It was the middle of November, 1840; and across the sandy face of southwestern Kansas was toiling, outward bound from Missouri, a Santa FÉ caravan: fifty-two huge, creaking canvas-topped wagons, drawn each by six or eight span of mules or yoke of oxen.

In this day the so-called foreign government of Mexico extended north through New Mexico to the Arkansas River in Colorado and southwestern Kansas. The United States stopped at the Rocky Mountains; and, moreover, from Missouri to the Rockies all was “Indian Country” and the “Great American Desert.” From Missouri extended two long roads or trails, separating like a “V” with its point near present Kansas City. Up the Platte River, for the Northwest, ran the old trappers’ and fur-traders’ trail, now being made the Oregon Trail of emigrants. Up the Arkansas River, for the Southwest, ran the trail of the Santa FÉ caravans. The desolate, unimproved Great American Desert was like a sea; and across this sea sailed, spring and fall, upon an 800 mile voyage, fleets of American wagons, to trade with the capital of northern Mexico.

They took out cargoes of calico, powder, lead, flour, shoes, and such American products; they brought back, at profit in money and at loss in life, cargoes of furs, hides, gold, gay blankets and such Mexican products.

This caravan of November, 1840, with its fifty-two wagons and harnessed teams, had at the beginning of the journey stretched out in a line almost a mile of length. Each wagon had a teamster. Some of the teamsters straddled the near animal of the wheel span (the span next to the wagon); others, in their boots and flannel shirts and broad hats, walked beside the wagon; horsemen, escort to the wagon-captain, who was the boss of the train, led the march, reconnoitering ahead; other horsemen paced at right and left; and at the rear of all, upon an old mule, driving a collection of loose horses and mules, rode a ragged little boy—Oliver Wiggins.

This was Oliver’s place—in the dust, at the tail of the long caravan. His duty was to herd the “cavvy,” as was styled for short the caballada (Spanish for horse-herd). His pay was five dollars a month, and the fun and the glory, and the work, of fifty days’ travel, at the rate of fifteen miles a day, across the plains of sand and sage, buffalo and antelope, hunger and thirst, storm and Indians, to strange far-off Santa FÉ.

At first the march had been very pleasant. The caravan sometimes had spread out over the prairie in formation of four abreast. By day the teamsters had sung and cracked their long whips, beside the wagons; by night they had sung and told stories, beside the camp-fires. Everybody had been happy. But within the last two days the atmosphere had changed; for there had come riding fast, on the homeward way from Mexico, two traders, and had left the word, with the captain:

“Watch sharp! The Kiowas are out!”

That was enough. Quickly through the caravan spread the news—“The Kiowas are out!” All carelessness, all singing, ceased; and the order of march was made double file or two abreast, so that in case of attack the wagons could swing to right and left and quickly join in a great circle.

The Kiowas! The fiercest fighting Indians of the Southwest plains were they, outrivalled by neither Pawnee nor Comanche. Their name was terrible to the Santa FÉ traders. Their range was southwestern Kansas and southeastern Colorado, thence south into the dread Comanche country below the Arkansas. When the caravan had left Missouri, the Kiowas were said to be at peace; but now they were said, on good authority, to be not at peace, and well might Wagon-Captain Blunt worry. He had a lot of green teamsters, poorly armed with old smooth-bore yagers; and whether, if given time to form a circle of wagons, they could beat off the painted warriors, he did not know.

Holding the rear of all, boy Oliver Wiggins, aged thirteen, left to the dust and the shuffling loose stock (defenseless beasts, a prize for the Indians), also well might worry. He wished now that he had not run away from home; and he began to wonder whether, after all, his pistol, about the size of the palm of his hand, was large enough. This pistol had seemed to him weapon in plenty for fighting Indians, in Missouri; but the farther from Missouri he journeyed, and the more stories he heard, the smaller the pistol grew.

