CHAPTER XVII
"'SPRESS FROM BENT'S"
Circling back to the river so as not to lose its guidance nor stray toofar out of the direct course, they reached its desolate banks atnightfall and camped at the base of a low hill on the top of which grewdense masses of greasewood. Zeb had shot a black-tailed deer on theirway to the river and their supper that night, so far as the meat wasconcerned, would have delighted the palate of an epicure. Cooked overthe hot, sputtering, short-lived greasewood, which constantly was added,and kept on the windward side of the blaze, the flavor of the meat wasvery little affected and they gorged, hunter-like, until they could eatno more; and partly smoked some of the remaining meat to have againstsome pressing need.
As the stream dwindled the nature of its banks and of the surroundingcountry changed, the vegetation steadily becoming more desert-like.White chalk cliffs arose like painted eyebrows from the tops of thebanks, where erosion had revealed them; loose and disintegratingsandstone lay about the broken plain in myriads of shapes. Stunted anddead cottonwoods added their touch to the general scene, leaning thisway and that, weird, uncanny, ghostlike. The drab sagebrush and thegreen fan of the palmetto became steadily more common, the latterfiguring largely in the daily life of the Mexicans, for its mashed,saponaceous roots provided them with their pulpy _amole_, which was anexcellent substitute for soap. Prickly pears, Spanish bayonets, massesof greasewood bushes and scattering fringes of short grama grasscompleted the carpeting of the desolate plain.
Doggedly they pushed on, thankful for the heavy rains of the last twodays, which had reached even here and left little pools of bad-tastingwater for themselves and their beasts. At noon they stopped and built afire of stunted cedar, for in daylight its telltale flames told nothing.They cooked another black-tailed deer, smoked some of the meat, and ranbullets until they had all of the latter they could possibly use. Onagain toward the Canadian until nightfall, lighting no fire, but eatingthe meat they had cooked at noon. They arranged a four-shift watch andpassed a peaceful night. In their range of vision were Raton Peak,Pike's Peak, and the Wet Mountain, that paradise for hunters; the twinSpanish Peaks with their caps of snow, and behind these toweringsentries loomed the sullen bulk of a great mountain range under a thinstreak of glittering white.
At any distance their appearance hardly would tell whether they werewhite hunters or Indians from Bent's, since their garb was a mixture ofboth and their skins so tanned, their hair so long as to cause gravedoubts. More than once in that country two white men have exchangedshots, each taking the other for an Indian. At Bent's Fort on theArkansas there were stray Indians from far-off tribes, and they dressedin what they could get; and at The Pueblo, that little trading postfarther up on the Arkansas, Indians and whites lived together andintermarried. Not one of the four but could speak more than one savagedialect; and Tom's three companions possessed an Indian vocabulary whichleft little to be desired. If it came to a test which might prove toosevere for him he could be dumb, and fall back on the sign language.
At last the Canadian was reached and passed, and Hank led themunerringly up the valley of a little feeding stream which poured itscrystal flood down the gorges of a mountain range now almost over theirheads. Coming to a rocky bowl scooped out of the sheer, overhanging wallat a bend, he built a fire of dry wood that was safely screened, andfrom his "possible" sack he took various leaves and stems and roots hehad collected on the way. Four white men looking more like Indians hadentered that little valley just before dusk. In the morning at dawn twowhite men, a Blackfoot and a Delaware, a hunting party from Bent's Fortwith messages for Bent's little Vermajo ranch, located in a mountainvalley, left the ravine and followed a little-used Ute trail that theirleader knew well. Hank wore the Blackfoot distinctive double part in hishair just above the forehead, the isolated tuft pulled down to thebridge of his nose, and fastened to his buckskin trousers were thinstrips of beadwork made by Blackfoot squaws.
