Fain would the FrÉmont and Carson men have taken the war trail and have avenged the murder of their comrade; but their horses and mules were crippled, the country was vast and strange, they must push onward to safety. So they headed, as before, into the northward. Amidst the general mutterings of anger and bated revenge Kit Carson it was who remarked, quietly:

“Wall, the Good Book says something about reaping whar we have sowed. White men did the fust killing, when the Joe Walker party shot down these hyar same Diggers, on the march across from the Salt Lake in Thirty-three. Now thar’s war, an’ thar ever will be, an’ the white man air to blame, but the Injun’ll suffer most.”

The country grew better, in appearance; cedars and pines flourished upon the hills, birds were present, and before uplifted snowy mountains of a loftier range. At the Vegas de Santa Clara, or the Meadows of Santa Clara, near to the Virgin River, the company were in southwestern Utah.

The FrÉmont and Carson company could delay only a day at the pleasant Meadows. Soon after leaving the camping place they noted a moving cloud of dust on the trail behind; out of the dust cloud evolved hurrying figures—a little squad of horsemen.

“Whites!” pronounced Kit, at once. “Americans, too—an’ ride like trappers.” And—“If that airn’t old Joe Walker, leading ’em, I’ll eat him,” he added.

The pursuing squad, nine riders, and several pack-animals, drew on at fast trot. The foremost was a horseman splendidly large of stature, with plentiful gray whiskers covering cheeks and chin. He threw up his hand in salute; Kit and the lieutenant answered in kind.

“Hello, Kit,” he called.

“Hello, Joe. Whar you bound?”

He had arrived, and pulled short.

“Jest looking for company. Saw your sign down the trail, an’ started on to overtake ye.”

“Wall, you’ve done it,” commented Kit, coolly. Whereupon he introduced to one another the lieutenant and Captain Joe Walker, mountain-man, trapper, trader, guide.

The captain had started from Los Angeles with the annual main caravan for Santa FÉ. Seeing the trail of the FrÉmont and Carson company, with eight men, Americans all, he boldly had set out, across the desert, to catch the expedition. That was just like old Joe Walker, Kit Carson afterwards declared. They had fought with the Diggers, killing two and in turn receiving wounds among the horses; and here they were.

For such a fighter and adventurer Captain Joe Walker bore a singularly mild, although determined visage, from which clear blue eyes peered out, above the whiskers. Oliver was attracted by him at once, and was glad when he heard him agree to guide the company across the mountains, ahead. He had made a specialty of the Great Basin and the approaches to it, and had traded much among the Utes, whose country bordered it on the east of the Salt Lake. Therefore the region now toward the northeast was familiar to him.

In central Utah the Old Spanish Trail turned short, and east and southeast ran down for Santa FÉ. This would be the direct route for Taos and even for Bent’s Fort; but the lieutenant wished to visit a lake called Utah Lake, near to the Salt Lake; thence cross the mountains back of the Salt Lake and working over to the head of the Arkansas River, follow it down to Bent’s Fort. The Californians AndrÉs Fuentes and Pablo the boy decided to stay with the company, instead of going direct to Santa FÉ.

So from the turn of the Old Spanish Trail the course was still northward, with the Wasatch Mountains (the same which skirted on the east the Great Salt Lake) snowy at the right. They were greeted as friends; good they looked to Kit Carson and the other mountain-men.

The Sevier River barred the way. In California a river, barring, had been crossed by means of hides removed from freshly slaughtered cattle and stretched upon sticks. The FrÉmont and Carson company now had no cattle left; but undefeated, out of bundles of bulrushes they fashioned sharp-pointed rafts.

At this crossing, of the Sevier River, central Utah, May 23, 1844, was killed by accident FranÇois Badeau, who shot himself through the head in drawing toward him his gun, muzzle first. He was buried upon the bank of the stream, and there are his bones, to-day. He, too, had paid the adventurer’s price, as well as, in his case, the price of foolishness. The muzzle of a gun always is dangerous.