Here in southwestern Kansas of to-day the Santa FÉ Trail veered south, beyond the Great Bend of the river, to cross and to head for the Cimarron Desert and for New Mexico. This, the Crossing of the Arkansas, was half way to Santa FÉ; but the half already covered was the easy half, the half to come was the dry, thirsty half, and the Kiowa and Comanche half.

Through the shallow water and the quick-sands forged the wagons of the Blunt caravan, upon the farther bank to halt, for camp and to fill the water-casks. The sun was low and red in the west, the long, high white-hooded wagons had been parked in the customary circle, outside the circle camp-fires were curling, pots were bubbling, meat was hissing, and before each camp tethered animals were grazing; sentries had been posted, and boy Oliver, hungry and grimy, was guarding his browsing cavvy, when a sudden commotion struck the peaceful scene. A sentinel upon a sand-hill fired his gun to signal “Injuns! Injuns!” and rushed like wild-fire the word. Every teamster sprang to round up his picketed team, or to help collect the oxen; the sentries came in at a gallop; and men sped to help Oliver with the cavvy. Through the opening left in the circle of wagons poured men and animals, from outside to inside. And against the sunset glow could be descried a long file of black mounted figures, approaching at rapid trot.

However, Captain Blunt, viewing them by spyglass, shouted thankfully:

“Not Injuns, men! Whites! Look like traders.”

Whereupon a sigh of relief swept the tense cordon.

The cordon did not dare yet to open out again; nevertheless, as the riders across the rolling sand-hills neared, they were seen by the naked eye to be whites indeed. They resolved into a double file of horsemen: trapper-clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggins, in broad-brimmed hats, in moccasins, and every man carried across his saddle-horn a tremendously long rifle.

“Mountain-men! Trappers!” announced Teamster “Dutch” Jake, in Oliver’s hearing. “Now if we only had them with us——!”

“They’re the chaps to make the Injuns stand ’round,” agreed another. And many a head nodded.

The cavalcade was within gun-shot. A man riding alone was leader; and as on they came, at the steady, fast “rack” or single-foot, straight for the camp, he held up his hand, palm outward, in a peace sign.

“High jinks! I know that man!” exclaimed “Dutch” Jake. And he added: “If it only be, now.”

Captain Blunt and two or three of his lieutenants, carrying their guns, walked outside a few steps to meet this leader. The conversation was wafted clearly through the still, dry air, while all the camp listened.

“Howdy?”

“Howdy?”

“Who’s yore captain?” This from the horseman.

“I’m the captain.” This from Blunt.

“Wall, my name’s Kit Carson. We’ve come over from Touse to ride the trail through Kiowa country, with anybody that needs us. S’pose you know the Kiowas air bad?”

“So we’ve heard. And we’re mighty glad to see you, Mr. Carson,” declared Captain Blunt, reaching up and shaking hands heartily.

Kit Carson! Kit Carson! The name passed from lip to lip around the wagon cordon; and a hundred eyes were fastened eagerly upon the spot where now this leader squatted beside a fire, as guest and counsellor of Captain Blunt.

The others in the party (which numbered about forty) had unsaddled like lightning, had turned their horses out, under a guard, and starting fires or gnawing strips of jerked meat were making their own camp near at hand. Darkly tanned, long-haired, broad-shouldered men were they, the majority heavily bearded. They moved lithely in moccasins, their buckskin suits were patched and stained, they scarcely stirred without rifle in hollow of arm, their belts bore pistol or pair of pistols, and knife; their talk was a curious jargon, but very expressive, and they themselves were exceedingly business-like.

