians. An’ I haven’t any dad, either.”

  Clint was won now. This Tom Sidel seemed likable, and, after all, he did not seem to possess the conceited and bragging traits that Clint had imagined he might.

  “Well, what you goin’ to do when we’re set on by Comanches or Kiowas?” went on Clint, dryly.

  “Do? Golly! like as not I’ll crawl under the wagon, or suthin’.”

  Whereupon Clint admitted Tom into the sanctity of his friendship.

  “Where you from?” asked Clint.

  “Lived in Chicago till last year, then went to my uncle’s in Iowa.”

  “City boy, huh?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t my fault.”

  “How about school?”

  “I’ve passed the Fourth Reader.”

  “Whew! You’re two years ahead of me. . . . Tom, I’ve got an idea. I’ll take you in hand on drivin’, shootin’, fightin’ Indians, work round camp. An’ you take me in hand on studies. I can do history, geography, grammar. But ’rithmetic stumps me. An’ I ought to learn a little ’rithmetic.”

  “It’s a bargain, Buff,” replied Tom, gladly. “But the debt will be all on my side.”

  Upon the return of the lads to camp, they happened on an important meeting between Couch and Major McLaughlin. The talk took place at Belmet’s tent, and the officer’s business was to arrange the hauling of government supplies to Fort Wise, Colorado.

  “Glad to take the job, Major. But I haul only under escort,” replied Couch.

  “I can’t spare soldiers just now.”

  “Sorry, sir. I won’t tackle thet job these days without escort. The Comanches are raidin’ an’ the K
iowas on the warpath.”

  “I could send a detachment to catch up with your train,” suggested McLaughlin.

  “I’ll not accept the contract unless I have a whole troop to start out with.”

  “All right, Couch. I’ll have to find soldiers. By the time you’re packed I’ll have them ready.”

  But he did not have them, and Couch refused for three days to start out unescorted. The frontiersmen upheld him, but the new freighters, unexperienced and eager to earn the high wages, wanted to risk it. But Couch was obdurate. At length a detachment of soldiers rode in from Fort Leavenworth, and next morning the caravan started.

  Clint had graduated now to a big freight wagon, and the prairie schooner was only a memory of the past. He discovered that he did not now think so often of his mother. The canvas-covered wagon was associated with her. On the high seat of the freighter Clint had as companion the only other boy in the caravan, Tom Sidel, and it was impossible for Clint not to share something of Tom’s wild excitement. The first day passed as had a single hour when he drove alone. Tom was full of possibilities. His looks were deceiving. And as the days multiplied Clint grew attached to this lad.

  The caravan, consisting of eighty wagons, crossed the Little Arkansas River, and then the Walnut, went on for a stop at Fort Zarah, then Bent’s old fort. During this period two bands of Indians rode up within sight, wild, swift riding, sinister, and colorful, and espying the long line of mounted soldiers, they wheeled away.

  When Tom Sidel saw his first hostile Indians he gripped Clint with both hands, and the freckles stood out brown on a very white face. He greeted sight of the second band with more courage, and after a creditable performance received a lecture on Indians from Clint. It presently occurred to Clint that in the event the caravan was attacked he would personally have a great deal to live up to. When the thought clarified in his mind, Clint ceased his masterly harangue.

  It took the caravan six weeks to reach Fort Wise. Here the soldiers at once departed on the return trip to Fort Leavenworth. This left Couch in a predicament. A wagon-train of supplies was ready for the trail, but no escort. He tarried there waiting, and trying to decide what to do.

  Fort Wise appeared to Clint identical with all the other forts on the plains, with the exception of Fort Larned. But to Tom Sidel it was the heaven of a lad’s adventurous dreams. Clint boldly led Tom everywhere and had many a laugh at his expense.

  That night Couch held a council with his men anent the disturbing predicament they were in. The feed around Fort Wise was scant and poor; the stock was getting gaunt. It was necessary to go somewhere, and Couch favored loading the heavy consignment of freight, much of it in valuable pelts, and starting back to Westport.

  “Wal, it’s an even break,” said the most experienced of the plainsmen. “We may miss redskins an’ then ag’in we may not.”

  “McLaughlin played me a dirty trick,” fumed Couch. “He must have ordered them soldiers to start back at once. . . . If we stay here much longer we’ll lose half our stock.”

  “You’re the boss,” was the cool comment of each freighter. No one would take the responsibility of advising a move without soldiers.

  Couch threw up his hands and swore roundly**

  “We’ll load an’ move!”

  Chapter Six

  GRAY plain, winding yellow road, scouts far out in front, wagging oxen and fretting horses, so Clint saw four long anxious days drag by.

  On the afternoon of the fifth day two dots appeared rising over the horizon. As it chanced, hawk-eyed Clint saw them first far to the south. They moved. Too high for buffalo! They were horses with riders coming fast. Clint shouted to the driver ahead and he shouted to the one before him; thus word quickly reached Couch and the scouts. No halt was ordered, but the wagons grew closer.

  The riders proved to be two white men, arriving on wet and heaving horses.

  “Whar’s your boss?” queried the spokesman of the two.

  “I’m Couch,” returned the boss. “Who are you an’ what do you want?”

