Fighting Caravans Page 5

  “Spaniards? They’re white people, of course,” replied Clint, thoughtfully. “’Pears to me the whites are payin’ dreadful high for this West.”

  “Right you are, Buff. But any old plainsman like me will tell you the whites haven’t begun to pay what they’ll have to.”

  Las Vegas was such a rough town that Clint’s father would not allow him much liberty, especially at night. Between Las Vegas and Santa Fé there were two stations, San José and Barrel Springs. The Spanish atmosphere and color of Santa Fé were delightful to Clint, and he appreciated the comparative quiet of this very old town.

  The wagon-train unloaded here, and then drove out along the river several miles, to good feed, wood, and water, and there located camp for the winter.

  “Six months an’ more, son,” announced Belmet. “We’ve work, of course, but I’m worryin’ about your schoolin’.”

  “I fetched some school books, paw, an’ I’ll go through them. If I get stuck can’t you help me?”

  “Wal, I ain’t so all-fired smart, myself. But mebbe there’s some one in the outfit who can.”

  “How about huntin’?” queried Clint, anxiously.

  “Fine. I inquired of a trapper in town. Buffalo, an’ turkey right along the river here. An’ up in the hills bear an’ lion, also deer. We won’t want for fresh meat, anyway.”

  “I saw a lot of Indians in town,” returned Clint, weighing the fact doubtfully.

  “Yes, but there are six troops of dragoons at the fort. They’re out an’ around a good deal, I’m told, an’ the Injuns won’t bother us.”

  “I’d never trust an Indian.”

  “Good,” said Belmet, with satisfaction.

  That very day numerous Indians visited the camp. They were friendly. Couch, the train boss, gave orders for everybody to feed them and be otherwise kindly disposed. Clint was both repelled and attracted by the Apaches. He never would be able to abide the Comanches, no matter how friendly.

  Chapter Five

  THE erection of camping quarters was a matter of preference. Some of the freighters lived in their wagons, others pitched tents, and a few took advantage of the abundance of wood to build cabins. Clint and his father belonged to the last and smallest contingent.

  They were new to log-cabin construction, as their neighbors most jocosely informed them.

  “Buff, what is thet thar shed you’re puttin’ up?” queried the old plainsman who had taken a liking to Clint.

  “Shed? It’s a log cabin,” replied Clint.

  “Shore it ain’t to live in!”

  “Hey, Belmet,” asked another friend, “air you a carpenter?”

  “Them logs don’t gibe,” remarked a third.

  Belmet took it all good-naturedly and turned to Clint: “Say somethin’ to them scallywags.”

  Clint had a retort ready: “Are you goin’ to be freighters all your lives? Aren’t you ever goin’ to be pioneers?”

  “Reckon thet’s the idee, of course,” replied one.

  “That’s why we’re learnin’ to put up a log cabin.”

  It was early October and beautiful weather, with a frosty nip at dawn, sunny mornings, warm hazy Indian-summer afternoons, and cold nights. The Cottonwood leaves had begun to change from green to gold. Far up the dark slopes patches of yellow told of the frost at work on aspens. Down in the gulches and valleys there were touches of red and bronze.

  Clint was longing to go hunting, but kept faithfully at work.

  One afternoon about three o’clock a stranger appeared at the Belmet cabin. He did not have a prepossessing appearance and looked hot and hurried.

  “Can I buy a hoss?” he asked.

  “Reckon you can, an’ cheap, too. We’ve gone into winter camp,” replied Belmet, leaving his work.

  It happened that Couch came up just then, accompanied by another man whom Clint knew only by sight. They might have been following this stranger; at least they were curious.

  “What’s this fellow want?” asked Couch, abruptly, of Belmet.

  “Says he wants to buy a hoss.”

  Couch turned his sharp gaze upon the stranger.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Miller. Hank Miller,” was the reply.

  “Where you from?”

  “Santa Fé.”

  “Why didn’t you buy a hoss there?” queried Couch, waxing suspicious.

  “No time,” returned the other, nervously.

  “Huh! Had trouble?”

  “Reckon I had”

  “What about?”