But the wonderful Kit Carson, famous hunter and Indian fighter—was that really he? Of course, everybody on the Santa FÉ Trail knew about Kit Carson, the free-trapper and captain of trappers, who as merely a boy had made such a name for himself in the mountains and who recently had come out of them, to live at Fernandez de Taos and to supply meat for Bent’s Fort, north. Ere leaving the Missouri frontier little Oliver had heard of Kit Carson as though he were ten feet tall and four feet wide, and bore a pine-tree for a club; but now little Oliver beheld an ordinary-looking person, not much taller than himself and not nearly so tall as many of the other trappers; with wiry body, bandy legs, flat features, and a voice so ridiculously low that his present conversation with Captain Blunt did not carry beyond the camp-fire light.

Murmured comment by teamsters, here and there among the wagons, showed to Oliver that he was not alone in his disappointment.

“That’s Kit Carson, is it?”

“That leetle feller, with the captain yon?”

“Wall, naow, I thought Kit Carson war some punkins!”

“A big Injun’s liable to pick him right up!”

“Whar’s his whiskers?”

But Dan Matthews, Captain Blunt’s first lieutenant, came hurrying, from point to point in the circle.

“Turn out your critters, men; and you guards post yourselves as before. Lively. There’s likely no danger to-night, Carson says; but keep your eyes and ears open, jest the same.”

“Is that thar reely Kit Carson—that leetle chap?” queried Teamster Henry, as the camp bustled to resume its routine.

“Yes.”

Henry grunted.

“Wall, he’s the smallest pea for the amount of pod ever I see!”

“Don’t you be fooled, Henry,” retorted Lieutenant Matthews. “You wait a bit, and if you don’t find that he’s got the biggest do for the size of his tell that ever you ran across, I’ll eat my hat.”

“That’s right,” affirmed “Dutch” Jake, overhearing. “Brag’s a good dog but he won’t fight; an’ you mustn’t jedge a race-hoss by the color of his hide. You’re seeing one Kit Carson, a gentle-speaking, mild-appearing, sort o’ nincompoop who you might think didn’t know beans. But there’s another Kit Carson, half hoss an’ half alligator, as they say on the Mississippi, or half grizzly b’ar an’ half charging elk, as I say; an’ I reckon you’ll see him, too, ’fore we’re through Injun country.”

These words of “Dutch” Jake impressed Oliver deeply, for Jake spoke as if he knew. At any rate, ’twas pleasant to have the reinforcements: to watch their easy figures, to hear their voices, to stroll through their camp and catch their conversation, to note their fringed, beaded clothing, their worn weapons, and their wildly shaggy faces; and to feel their presence, so handy, when in the darkness the fires died and both camps went to sleep.

All the next day the march proceeded, southward from the Arkansas, amidst sand hills and sparse vegetation. The trappers from Taos rode in a line along either side of the train, with scouts ahead and out upon the flanks. The men of the train laughed and talked, bantering back and forth. And behind, in the reek of the procession, boy Oliver, ragged and upon his old mule, driving the cavvy, strained eye and ear to keep tab upon what was being done and said. At the noon camp he had opportunity to scan, close by daylight, Kit Carson again.

Kit Carson proved to have a square face, rugged and weather-beaten, with sandy moustache, and framed in long brown hair combed smoothly down behind the ears. His cheek-bones were high, somewhat Indian-like, his forehead was high and full, his mouth straight and his chin firm. His most remarkable feature was his eyes—wide apart, level-set, and of an intense steely gray that fairly bored a hole where they looked. His movements were quick and sure; and how he stuck to a horse!

Oliver the more believed that “Dutch” Jake and Lieutenant Matthews both knew better than Henry and the other grumblers. Something about Kit Carson said so.

Despite the rough joking, the march was an earnest one. No straggling was permitted, to shoot antelope or elk. Yet the day was not uneventful, for once a great brown-bearded man—his beard reaching almost to his belt—who was Solomon Silver, a Carson man, dropping back, rode beside the cavvy until, having good-naturedly eyed Oliver, he joined him, to query, perhaps as a joke:

“Wall, boy; what’d ye reckon to do if the Injuns come down sudden?”

“I’d fight ’em,” said Oliver, bravely. “Here’s my pistol. See?”