  “My name’s Powell,” returned the other, hurriedly. “In charge of an emigrant train goin’ to Texas. There was fifty-six of us—thirty-four men, fourteen women, an’ eight children. Just at daybreak we was jumped by a bunch of Injuns. But we’d been lookin’ fer it. We’d spotted Injuns followin’ us fer days. We was ready, an’ we gave them such a hot fight thet they give it up. We seen your caravan an’ began pullin’ across country, an** we rode out ahead to see if you’d in camp an’ wait for our train to come up.”

  “Shore we will. Reckon you’ve got some casualties?”

  “Five dead an’ some hurt. I don’t know how many.”

  “Too bad, but you’re damn lucky. You’d better throw your outfit in with ours.”

  “Much obliged, boss. We’ll shore be glad to.”

  “Pull a circle,” yelled Couch to the drivers, and soon the wagons were wheeling round in the protective formation.

  While Clint was helping pitch their individual camp, Tom came running, his eyes wide, his red hair sticking up.

  “Buff, is it true?” he asked, excitedly. “Is there a wagon train comin’ that’s been fightin’ Injuns?”

  “Reckon it is, Tom. Our boss wouldn’t be campin’ for fun. An’ those two riders who come in an’ told us, they looked honest to me. But all the same you see the scouts out ridin’ on guard. We can’t be surprised.”

  Clint was not so excited as Tom, though just as anxious and curious. And he was among the first to see the Texas emigrant train come in sight on the rolling prairie. Then it took two hours for it to reach camp.

  The band had twenty-eight wagons, all new, good horses, a few yokes of oxen, and some mighty formidable-looking Texans. It was no wonder, Clint thought, that they had routed the Indians. The more Clint saw of Texans, the better he liked them. He had heard it said they were a long-legged, sandy-haired, close-mouthed, gun-throwing breed of men that made the best friends and worst enemies.

  Couch was ready for the wounded, with his chest of medicines, bandages, hot water, and the few instruments he used. He had a considerable skill for a layman, and as on other occasions he called on Clint to stand by.

  “Wash your hands clean, you owl-eyed buffalo-hunter,” he ordered Clint, who was watching the men helping the wounded from a wagon.

  Tom Sidel stood his ground, though the pale faces and bloody bandages manifestly affected him, but when they lifted out a little girl whose eyes were closed he fled.

  The little girl had an arrow wound in her leg above the knee. Two men, one of them young, also suffered from arrow wounds, one in the arm, the other in the shoulder. They were not serious and both men were joking. A fourth man had a bullet hole in his middle, about over his stomach. He was unconscious. Couch turned him over to see where the bullet had emerged, then he shook his head as if he could do nothing.

  The little girl opened her eyes and smiled wanly. She was not frightened.

  “Does it hurt bad, little lady?” inquired Couch as with big deft hands he removed the bloody rags.

  “Not now. . . . Am I goin’ to die—mister?” she whispered.

  “Die! Goodness! child, you ain’t bad hurt!” replied Couch, heartily. “You’re just cut a little.”

  “Honest Injun?” asked the child, hopefully.

  “Reckon the redskin who done this to you was a very dishonest Injun. But I know what you mean. Just shut your eyes, lass, while I wash an’ bind your cut.”

  “Boss, we couldn’t stop the bleedin’,” said the man who had lifted the girl down from the wagon. Evidently he was her father. The look in his eyes hurt Clint. What tortures these pioneers endured! Clint wondered if any of them realized, before starting out on the plains, what might be in store for them. Still, nothing could stop pioneers.

  “Wal, it’s only a flesh wound,” replied Couch, with satisfaction. “No artery cut. She’s weak an’ sick, but in no danger at all.”

  The father spoke grateful incoherent
words. When the girl’s wound had been attended to she was laid aside on blankets. She opened her eyes, smiled at Clint, and said it had not hurt much. Somehow she reminded him of little May Bell. The old pang twinged in Clint’s breast. Where was May and what was happening to her?

  When Couch had attended to the arrow wounds of the two men, the third, the one with the ugly bullet hole in his abdomen, had expired.

  Clint saw the Texans bury their six dead, and cut down two cottonwoods to roll over the single grave.

  Next day they joined Couch’s caravan and traveled with it as far as the Cimmaron Crossing. Then they asked for a map of the dry trail, so they could find water on their ninety mile cut-off, and despite Couch’s advice, continued their journey on to Texas. Clint waved to the children, with whom he had become friendly, until the wagons rolled over a ridge out of sight.

  “Humph! Wonder will I ever see any of them again!” soliloquized Clint. Meetings and separations on the plains were sudden, strange, and violent, but the more poignant for that.

  Tom Sidel had waved with Clint, affected in similar degree. “Buff,” he said, feelingly, “I don’t like the idee of you goin’ one way an’ me another.”

  Couch’s caravan had further good luck on this eastward trip. At Fort Larned they fell in with another wagon train of sixty-five freighters bound from Fort Union to Westport. They proceeded together, completing the long journey at the end of summer. Couch’s freighters had done well and were satisfied to continue. Then they went into winter camp on the Missouri River, not far out of Westport.

  Belmet and Tom’s uncle, John Sidel, joined forces on a deal for feed for horses and oxen. They bought two hundred acres of cornstalks from a man named Judson, and turned the stock in there. It became necessary, however, to guard the animals, and fetch them back to camp at night. There were twenty-five men in Belmet’s outfit. They built a large corral on the river bank, and by cautious guarding did not lose any stock to the thieves rampant in that section. Such labor, and the mending of wagons and some little hunting for meat in the brakes of the river bottom, kept the men busy all winter.