The Mexican herder working for Bent uneasily watched them as they rodeup to his makeshift lean-to and demanded a change of horses, a report ofhis stewardship, and the use of his fire. They were not bad fellows andwere generous with their heavenly tobacco, and finally his uneasinesswore away and he gossiped with them while the night more and more shutin his lavish fire and seemed to soften the guttural polyglot of the twoIndians. The white men did most of the talking, as was usual, and couldmake themselves understood in the herder's bastard Spanish and theyanswered sociably his numerous questions. Had they heard of the great_Tejano_ army marching to avenge the terrible defeat inflicted by thebrave Armijo on their swaggering vanguard? It was the great subject fromthe upper end of the Valley of Taos to the last settlement along the RioGrande and the Pecos. The ignoble dogs of _Tejanos_ had basely murderedthe brave Mexican scouting party near the Cimarron Crossing of theArkansas. What could the _soldats_ of Mexico do, attacked in theirsleep? Most of the murdered _soldats_ had come from the Valley of Taos,which always had been friendly to Texas. Was it true that the _Tejanos_spit fire on dry nights and could kill a full-grown bull buffalo withtheir bare hands? Ah, they were devils and the sons of devils, those_Tejanos_; and at night all doors were tightly barred in the settlementsand strange Americans regarded with suspicion.
Some nights later, down the rough, steep sides of the Arroyo Hondo,through which trickled a ribbon of water from a recent rain, fourIndians rode carefully, leading two pack animals. They were twoArapahoes, a Blackfoot, and a Delaware, and they followed the ravine andsoon came in sight of the little mountain pasture, dotted with cedarbushes and sparsely covered with grass, which sloped gently down themountain side. In the fading twilight the so-called ranch stood vaguelyoutlined, the nature of its log and adobe walls indiscernible, its milland the still house looming vaguely over the main building against thedarker background of the slope. The faint smell of sour mash almost hidthe mealy odor of the grist mill; hogs grunted in the little corral bythe fenced-in garden, while an occasional bleating of sheep came fromthe same enclosure. Dark shapes moved over the cedar-brush pasture andthe frequent stamping of hoofs told they were either horses or mules.High up near the roof of the composite building were narrow oblongs offaint radiance, where feeble candle light shone through the littlesquares of gypsum, so much used in that country in place of windowglass. As the four newcomers smilingly looked at the comfortablebuilding the foot-compelling strains of a cheap violin squeaked andrasped resinously from the living quarters and a French-Canadian, farfrom home, burst ecstatically into song. Dreaming chickens cackledbriefly and a sleepy rooster complained in restrained indignation, whilethe rocky mountain side relayed the distant howl of a prowling coyote.
The leader drew the flap over the ultra-modern rifle in its sheath athis leg and glanced back at his companions.
"Wall," he growled, "hyar we air; we're plumb inter it, now."
"Up ter our scalp-locks," came a grunted reply.
"Hell! 'Tain't th' fust time they've been in danger. They'll stand alot o' takin'," chuckled another voice. He softly imitated a coyote andthe sleepy inmates of the hen house burst into a frightened chorus.
"Hain't ye got no sense?" asked Hank, reprovingly.
"Wouldn't be hyar if I had. I smell sour mash. Let's go on."
Hank kneed his mount, no longer the one which had become so well knownto many eyes on the long wagon trail, and led the way down to the door.At the soft confusion of guttural tongues outside the house the dooropened and Turley, the proprietor, stood framed in the dim light behindhim.
"'Spress from Senor Bent's," said the nearest Indian, walking forward."It's Hank Marshall," he whispered. "Want ter palaver with ye, Turley."
"Want's more whiskey, I reckon," growled Turley. "Hobble yer hosses onth' pasture. Ye kin roll up 'most anywhar ye like. Fed yit?"
"_Si, senor; muchos gracias_," answered the Indian. "_Senor! cary muchoaguardiente grano!_"
"Oh, ye do?" sarcastically replied Turley. "Whiskey, huh? Wall, ye'll dobetter without it. What's Bent want
o' me?"