  “Wal, I was gamblin’ an’ got accused of cheatin’.”

  “Any truth in thet?”

  “No. I called them all liars.”

  “Ahuh. An’ what happened?”

  “They jest went for me—the three men I was playin’ with, an’ some outsiders. I had to throw my gun.”

  “Hurt any of them?”

  “Don’t know. Sure left town in a hurry. . . . But see here, you’re takin’ up my time. I want a hoss an’ saddle. I’ll pay. I’d had one but for your interference. Who’n hell are you, anyway?”

  Couch pulled his gun.

  “Hands up, right quick.”

  The man who called himself Miller turned pale and was not slow to obey.

  “Belmet, relieve Mr. Miller of them shootin’-irons. I notice he’s packin’ two,” went on Couch, briskly.

  Clint’s father took the two guns, and also a knife.

  “Sanderson, you stay here with Belmet an’ watch this man while I ride into Santa Fé. Don’t let him loose.”

  Couch got on his horse and rode away. As soon as he was out of sight Miller gave a lunge and broke free from Sanderson. He knocked Belmet down and started to run. Quick-witted Clint stuck out his foot. The man tripped and fell headlong. Whereupon two very angry freighters pounced on him, handled him severely, tied him securely, and roped him to a wagon wheel.

  “Helluva way to—treat—a fellar,” panted Miller, balefully. “I tell you I’m honest. But I’m—afeared of—them gamblers. . . . Give you a hundred—dollars to let—me go.”

  “Shut up or I’ll bust your head,” returned Belmet, darkly, feeling of the bruise on his chin. “Say, Sanderson, what happened after he biffed me?”

  “Buff tripped him, an’ he shore went pilin’ to the dirt,” replied Sanderson, with an appraising eye on the youngster.

  “Clint, you doggoned son-of-a-sea-cook,” ejaculated Belmet, in mingled wonder, pride, and concern, “I’m plumb worried about you! Always doin’ things!”

  “But, Belmet, I’d bored the fellar but for Buff up settin’ him,” interposed Sanderson, taking Belmet seriously.

  Clint went back to work then, leaving the two guarding the prisoner. Couch arrived in quick time, with the sheriff and two deputies from Santa Fé.

  “Reckon you’re wanted,” said the sheriff to Miller. “Thar’s a dead man in town thet somebody has to account for, an’ a crippled one who might identify you. Come along. . . . Cut him loose, men.”

  They led Miller away, like a beast on a halter, and Belmet and Sanderson hurried to saddle horses to accompany them, as did other curious freighters. Clint had no wish to go. He thought the man might be dishonest, but felt sorry for him. Resuming work, Clint busied himself until sunset and then quit for the day. He never failed to watch the sunset. It was never twice the same. Today there were heavy broken clouds and much gold and rose, with wonderful shafts of light shooting down into the purple valley.

  Before dark Belmet rode in, and after attending to his horse he joined Clint. His customary smile was wanting.

  “Paw, I got supper ready to cook,” said Clint.

  “Sorry I’m late. Bet you’re hungry. But I’m not. I’m sick as a dog.”

  “What happened, paw?” queried Clint, hurriedly.

  “The crowd in town hanged that fellow we caught here. An’ I saw it. My, I’m glad you didn’t come!”

  “Hanged him? Aw! What for?”

  “He was a gambler
, a cheat, an ’a bad egg. Killed one man an’ wounded another. He was identified. Then a bunch of men, reckon about twenty, took him away from the sheriff. An’, Clint, they strung him up in a jiffy, before I knew what was goin’ to come off. Hanged him right in the plaza! An’ he’s hangin’ there now.”

  Clint visualized his father’s words. It was on the tip of his tongue to say he wished they had never come out West, but he checked himself. That would not have been honest. Despite the hardships and the shock of his mother’s murder, he could not say he hated this wild and terrible frontier. Something strong and strange was at work deep within him.

  In a few more days the cabin was habitable and Clint and his father moved in their belongings. Then the envy of their neighbors afforded much satisfaction. If the weather remained normal there would be a month or more before the snows came, and longer before winter set in cold.