Lovely Utah Lake unfolded to the view. It was the property of the Ute or Utah Indians, who made of it their fishing preserve.

Only some thirty miles to the north, and connected by a river was the Great Salt Lake where in the previous September the company had encamped. Therefore had they almost completed an immense circle of 3300 miles, and after nearly nine months they were within thirty miles of the starting point.

Nevertheless, they had not crossed the Great Basin; they had only skirted it, seeking an entrance. However, even the veteran Joe Walker could give little definite information upon that unknown interior.

“No, sir; I never have been into the desert, west o’ here,” he declared, to the lieutenant. “I’ve been in by north, along the Mary’s River, an’ I’ve been in by south, along the Spanish Trail; but not by the middle. The Diggers can tell little. But I’m pretty sure o’ one thing: there are no rivers flowing out, to any sea. The desert has its own system o’ lakes an’ rivers. It’s evaporation that drains the basin, an’ not outflowing. There’s no Buenaventura, sir.”

“I believe so, myself,” agreed the lieutenant. “I’ve prepared what I shall report; namely: ‘The Great Basin: four hundred miles long, five hundred miles wide, surrounded by lofty mountains; contents almost unknown, but believed to be rivers and lakes which have no communication with the sea, deserts and oases which have never been explored, and animals and savage tribes which no traveller has seen.’ Next time I hope to go into it, and fathom some of its mysteries. We shall be better prepared. A good place to strike next time is right through this gap of thirty miles; say by way of the south end of the Salt Lake.”

“When do you calculate to make the trip?” queried Captain Walker.

“Next spring and summer. Kit has promised to come. Do you think you will be free, captain? We’ll need a good guide for the desert; I’d like to engage you.”

“I’ll do it,” said the captain.

Entrancing to-day is this Utah Lake, of fresh water lying blue between the snowy Wasatch and the hazy Oquirrh or Squirrel Ranges, with the Great Salt Lake showing silver sheen amidst the lowlands to the west of north. When on May 25 the FrÉmont and Carson company arrived, two villages of Utes were encamped by the lake, waiting for the fish to ascend into the rivers. These fish were salmon-trout, but not so large and so tasty as the salmon-trout of the Pyramid Lake, far across the desert.

Attractive though the spot was, the FrÉmont and Carson company must not linger; the Utes were greedy and troublesome, the trail yet was long, for more than a year the lieutenant had been cut off from news of home, well-nigh for a year Kit had not heard from his bride.

Under guidance of Captain Walker, up the Spanish Fork River which from eastward enters the Utah Lake they journeyed, and from the head of the Spanish Fork River north into the Uintah country of present northeastern Utah. Here, latitude 40° 27' 45, longitude 109° 56' 42, at the first forks of the Uintah River, above where it empties into the mighty Green, was the fur-trading post of Fort Uintah, whose owner, lean, swarthy Antoine Roubideau, or Robidoux, was a Taos man.

At Fort Uintah was enrolled by the lieutenant Auguste Archambeau, a Canadian Frenchman, who wished to go on to Missouri, and who enlisted as a hunter. Auguste speedily made himself a favorite, for he was well built, cheerful, and a mountain-man equal to Alexander Godey.

On through rich mountain country, along the borderline of northwestern Colorado and southwestern Wyoming, rode the company; as they went, feasting upon buffalo, for the hunters’ rifles were ever busy. In the morning of June 13 the Continental Divide of the Rockies was topped, and with a cheer all hailed a little stream trickling for the east. This was the Atlantic Slope of the continent; it was the United States.

Flowers bloomed, aspens quivered, grass and bush spread fresh and green, clear and cold ran the streams, and on every side grazed buffalo, elk, and antelope. South through the North Park of Colorado turned the march, and down into Middle Park, where rise the waters of the Grand River flowing west to join with the Green.