"_Aguardiente de grano, senor!_"
Turley chuckled. "He does, hey? I say he picks damned poor messengers tosend fer whiskey! We'll talk about that tomorrow. Roll up some'rs in yerblankets an' don't pester me." He stepped back and the door slammed inthe eager, pleading face of the Blackfoot, to a chorus of disappointedgrunts. The rebuffed savage timidly knocked on the door and it was flungopen, Turley glaring down at him. "Ye heard what I said, an' ye savviedit! Reckon I want four drunk Injuns 'round hyar all night? We ain'ta-goin' ter have no damned nonsense. Take yer animals off ter th'pasture an' camp down by th' crick! _Vamoose!_"
The picture of pugnacity, he stood in the door and watched them slowly,sullenly obey him, and then he slammed it again, swearing under hisbreath. "Quickest way ter git murdered is ter give them Injuns likker!"he growled.
"_Mais, oui_," said the French-Canadian, placing his fiddle back underhis chin, and the stirring air went on again.
Three hours before dawn Hank awoke and without moving his body let hiseyes rove over the dark pasture. Then like a flash of light his heavypistol jammed into the dark blotch almost at his side, and he growled athroaty inquiry.
"It's me, Hank," came the soft reply. "Take that damned thing away!What's up?"
Three other pairs of eyes were turned on them and then their ownersstirred a little and grunted salutations, and made slight rustlings astheir hands replaced what they had held.
"Nothin', only a courtin' party," chuckled Hank.
"Wall, I've heard tell o' courtin' parties," ruminated Turley; "butnever one made up like Injuns and armed to th' teeth. Might know somedamned fool thing war afoot when yer mixed up in it. Who ye courtin', atyer time o' life? Somebody's wife?"
"We're aimin' fer Santer Fe," said Hank. "Got ter have help ter git tharth' way we wants. Them Texans has made it hard fer us, a-stirrin' upeverythin' like they has."
"Whar'd ye git yer hosses?" anxiously demanded Turley.
"Inderpendence, Missoury," innocently answered Hank, his grin lost inthe darkness.
"Then ye come over th' wagon trail, an' up th' Arkansas?"
"Over th' wagon trail an' up th' Cimarron, with th' second caravan o'traders. Come nigh straight acrost from Cold Spring."
"Wall, I'll be damned!" muttered Turley. Then he snorted. "Ain't ye gotno sense, ye Root Digger? Everybody in th' train'll know them hosses!"
"We swapped 'em at Bent's rancho on th' Vermajo--good gosh! Two o' 'emcome from them Texans!"
"They didn't have no brands," said Tom. "I heard 'em say somethin' aboutgettin' some at Bent's. We got ter risk it, anyhow. It'll be like addin'a spoonful o' freight ter a wagon load."
Hank's mind was running in a groove that he had been gouging deeper andlonger hour after hour and he refused to be sidetracked by any questionconcerning the horses they had changed. "We want ter swap hosses ag'inan' borry some rags fer clothes; an' before daylight, too."
Tom arose on one elbow. "That's all right, fur's it goes; only it don'tgo no-whar," he declared. "We want ter git rid o' these hosses, an' wewant th' clothes; but that ain't all. We want a job, Turley. Need anymule wranglers ter take some freight inter Santer Fe?"
"Day after tomorrow," answered Turley. "We got ter git rid o' theseanimals afore then, ye got ter git shet o' 'em afore mornin'. I'll sendJacques out ter take 'em away as soon as I go back ter th' house. Arterhe leaves with 'em I'll bring ye some ol' clothes so ye'll look a littledifferent from them four fools that swapped hosses at Bent's rancho. Th'peon up thar won't git away, nor mebby see nobody fer weeks; but webetter take th' pelt afore th' meat spiles under it. I got some hossesth' Utes stole from th' 'Rapahoes. We stole 'em from th' Utes. Theyain't marked, an' they ain't knowed down in th' valley."