“Haw! Haw!” boomed Sol Silver the trapper, in a rousing laugh; and behind his beard he chuckled. “That’s right, boy. Let’s see that shooting-iron o’ yorn,” and he laid it in the palm of his scarred hand. “No use o’ Kit an’ us a-riding the trail, when this air riding it too. I’ll tell him. ’Spec’ if you shoot an Injun with this, son, an’ he gets to find out, he’d be powerful mad at ye! But thar, boy; do yore best. Hyar’s ’nother kind o’ pistol. Ever see one?” And he pulled it from his buffalo-hide belt.

“No,” confessed Oliver.

It was an odd-looking pistol, with long barrel and a round bulge between barrel and stock.

“That air a pistol to shoot six times without reloading,” declared Sol. “It has one barrel an’ six chambers, in this cylinder; the barrel stays put, but the cylinder turns ’round, with a fresh load ready, whenever trigger air pulled. Wagh! It air made by a man named Colt, in the States; it air called Colt, but it air a full-size hoss.”

“Have you all got them?” asked Oliver.

“All we Carson men have ’em, an’ percussion-cap rifles, to boot. When Kit Carson goes into a fight, he goes in to win, an’ the best weapons air none too good for his men. We air Carson men.” Sol proclaimed this with a certain degree of pride.

“Will the Kiowas attack us, sure?” invited Oliver.

“’Bout to-morrow, Kit thinks. When they do, you give us fellows a chance ’fore you open up with yore battery an’ take all the scalps.”

But Oliver suspected that Sol was joking again. Still, he liked this jovial, burly Sol Silver, and hoped that he would tell Kit Carson.

Nothing especial happened this night in camp, save that Captain Blunt and lieutenants passed about, examining all the guns and asking if powder-horns were full. But at the breaking of camp, in the dawn, when the wagons were forming to pull out in the double-column, something very especial happened. Behold, into every wagon climbed a trapper or two, and stowed themselves safely away amidst the goods under the protective canvas hoods! Just a corner of the canvas was left looped up a few inches, as if for air.

Now throughout the caravan eddied a gale of jeer and derision and protest.

“This is the way they ride the trail with us, is it!”

“These ain’t mountain-men; they’re gophers!”

“Have we got to haul ’em an’ fight for ’em, both?”

Even Kit Carson had disappeared, for cover. But no response was made by the trappers; Captain Blunt and his assistants bade the teamsters “Ketch up!” and straighten out, for the march; and two by two on rolled the wagons, the teamsters angry, the trappers comfortably inside, and the trappers’ horses tethered to the end-gates.

The action on the part of the trappers seemed as strange to boy Oliver as it did to the teamsters. Was that how Kit Carson men battled—by hiding behind other men, and by crawling under cover and making the people they were pretending to defend fight outside? Humph! Maybe this wasn’t Kit Carson, after all.

The sand-hills were increasing in number and extent; dusty and dry was the way but nobody could drink, for it was against orders to drink out of the casks, or to fill canteens except once a day. The “dry march” of over fifty miles was beginning, and sometimes water gave out before it was traversed. So every drop must be cherished.

With the hot sun about two hours high the caravan was entering upon a long, rather narrow swale leading between rounded sand-ridges whereon only cactus and a few sprawly weeds grew. Captain Blunt and several other riders were in advance; out upon the right flank, and somewhat in advance rode Lieutenant Dan Matthews and two men, and similarly upon the left flank rode another wagon-train lieutenant. They climbed hill after hill, and ridge after ridge, and surveyed closely the country. As a rear-guard, behind even Oliver, rode a squad of half-a-dozen traders and free-lances. Thus the caravan was apparently well provided against surprise; and as evidently the Kiowas were thought to be near at hand, the rear-guard gave Oliver a more comfortable feeling.

If the train must take care of itself, with those trappers cravenly putting greater store on their own hides than on the purpose for which they had pretended to join, then the more precautions the better.