But although glorious appeared the landscape, and “fat” it was with game, Utes, Arapahoe and Sioux made of it a battle-ground; therefore the march must be cautious. Each night the camp was fortified; by day scouts were thrown out, ahead, from high places to examine the country.

The road was one made by buffalo, but it also was one used by the Indians; and according to the moccasins found upon it, and the traces of lodge-poles, an Arapahoe village must be travelling, before. The lieutenant and Kit and all hoped that a meeting might be avoided; but on the morning of June 18 Archambeau and Godey, among the scouts ahead, from a butte shook a blanket, as signal of Indians in sight!

“Close up, close up!” warned the lieutenant and Joe Walker; and in response to the word transmitted adown the line Thomas Fitzpatrick hastened his pack-train. The flankers drew in a little; and at faster pace proceeded the company, as a hollow square, animals in centre.

“Thar they come,” announced Kit. “’Rapahoes, too. Humph! Treat ’em as well as we can an’ get rid of ’em quick as we can. They’ll be spoiling for a fight.”

Along the valley were trudging and riding about thirty Indians, both women and men. They boldly met the company, and demanded presents. They claimed that they were going into the hills after roots and game; but instead, as the cavalcade resumed the march, the bucks wheeled around and galloped back in the direction where they said they had left their village.

“We’d better be forting,” counselled Joe Walker. “Did you know any of ’em, Kit?”

“Never saw one of ’em at Bent’s, as I remember,” confessed Kit.

Down to the Grand River hurried the company, and to some willows between the channel and an overflowed meadow. They had no time to fort further, even by piling up their packs, when on came again the Arapahoes, fully 200, painted and flourishing weapons and apparently eager for a fight.

“Set that flag out, in front, somebody who talks Arapahoe, and tell them if they pass it, we fire,” ordered the lieutenant.

Alexander Godey grabbed it; but Kit Carson rode out with him. They planted the staff in the moist ground, and standing by the Stars and Stripes signed to the Indians to halt. Kit shouted the instructions. Two of the Indians rode forward, in token of parley.

“One o’ them’s a Sioux,” asserted Thomas Fitzpatrick. “Isn’t that so, Auguste?”

“I think it is,” affirmed Archambeau. “Sioux an’ ’Rapahoe together mek it bad; eh?”

The conference soon dissolved, and with one of the Indians Kit loped back to the willows; Godey remained, amicably squatting and talking with the other.

“They’re ’Rapahoes, an’ some Sioux,” explained Kit. “This hyar’s an old Sioux chief, who wants to meet our head chief.”

The old Sioux—a grizzled, stout, but fine-looking veteran, wearing a necklace of grizzly-bear claws—shook hands warmly with the lieutenant, and delivered a harangue. Kit translated.

“He says he’s always been friendly to the whites. ’Fore that gang started from the village they held a council, an’ most of ’em voted to attack us, ’cause we’d been with the Utes, an’ like as not had sold ’em guns an’ ammunition. But the Sioux, an’ a few ’Rapahoes who’d seen us last year on the plains, an’ knew about us, voted ag’in it. He says the Sioux air pore, an’ ought to be given a lot o’ valuable presents for the way they voted. I expect the ’Rapahoes’ll want as much.”

“I suppose so,” groaned the lieutenant. “No matter how they voted, they’ll want the presents.”

Therefore presents were liberally distributed, under the folds of the Flag, gently waving, perhaps for the first time, here beside the Grand River in north central Colorado.

Through Middle Park the trail continued, and so did the evidences of the Arapahoes. At the south end of the park six beaver trappers were met. They informed the lieutenant that two of their party already had been killed by the Arapahoes, and that if he would wait they would like to pack up and get out. He sent Kit and Archambeau and Godey with them, to help.