"But we'll still be four," commented Tom, thoughtfully.
"That's shore a plain trail," said Jim Ogden. "Here: You an' Hank take amule apiece an' go back th' way we come, fur a spell. Me an' Zeb kinfreight whiskey with Turley's _atejo_, an' meet ye along th' trailsome'rs, or in Santer Fe, at th' warehouse. Ye kin load yer mules withfaggots ter be sold in town, an' tag onter our mule train fer societyan' pertection. Yer rifles kin be hid under th' faggots."
"We'll be unpackin' th' mules noon an' night," replied Tom. "How 'boutour rifles then?"
"Can't be did," grunted Hank.
"We got ter risk that peon seein' anybody ter talk to," said Tom."Anyhow, 'tain't nothin' unusual fer him ter see fellers from th' fort.We'll go on with th' _atejo_, after we make a few changes in ourclothes, an' ride Turley's hosses 'stead o' Bent's. But we can't jinethat mule train as no party o' four. We got ter lose that danged number,that's flat."
"You an' Hank," offered Zeb, "bein' Blackfoot an' Delaware, kin behunters from Bent's; me an' Jim, bein' 'Rapahoes turned friendly, kincome from St. Vrain's post. Th' South Platte, up thar, is th' 'Rapahoestampin' ground an' we both know it from one end to t'other. That'llcount fer all o' us havin' first-class weapons. Somebody's shore goin'ter notice them."
Turley nodded. "Yes; hyar's whar ye lose that cussed four. You two'Rapahoes git scarce afore daylight, goin' on foot an' leavin' no trail.Come back from th' way o' th' old Ute trail from th' Bayou Salade. I'mrunnin' a little herdin' up o' my hosses on th' side o' th' mounting;they're scatterin' in th' brush too much. Fer that I'll be needin' allmy men that ain't goin' as muleteers. I'll hire you boys, two at a time,ter go 'long with th' _atejo_ as guards. Thar's thieves atween hyar an'Santer Fe that likes Turley's whiskey an' ground meal. I'll give ye awritin' ter my agent in town to pay ye off, an' ye'll git through, allright. Do ye reckon ye'll have ter git outer Santer Fe on th' jump?Seein' as how yer so danged careful how ye git inter th' town, it may bethat ye ain't welcome a hull lot. Knowin' Hank like I do, makes mesuspicious."
"We'll mebby git out quicker'n scat," answered Tom, chuckling. "They'llmebby be touchy about strangers, with them Texans prowlin' 'round. If wegit ter goin' strong as a Texan raid an' they find out that it's onlyfour no-'count Injuns full o' Taos lightnin', they'll mebby move fast.We may make quite a ruckus afore we git through, if they find out who weair."
"What th' hell ye aimin' ter do? Capture th' town?" demanded Turley,unable to longer hold down his curiosity.
"Aimin' ter git our trade goods money, see a young lady, hang 'roundtill th' return caravan start back fer th' States, an' mebby squar upfer a few o' them Texans that _didn't_ git ter Mexico City," answeredTom.
"This hyar's th' Tom Boyd that slapped Armijo's kiyote face," explainedHank. "We hears th' Governor is lonesome fer his company."
"Great Jehovah yes!" exclaimed Turley. "Boyd, ye better jine that tharcaravan from Bent's, meetin' up with it at th' Crossin'. Armijo combedthese hyar mountings fer ye, an' watched my rancho fer nigh a week. He'd'most give his right hand ter git a-holt o' you; an' if he does, you kinguess what'll happen ter you!" He peered curiously at the young Americanand shook his head. "I'm bettin' ye _do_ leave on th' jump, if yer luckyenough ter leave at all. Ye'll need fresh hosses, another change o'clothes an' a cache o' grub. Tell ye what," he said, turning to Hank."Ye know that little mounting valley whar you an' me stopped fer twodays, that time we war helpin' find th' hosses that war run off Bent'sVermajo rancho? Wall, I'll fix it so these hyar hosses will be waitin'fer ye up thar. I got some men I kin trust as long as I'm playin' agin'th' greasers. I'll cache ye some Dupont an' Galena, too," he offered,referring to powder and lead. The latter came from Galena, Illinois,and took its name from that place.