  For days the valley and the hills had been resounding to the reports of the freighters’ rifles. They were killing game for the winter supply of meat. So that when Clint and his father started out to do their hunting they had to go farther afield. The buffalo and deer had been driven away. Indeed, it turned out that the buffalo had sought a lower altitude, and the hunters had orders not to go too far from camp.

  Clint shot at a good many bucks before he hit one. Sight of a big blue deer, his long ears up, his white tail shining, acted so powerfully upon Clint that his gun wabbled, his eyes blurred, his hands trembled, and he simply could not shoot straight. Still he kept on trying. The hunters made fun of him and advised him to take out the heavy buffalo gun. The day came, however, when his bullet sped true, and a fine buck pitched high in the air and, plunging down, rolled over to dig his horns into the earth.

  Wild-turkey hunting, however, appealed most to Clint. He could not quite determine why, but he imagined because it was the hardest work, the most fun, and turkey meat was the best to eat. Clint’s father, using a shotgun, had bagged several turkeys. They had roast turkey, which settled the matter for Clint. A “drumstick,” as he called the leg, or the breast of wild turkey, was food, Clint unblushingly averred, of which he could never get enough.

  But hitting a running wild turkey with a rifle was a feat that required considerable skill. Somewhere Clint had heard that to shoot wild turkeys with a shotgun was pot-hunting and not sport. Clint aspired to be a real hunter, so he stood by the lighter of his two rifles and spent not a little of his money for ammunition.

  High up on the mountain slope above camp Clint found wild turkeys. Deer did not seem to frequent this range to any extent. It was a hard climb, but not far from camp, and Clint’s father and Captain Couch permitted him to go, provided he would not stray over the ridge.

  The early morning, before the sun was up, found Clint, crackling the frosty grass and breathing a cloud of steam, bound for his favorite spot. This was a wide level bench, grassy in spots, with clumps of piñon trees. It happened to be a good season for piñon nuts—a somewhat infrequent occurrence. And these nuts were beginning to fall from the trees, which fact attracted the turkeys. Two or three large flocks frequented this feeding-ground. Any early morning Clint could count on finding them. No matter how often he shot—which was a disgraceful number of times without bringing a feather—the turkeys would come back. This attested to the sweetness of piñon nuts.

  Now Clint had it forced upon him that he knew little or nothing about hunting wild turkeys. One of his advisers in camp had said: “Find where they roost.” Another counseled: “Ketch ’em at their water hole.” A third averred: “You gotta learn to call turkeys. Make a caller out of the wing bone of a turk, an’ practice till you can gobble an’ cluck an’ put to beat the band. Then you can hide an’ call. The turkeys will come right up to you, an’ you can take your pick.” Clint’s father laughed at his importunities and said: “Take the shotgun loaded with buck-shot an’ knock ’em over.”

  Clint acted on all the advices except the last, and he began to have admiration for turkeys. They had so far always seen or scented or heard him before he got within range. The smallest of the three flocks consisted of about fifteen gobblers. They were huge, wary birds. They were the most beautiful wild things that he had seen. Most were dark, purple-breasted, with a long beard, and a small cunning red head, dark in the back, flecked with brown, and they had a spread of reddish-white tail that dazzled Clint. A few were bronze, and one, conspicuous for his enormous size, was more white than bronze. Many times Clint had come within rifle-shot of this old flock, but when he espied them they were all on the run. And couldn’t they run! He would shoot and run and shoot and run, all to no avail.

  The second flock was larger in number, and consisted of the sober-colored hens and yearlings; and the third, which must have contained a hundred, were all apparently young turkeys.

  One day Clint made a lucky shot into this third flock and he killed a young gobbler of about fifteen pounds. With glee and pride Clint packed his first victim down to camp. He exhibited it proudly to his father and their immediate neighbors, then he picked and dressed it and hung it from the eaves of the cabin, where it would thoroughly cool. Next morning it was gone.

  “Cat got it,” said his father, “or maybe a coyote.”

  “Nothin’ with four feet ever stole my turkey,” stormed Clint, in a rage. “Look ahere!” And he pointed to the tracks of a man in the soft ground. “That’s not my track, paw.”