When the squad again joined the command, they brought alarming news. Near the trapper camp they had suddenly been stayed by a band of Arapahoes, much excited. The Arapahoes said that their people were about to make a great attack upon the Utes, in the Bayou Salade (which as South Park lies adjacent to Middle Park, on the south), and that they had been sent to guide the white men back that they might help the Arapahoes kill the Utahs! Kit had answered that the white men were far ahead, and would join them in the Bayou Salade. Whereupon the Arapahoe scouts rode off to their people. Kit chuckled.

“We’ll have to take care an’ not meet ’em. They’ve got us in a tight corner. Back yonder on the river we swore we war the ’Rapahoe’s friend, an’ had nothing to do with the Ute nation. Now if we won’t help our friends fight, what air we? An’ if we do help ’em fight, whar’ll we be, with the Utes.”

“Well, it isn’t our quarrel, that’s sure,” declared the lieutenant. “The Indians can fight their own fights, and we’ll mind our own business. The Arapahoes would like nothing better than to array the Utes against us.”

Southward still, over the dividing range into the South Park they hastened; and at the western verge sounded the warning, again:

“Injuns! Injuns!”

A mounted party of dusky, long-haired figures were descending from a ridge which intersected the valley, before. If these were pesky Arapahoes, once more, perhaps seeking the white men to escort them to the battle, then the company must watch out.

“Make for those islands, boys,” ordered the lieutenant; and into the shallow river, to a willow patch, plashed the FrÉmont and Carson men.

“Those are squaws,” cried Captain Walker.

Ute squaws they proved to be. They eagerly hastened to the company, and with gestures and loud exclamations and weeping told their story. Beyond the ridge was their village; early that morning the Arapahoes had charged it, killed four men including the head chief, and driven off many horses to a forted hollow a mile below. But the brave Ute warriors, 300, had rallied and pursued them; and now a great fight was in progress. If the white men would help the Utes their friends kill those dogs of Arapahoes, they should have the best horses at the village to carry them into the battle.

“Let’s get out o’ hyar. Have to get out o’ hyar. More trouble,” announced Kit, shaking his head at the clamor of the Ute women.

Speedily the cavalcade was put in motion, to abandon the dangerous neighborhood. Vainly the Ute women followed, urging, wailing, and plucking at the clothing of the white men, to bid them join in the fight. Turning off at the ridge, and keeping it between them and the village, with a line of scouts riding the summit to watch the other side, the company left the valley as rapidly as possible. Soon the women must cease their urging, and gallop back to their village. The spiteful cracks of rifles, and the whoops of the red warriors, now were plainly heard; gazing down from a break in the ridge Oliver and all could see the Ute village, in disorder, with dead and wounded being hurriedly brought in. However, according to the Ute women, their braves were having the best of the fight. It was the opinion of Kit and other mountain-men, also, that warrior for warrior, the Utes could whip the Arapahoes.

With course southeast, the company crossed from the South Park to the tributaries of the Upper Arkansas; and penetrating through the rugged country lying between Cripple Creek and CaÑon City, Colorado, on June 28 arrived at the Arkansas River itself. Old friend was the Arkansas, for now below, on it, waited Bent’s Fort, at the crossroads of the long trail.

At sunset of June 29 the settlement of the Pueblo was reached. Here the six trappers stopped, and here Kit received word that all was well at Taos. Now Bent’s Fort was but seventy-five miles. The trail along the Arkansas was broad and well beaten; the animals appeared to know that something especial was just before, and they travelled briskly.

Ere mid-morning of the second day, July 1, from the advance Oliver, greeting many a familiar object, spied it, ahead—that one object for which in particular had he been peering: the plains citadel of Bent’s Fort. Amidst the fringe of cottonwoods its massy dun clay walls were limned against the flowering herbage and the sage.

“Hooray! Hooray!” Hats flew into the air, and the reports of the carbines and rifles were answered by cannon.

The flag of the ramparts was streaming to welcome the flag of the cavalcade; and as the cavalcade drew nearer, several horsemen clashed from the gate-way, to give personal greeting.

“Thar’s George Bent. Reckon William air away,” commented Kit.