"An' forty pounds o' jerked meat a man," added Hank. "We might have tergo clean up ter th' South Park afore we dast turn fer Bent's. Hang it onthat thar dead ash we used afore, or clost by if th' tree's down. Webetter leave ye some more bullets as will fit our own weapons without nodoubt. We kin run more in th' warehouse in Santer Fe if we need 'em.Keep yer Galena, Turley, an' leave some patches, instid, along with ourbullets."
"But we'll still be four arter we leave hyar," objected Jim.
"No, ye won't," replied Turley. "Ye'll show up in pairs,
ye'll jine inpairs, ye'll ride an' 'sociate in pairs, an' thar'll be a dozen moremixin' up with ye. Wall, talk it over among ye while I gits busy aforeit's light," and the friendly rancher was swallowed up in the night.
A few minutes later Jacques, sleepy and grumbling, loomed up out of thedarkness, collected the six horses and departed up the slope. Shortlyafter him came Turley with a miscellaneous collection of odds and endsof worn-out clothing and soon his friends had exchanged a garment or twowith him. Tom and Hank parted with their buckskin shirts and now worecoarse garments of Pueblo make; Zeb had a Comanche leather jerkin andJim wore a blue cotton shirt patched with threadbare red flannel. Theybound bands of beadwork or soft tanned skin around their foreheads, andHank's hair proudly displayed two iridescent bronze feathers from thetail of a rooster. If Joe Cooper, himself, had come face to face withthem he would have passed by without a second glance.
Silently Zeb and Jim melted into the night, while Tom and Hank arose andwent around to the wall of the still house, rolled up in theirnewly-acquired blankets against the base of the adobe wall and sleptuntil discovered and awakened after dawn by one of Turley's mill hands,who paid them a timid and genuine respect.
They loafed around all day, watching the still house with eager eyes.Their wordless pleading was in vain, however, for Turley, franklyscowling at their first appearance, totally ignored them thereafter.Just before dusk two half-civilized Arapahoes from St. Vrain's SouthPlatte trading post swung down the mountain side, cast avaricious eyeson some horses in the pasture, sniffed deeply at the still house, andasked for whiskey.
"I'll give ye whiskey," said Turley after a moment's thought, a grinspreading over his face, "but I won't give it ter ye hyar. If ye wantlikker I'll give ye a writin' ter my agent in Santer Fe, an' he'll giveye all yer porous skins kin hold, an' a jug ter take away with ye."
"_Si, senor! Si, senor! Muchos gracias!_"
"Hold on thar! Hold yer hosses!" growled Turley. "Ye don't reckon I'mmakin' ye no present, do ye? Ye got ter earn that likker. If ye want itbad enough ter escort my _atejo_ ter th' city, it's yourn. I'm combin'my hosses outer th' brush, an' I'm short-handed. By gosh!" he chuckled,smiling broadly.
"Thar's a couple more thirsty Injuns 'round hyar, some'rs; hey, Jacques!Go find them watch dogs o' th' still house. They won't be fur away, youkin bet. These two an' them shore will scare th' thieves plumb ter deathall th' way ter town. I kin feel _my_ ha'r move!"
Jacques returned shortly with Bent's thirsty hirelings, and after somenegotiations and the promise of horses for them to ride, the Indiansaccepted his offer. They showed a little reluctance until he had giveneach of them a drink of his raw, new whiskey, which seemed to serve asfuel to feed a fire already flaming. The bargain struck, he ordered themfed and let them sleep on the softest bit of ground they could findaround the rancho.