  “By jiminy!” ejaculated Belmet, scratching his head. Evidently he wanted to laugh, but dared not.

  “I’ll trail that cat, b’gosh!” declared Clint, and right there began his education as a tracker. It availed little, however, for although he followed those tracks across to an adjoining tent and made sure of the culprit, he did not recover his turkey.

  The next day Clint killed another gobbler from the same flock, and that night at supper he and his father put it where there was no danger of having it stolen. In fact, Clint ate until he had made up for the one he had lost.

  Having acquired the knack of surprising the younger turkeys, Clint brought one in on several occasions. Next he shot a fine big hen out of the second flock. Ambitious and determined then, he devoted his energies and cunning to the great gobblers.

  For several days he was destined to defeat and considerable humiliation. Finally he managed to secure an easy shot, which he missed. He characterized this as a case of “turkey fever.” Then, the very first thing next morning, he had a snap shot, and knocked over one of the huge gobblers. The others roared away on the wing, a stirring and beautiful sight. The one he had hit began to thump and flop at a great rate. It made a tremendous racket. Clint dropped his gun and made for the tumbling monster. As he reached for it he received a buffet from a wing that almost caused him to lose his balance.

  To his dismay the gobbler got up and ran. Clint darted after. He was fast on his feet, but the turkey was faster. By a desperate effort Clint bent low and grasped. He caught hold, but his hand came away full of beautiful tail feathers. This added to his eagerness and discomfiture. He chased that gobbler until he fell down from exhaustion.

  On the descent to camp Clint was a sadder and wiser hunter. He decided to resort to strategy. Accordingly, he arose very early and climbed the slope before daybreak, and when the light came and the east burned red he was well concealed in the thickest and most likely piñon tree on the bench.

  This morning he had gotten there first. From far up the slope, among the pines, came a gobble-gobble. With a start he sat up alert, watchful. The morning was still. He heard the swish of heavy wings, then the thud of a turkey alighting on the ground. These sounds were repeated. The birds were coming down from their roost. Would they go to drink or feed first? Clint was mighty curious, but he believed they would feed before going to water.

  He waited, watching, listening with all his keenness. So long a time elapsed that he feared his plan would be futile. His legs grew cramped and he found it expedient to move. Suddenly he heard a scratching. There was no mistaki
ng that sound. Craning his neck, he peered through the foliage and espied, not fifty yards away, the whole flock of gobblers. Clint nearly fell out of the tree, so rapturous was he. Then he sternly sought to control his excitement. What a magnificent sight! They were picking and scratching along right toward him. Never a moment was there when at least one gobbler did not have his head up, peering around. They looked as big as ostriches and as wild as anything Clint could imagine. But they had not the slightest suspicion that all was not well for their morning’s feed.

  It so happened that Clint did not have to turn to bring his rifle into action. Slowly he raised it to his shoulder. With his heart pounding audibly against his ribs he aimed at the gobbler in best view. The bird at that short distance was as large as a barrel. Clint vowed he would not miss. But the gobbler did not stand still. Then when Clint again got a bead on him, another and a larger turkey obstructed his aim. It took a stifling moment for Clint to realize that this was even better. When he looked at the closer turkey his eyes popped.

  This gobbler was the lordly white-and-bronze leader of the flock. Clint had a violent urge to yell his elation. But he had sense enough left to realize he must shoot first. As he lowered his gun a trifle he snapped a twig. The great gobbler jerked up. Put-put! Put-put! Clint saw his keen little black eye. He knew he had been discovered, but not soon enough, for he froze on that aim and pressed the trigger.

  The gun banged. A tremendous flapping followed. Clint could not see for smoke. He listened. The whir of wings and crashing of branches ceased. His elation suffered a violent collapse. Then he dropped down out of the tree. There lay the huge white-and-bronze gobbler, his tail feathers spread and fluttering.

  For once blood and death caused Clint no pangs. He gloated over his prize. “Ain’t he a whopper? Aw, what’ll paw say now?” And when he essayed to lift the immense bird he experienced a most profound surprise. He had to take two hands to the job, and then it was not easy.