George Bent it was, younger brother of William, but a partner in the Bent, St. Vrain & Co. firm. He was much at Taos.

“Hello, George.”

“How are you, Kit? Hello, Joe! Where’d you hail from? Come right along into the post, gentlemen. Glad to see you back. How far have you been?”

“’Bout six thousand miles,” answered Kit. “How’s my wife, George?”

“Very well indeed, Kit. Nothing has changed since you left, I believe. Let’s see—just about a year, isn’t it? We’ve all been looking for you. They’d almost given you up for lost, in the States, lieutenant.”

Thus speaking, George Bent conducted the company to the post.

This was to Kit a second home: but he was anxious to turn south for his first home—old Taos, where bided Josefa, his young wife. Oliver was as ready, for at Taos was Ike, maybe, or Sol, or William New, to whom to tell tales of the trail that they had missed.

However, at the post a “big” Fourth of July had been planned. The lieutenant had decided to stay for a banquet, and Kit and Oliver must stay. So they did. After the feast Lieutenant FrÉmont himself asserted that not even in Washington or St. Louis had he ever sat down to a finer menu than this, served in honor of the Fourth and of the expedition, at Bent’s Fort in the Indian country, 500 miles from the frontier.

On the fifth the lieutenant was to continue on for Washington. Fuentes and Pablo, the two California Mexicans; the Chinook youth from the Dalles of the Columbia; and Sacramento the iron-gray horse from Sutter’s Fort, remained with him in his train. Captain Joe Walker wished to stay at the post for a time. Alexander Godey was to seek St. Vrain’s, his former station. Kit and Oliver were for Taos. The lieutenant, last of all, shook hands with them.

“You’ll not forget next year, Kit?” he reminded. “We’re to try that desert again, you know—and work north from Sutter’s to Vancouver. The Sacramento Valley calls.”

“I’ll not forget,” promised Kit. “I’ll be ready.”

“And you, my lad—you’ve had enough of the explorer’s trail, I fancy,” addressed the lieutenant, to Oliver.

“No, sir,” said Oliver, “I haven’t.”

“Bravo!” laughed Lieutenant FrÉmont. His fine blue eyes flashed. “You’ll do. You’re one of my company. You’ve got the heart of a man, and it takes a man to follow Kit and me.”

End.

THE TRAIL BLAZERS SERIES

With Carson and FrÉmont

By EDWIN L. SABIN

The daily life of these men who worked together to break the hostile spirit of the Western wilderness was one filled with adventure and danger, and this chronicle, written for boys, is almost a first-hand story of the West in the early days. Mr. Sabin holds closely to facts, and while writing an entertaining story has still presented an inspiring episode in American history.

Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.25 net. Postpaid, $1.37.

David Crocket: Scout

By CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN

This volume sets forth all Davy’s versatility and recounts his many exploits in the East and in the new Southwest. It tells of him as Indian fighter, bear hunter, statesman and defender of the Alamo. Davy had a keen sense of humor and a lovable nature, which at once endear him to the reader.

Colored frontispiece and three illustrations in black and white by Frank McKernan. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Daniel Boone: Backwoodsman

By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

“Historical fact is made the basis of convincing fiction, and a better book of its kind could not be placed in the hands of any American boy. Boone stands out as a splendid figure of pioneer manhood, who performed a work of incalculable importance in the settlement of Kentucky by white men. True narrative impulse enters into the story.”—Philadelphia Press.

Frontispiece in color and three illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.

Captain John Smith

By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

“It’s as exciting as if it were a tale of sword-and-mantle fiction by a writer of the Stanley Weyman school. There’s fighting galore on its pages; wild adventurings; ups and downs; and all shot through with an unconquerable spirit. All of it is true and is stirring. It’s good history, good biography and mighty good reading.”—Cleveland Leader.

Four illustrations in color. 12mo. Decorated cloth, $1.50.

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHERSPHILADELPHIA