Fighting Caravans Read online

  “You’re a regular driver now,” went on May, admiringly, peeping from under her sunbonnet.

  “Ah—huh.”

  “I’m glad. You’re so strong an’ smart an’—an’ everythin’. . . . How far do we go today?”

  “I heard a teamster tell paw it was nigh onto twenty-two miles to Fish Creek, our next camp. That’s a pretty big drive. We made only eighteen yesterday.”

  “Oh, it seemed we came so far. But I love the ride. You can drive slower if you want to. . . . Clint, do you want it to end?”

  “What?”

  “This ride?”

  “I ain’t in no particular hurry.”

  “Mother says I’m too excited. I don’t eat to suit her. An’ I dream awful. Yell in my sleep.”

  Clint laughed and flicked his whip. “Ha! betcha you have somethin’ to yell about before we get there.”

  That sobered her, though not for long. She was eager, curious, full of joy of she knew not what. Her childish mind was reveling in the adventure and beauty, while reaching out toward the dream of her elders, to the unknown future.

  “It’s awful far to Fort Union?”

  “Reckon so. Near a thousand miles.”

  “Oh, then we’ll be weeks on the road?”

  “You bet.”

  “Daddy is goin’ to leave mother an’ me at the fort. Will you come there often?”

  “Every trip out an’ back.”

  “Oh, I’m glad. I won’t feel so awful—then. . . . Clint, what’s goin’ to become of us?”

  “Become of us? What do you mean, May?”

  “I don’t mean just now—or on this ride. But after. . . . Just look! It’s so awful, terrible big—so far across—this prairie. What’s on the other side?”

  “Didn’t you study geography?”

  “No.”

  “Well, we come to the Rocky Mountains. An’ cross them, too!”

  “Ooooo! how wonderful! But can we ever climb mountains?”

  “There’s a pass—a place to go through.”

  “I’m glad for the poor oxen. I saw one that had bloody shoulders. . . . But, Clint, what’ll we all do way out West?”

  “Work.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I heard Captain Couch talkin’ to paw. My, he’s a man! He said we’d all fight Injuns first, then kill off the buffalo, before we’d go to farmin’.”

  “But, Clint—women like me can’t fight Injuns an’ kill buffalo!” expostulated May, bewildered.

  “Why not—when you grow up?”

  “’Cause it—it’s not ladylike.”

  “Well, by golly! you’ll have to. The women have to help. Mom has a lot of spunk. She will. An’ kids like you——”

  “I’m not a kid,” she interrupted, with indignation.

  “’Scuse me. Anyway, you’re goin’ out West, ain’t you? It’ll not be like back home. You’ll have to pitch in—help your mother—learn what you can—work an’ grow up an’ get married. Every girl will have to do that much or the West won’t——”

  Here Clint floundered while May stared up at him aghast.

  “Married? Me!” she gasped.

  “Why, sure! You’re no better ’n anybody else.”

  “I—I didn’t mean I was.”

  “I should think you’d want to be a pioneer’s wife some day.”

  “What’s a pioneer?” asked May, fascinated.

  “Well, I reckon a pioneer is like what paw will be. He’ll go ahead, out where there’s nobody. An’ more men like him will come. They’ll fight the Injuns an’ bears an’ buffaloes, cut down trees, build log cabins, plow an’ plant an’ reap. Make the land so more people will come. That’s a pioneer.”

  “I like a pioneer. . . . Clint, will you be one?”

  “Reckon I’m slated for a pioneer, sure enough. I’d like to raise horses.”

  “Clint, I’ll grow up an’ be a pioneer’s wife,” burst out May.

  “Ah-huh. You will if you’re worth your salt.”

  May slipped a not altogether timid hand under Clint’s arm, and she peeped roguishly up from under her sunbonnet.

  “Would you have me, Clint?”

  “What for?”

  “For your pioneer wife? Course, when I grow up. It won’t be long now. I’m ten years old. . . . Would you?”

  “Reckon I would—come to think of it.”

  “But you’d be glad to?”

  “Sure,” replied Clint, hastily.

  “We’d have to fall in love first, wouldn’t we?” mused May, with a dreamy smile.

  “Well, it’d be more proper, but pioneers can’t wait for everythin’.”

  “Then, Clint—I promise,” said May, very solemnly.

  “All right, May. I do, too.”

  And so these children rode on the driver seat of the prairie schooner, across the grassy plain, gazing with the hopeful eyes of youth over the purple calling horizon, in their innocence and romance true to the great movement of which they were a part.

  Sunset, a wide flare of gold, brought the caravan to a halt along a heavily timbered creek bottom. This was Fish Creek, an ideal place to camp. Grass was abundant and firewood for the cutting. Horses and oxen were unhitched, to be turned loose in charge of twenty guards. The scene was a bustling one of camp life on a huge scale. All along the line merry shouts and voices sounded, the axes rang out, the fires sent up blue smoke, and soon fifty groups of hungry travelers sat cross-legged on the ground.

  Clint was as hungry as anybody, but he remembered to pick out some choice morsels of food for little May. After supper he and May, with Jack at their heels, walked along between the wagons and the creek. For all they could see they were the only two children in the caravan. And women were almost as scarce. The grizzled freighters, the long-haired scouts, the sturdy pioneers all had a keen and kindly eye for the youngsters, and some of them shook their heads gravely.

  Darkness came on apace. The camp fires flickered down. Guards patrolled the line. Coyotes began their mournful chorus. Clint crawled into the tent he shared with his mother, and went to bed without disturbing her. His father slept in the canvas-covered wagon. Presently Clint’s dog came in and curled up at the foot of his bed. Soon all was quiet outside, and the flickering shadows on the tent faded.

  Clint was up with the break of day. He had learned to love the early dawn. And to his disappointment he discovered that Fish Creek was not felicitously named. When he got back to camp empty-handed his father and Mr. Bell laughed at him. But little May gave him a smile that was recompense.

  Soon the caravan moved out toward the west. They made twenty miles that day, and almost as many the next. On the sixth day buffalo were sighted far to the south. All Clint’s yearning eyes could make out was a long, dim, dark line. That night the camp was pitched upon the level plain, some distance from a watercourse. Clint was quick to grasp why the wagons were drawn in a circle, close together, with openings at two ends. They formed a huge corral. The horses and oxen were put out under guard, and shortly after dark driven back and inside the corral. The men roped off the tents.

  “Paw, what’s that for?” asked Clint, pointing to the mass of stock inside the circle.

  “Injuns, sonny, the scouts say,” replied his father. “From now on we’ll always be on the lookout.”

  Clint went soberly to bed and did not soon fall asleep. Jack seemed to act queerly, cuddling so close to him. Clint thought of his mother and little May, but nothing happened and soon he fell asleep.

  Next morning, Captain Couch issued orders for drivers to stick close together, to keep on the move, and watch the head and tail of the caravan.

  Clint knew mischief was afoot. When he climbed to his high seat and took up the reins his heart was in his throat. The caravan started briskly, each wagon close on the heels of the one in advance. The mounted scouts rode far ahead and the rear guard fell behind. Driving was no fun that morning for Clint Belmet. Once May Bell waved a little hand at Clint. How white her face look
ed! The strong pull on the reins prevented Clint from waving back, but he knew she understood that.

  Nevertheless, the hours passed, the miles grew in number and nothing happened. Clint felt an easing of the strain. He drove as well as any of the teamsters, though his arms ached. Toward afternoon low clouds of dust moved across the prairie. Again Clint saw the dim black line, and did not need to be told it was a vast herd of buffalo. It moved, and therefore was not so far away. He was thrilled anew, and awed, and watched till his eyes were tired.

  Much to his relief, halt was called long before sunset. His roving eye swept the prairie. A green fringe of cottonwood trees, down in a dip, showed where there were water and wood for camp use. The caravan, however, drove into a compact circle, high up on the level. Every team was turned in, so that the wagon-tongue just missed the rear of the wagon in front.

  This camp was no jolly picnic party, but serious business. Horses and oxen were unhitched and taken under strong guard down to water, and allowed to graze until sunset. Clint saw horsemen silhouetted black against the skyline—the scouts of the caravan on watch. At supper his father and Mr. Bell and the other men looked worried, and did not invite questioning. Clint found no chance to talk to May.

  Darkness settled down quickly that night. There was no afterglow. Thin clouds masked the wan stars. Camp fires were extinguished, and what little conversation the men indulged in was low. No bells on the horses this night!

  Clint’s keen ears caught the speech of an old teamster: “Redskins somewhars, so Couch thinks. Pawnees or Arapahoes, likely. Wal, we kin stand it, jest so long as they’re not Comanches.”

  The boy’s intent mind recorded that name—Comanches. He crouched beside the red embers of the spread fire and listened. Men sat around, smoking and whispering, and finally were silent. The horses could be heard munching the grass.

  “Sonny, better go to bed,” advised his father. “There’ll be fifty men on guard.”

  But Clint lingered. He thought his dog Jack acted more strangely than the night before. Jack was a shepherd, and what he did not know Clint thought was scarcely worth knowing. The coyotes might have caused Jack’s fur to stand stiff. Yet he did not bark. Suddenly Clint caught a sharper, wilder sound from out in the blackness. It was a beast of some kind. Again it came—a deep full bay, like an unearthly hound might have rendered The yelps of coyotes ceased.

  “What was that?” whispered Clint to a man sitting near him.

  “Prairie wolf, an’ he shore can sing,” was the reply. “We’re gittin’ out whar the wild begins, lad.”

  Clint sustained his first fear of the night, the gloom, the loneliness, and the unknown. With Jack close at his heels he slipped back to his mother’s tent. It had been pitched between the two wagons, with the heavy freighter on the outside. If his mother was awake, she gave no sign. Inside the tent it was pitch black. Clint had a strange sensation—as if he had awakened with the cold of a nightmare upon him. Crawling to his blankets, he pulled off his boots and coat, and slipping in he covered up his head. He felt Jack settle down at his feet. Then all grew still except the throbbing in his breast.

  After a while he uncovered his face so that he could breathe freer. All seemed silent as a grave. Clint tried to fall asleep, but in vain. The night bore some strange oppression. Jack felt it, for he was restless. He crawled close up to Clint and licked his hand. The horses were not moving.

  Finally Clint dropped off to sleep. He was awakened by the dog. Jack was standing up, growling low. Clint heard him sniff. Then he went out of the tent. Clint lay awake. An owl hooted, far away and faint. Jack came running back into the tent, jumped on Clint’s bed, and growled louder.

  Then steps outside preceded the voice of Clint’s father. “What ails that darn dog? Jack, come here.”

  “Paw, Jack smells somethin’,” spoke up Clint.

  “So you’re awake, son? Well, he’s sure actin’ queer. Jumped in the wagon on my bed,” replied Belmet.

  Clint sat up. It was considerably lighter now. Evidently the moon had risen. He saw his father holding the flap of the tent open. Clint caught the gleam of a rifle.

  “Jack acts like he wanted you to go with him,” said Clint.

  “Come on, Jack. Good dog. Hunt ’em up,” called Belmet, and went away.

  Right after that a shot cracked in camp, not far from where Clint lay. It awakened his mother, who cried out in alarm.

  “Mom, I don’t know what it is, but I think Injuns,” replied Clint, crawling out of bed. “Paw was just here. He took Jack.”

  Suddenly a rattling roar of rifle shots rang out right in camp. It appeared to string half round the circle. Clint dropped down, frightened out of his wits. Then came lighter shots, and a wild howling, the like of which Clint had never heard. His blood ran cold. A patter like hail on the tent! What could that be? More shots and hoarse shouts of men.

  “My God! I’m shot!” cried Clint’s mother, in a strangled voice.

  “Oh, mom—mom!” screamed Clint, springing up in a panic. He saw his mother, who was on her knees, double up and sink down.

  “Run for daddy—run!” she whispered, hoarsely.

  Clint ran out wildly. It was pale moonlight. Men were surrounding the frightened horses. Clint saw flashes of fire from under the wagons and his ears seemed split by heavy concussions. He ran here and there, calling for his father. In his fright he fled through the opening in the circle of wagons, out to a crowd of men.

  “Paw! Paw! Mother’s shot,” he cried, frantically.

  “Who’re you, boy?” queried a burly man, clutching Clint. “Who’s your pa?”

  “Reckon it’s Jim Belmet’s youngster,” spoke up another man.

  “Yes, he’s my father. Oh, I want him! My mom’s shot!”

  “Hyar come the men now,” spoke up another man. “Jim was with them, chasin’ the sneakin’ devils.”

  Clint saw dark forms of men stridin’ up, heard their low voices. Suddenly Jack bounded in sight and leaped upon Clint.

  “How many did you kill?” queried the harsh-voiced man, as the party came up.

  “Two we’re sure of. They ran like deer. Got across the creek, where they had horses.”

  Clint recognized his father’s voice. “Oh, paw! Mom’s shot! Hurry!”

  Belmet uttered a cry of alarm and thudded rapidly into the circle of wagons. Jack ran after him. Then Clint followed. When he reached their tent he saw a man with a lantern hurrying in. Breathless and in a cold sweat Clint spread the flaps. His father was kneeling beside a still, dark form. The man flashed the lantern over it. Clint saw his mother’s face, strangely set and calm.

  “Good God!” exclaimed Belmet, huskily, and bent down.

  The other man lowered his lantern and placed a rough, kindly arm over Clint’s shoulders. At the same time Jack whined and licked Clint’s bare feet.

  “Bear up, lad,” said the man, hoarsely. “We’re on the plains. An’ them cussed Comanches have killed your mother.”

  Chapter Three

  CLINT stayed in the tent, covered by his blankets. But they did not keep him warm. He seemed frozen inwardly. The dog kept close to him, trying to tell him something was wrong.

  It was impossible to sleep. Every now and then Clint would raise himself to look at the still, blanketed form lying on the other side of the tent. His mother! He could not realize she was dead. When daylight broke once more this hideous nightmare would end. His father came in often.

  None of the men went to bed any more that night. Clint heard their footfalls and low voices. They were not going to be surprised again by Indians.

  The silver sheen on the canvas faded. There was darkness a while, then the slow paling to dawn. At daybreak the camp was astir. Clint pulled on his boots and went out. The morning was like any other fine morning, but to Clint it was overcast by a sort of horror. He seemed stunned. He walked about. Outside the circle of wagons he saw two Indians lying stark, black-faced and terrible. Their almost naked bodies were bloody. One h
ad a tuft of grass clenched in a tight fist.

  Clint hurried back. Fires were burning, breakfast was being cooked, men were hitching up. Yet withal it was a silent camp. On all sides was the evidence of hurry.

  When Clint got back to where he belonged, he saw his father and two men carrying a heavy blanketed object out of his tent. Jack came wagging his tail, but this morning he did not frolic. Clint watched the men.

  Then he espied a pile of yellow earth, near a freshly dug hole. A grave! The men lowered the blanketed form. Two of them began to shovel the earth down upon it. His father knelt with clasped hands and closed eyes. Suddenly Clint realized they had buried his mother. He would never see her again. Those night devils had taken her away forever. He plunged into the tent and hid under his blankets, and it was as if he were crushed.

  Presently his father called: “Come, son, we must eat an’ go on. We must try to bear it. . . . The freighters tell me there are graves at every camp along the trail.”

  Clint got up, dried his eyes, and leaving the tent, he washed his face and brushed his hair. He espied his father at the Bell camp fire. Clint went over to sit down beside May. She looked white and scared. Mrs. Bell showed traces of tears on her face. None of them, however, mentioned the tragedy. They seemed to express the acceptance of something inevitable. Little May, seeing that Clint could eat, managed to eat something herself. The meal was brief.

  One of the old scouts rode in and called: “Git up an’ git! Long drive today. An’ we might be entertained.”

  “Clint, you can ride with me,” said his father. “I’ll find another driver for your wagon.”

  “Paw, if it’s all the same to you I’d rather drive,” returned Clint, swallowing hard.

  “All right. Don’t forget some grub an’ drinkin’-water.” His words were practical and unexpressive, but his look told volumes. As he turned away with the men one of them said, “Belmet, thet lad will make a plainsman.”

  While Clint busied himself round the prairie schooner, the man who helped him hitch up proved quite loquacious.

  “This hyar’s my third freightin’ trip,” he told Clint. “Reckon we got off easy in last night’s brush with the redskins—Comanches, too!”