Mr. Hughes was fighting one of the Indians; the other two had attacked Johnnie West, who was on his back with his head against the bank of the wash-out, and they were trying to get a chance to deal him a blow, but he was kicking at them with both feet and was striking so fast with his knife that they had not yet been able to get a lick in on him.
They were so busily engaged with Johnnie that I sprang at once, unseen by them, and buried the tomahawk so deep in the head of one of them that I was unable, for the moment, to recover it. As soon as my Indian was out of the way, Johnnie was on his feet, quick as the twinkling of an eye, and stabbed the remaining one through the heart with his hunting-knife.
In the meantime Mr. Hughes was having a hard fight with his Indian. He succeeded in killing the red fiend but got badly used up. He had a severe wound in the shoulder, also one in the thigh. I received a cut in the wrist, and Johnnie West did not get a severe wound, in fact but little more than a scratch.
The fight and flight being now ended, we went a few rods to a little clump of pine trees, where Mr. Hughes dropped down and said: "Boys, there's no use of talking, I can't go any further; I think I have done my last trappin' and Injun fightin'."
I gathered some limbs and chunks and started a fire, while Johnnie pulled Mr. Hughes' moccasins off and bathed his feet and legs with cold water. They were swollen almost to twice their usual size.
The fire being started, Johnnie proposed that we lie down and take a nap and a rest before starting out to hunt for meat, saying it was impossible for him to stand on his feet any longer. "My legs," said he, "are swollen clear to my body." I was too hungry to sleep, so I proposed that Johnnie stay and care for Mr. Hughes and I would take my gun and go out and kill some game, which was plentiful in this part of the country. I had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when I looked up the ridge and saw a small deer coming down almost in the direction of where I stood, and never before in my life had I cast my eyes on a living animal that pleased me so much as did that one I waited until he was in gunshot and fired. It ran about one hundred yards in the direction of camp and fell dead I dressed it, cut off its head and carried it to camp, and it was all I could do to get along with it in my half-famished condition.
I found Hughes and West both sound asleep by the fire It was not long before I had some of the venison cooked, and I had it fashionably rare, at that. After I had wakened my companions and we had broiled and eaten venison for a time, Johnnie and I rolled some logs together and gathered pine knots and made a good fire. Then we broiled more venison and ate again, until we got sleepy and fell over by the side of the fire, lost to ourselves and Indians. During the night we all woke up again, cooked and ate as long as we could keep our eyes open, and by sun-up next morning there was not enough of that little deer left to feed a cat.
We found ourselves very sore and stiff from the effects of our run, but Mr. Hughes thought we were about one hundred miles nearer Taos than when we started, as we had been running most of the time in that direction, and this was some consolation.
We remained here and rested two days, and as game was plentiful we did not have to go far from the camp to get all the meat we wanted.
On the morning of the third day we started for Taos, which was about two hundred miles away, but all being so badly worn out and Mr. Hughes having such severe wounds, we had to travel slowly, it taking us about two weeks to make the trip. But we had no more trouble with the Indians.
At Taos we met Uncle Kit Carson, who had been waiting our arrival for two weeks. After resting up for a few days, Uncle Kit, Johnnie West and myself started for North Park to pack out the furs. Mr. Hughes stayed at Taos, as he was too badly wounded to accompany us on the trip.
On our arrival at North Park we found everything just as we had left it, except that the traps, which we had not cached with the furs, had been stolen.
On our return trip we camped one evening in a beautiful little valley where the grass was knee high, and along the little stream were green quaking-asp, alder and willows, with scattering pine trees here and there on the hills and in the valley. About sundown that evening the horses commenced to show signs of uneasiness and occasionally they would raise their heads and look in the direction of a little pine grove near by, and snort. Johnnie West, being the first to notice it, said: "Kit, what is the matter with the horses? I believe there are Indians around."
"I don't think so," said Carson, "for I haven't seen any sign of
Injuns today."
Shortly after dark that night Uncle Kit went out about fifty yards from camp in the direction of the horses, taking with him neither his gun or his pistol, which was a rare thing for him to do. Just as he was passing around a pine tree a panther sprang at him from the tree. On hearing the rustle in the limbs, Carson jumped back from the tree as far as he could and thus avoided the full force of the blow from the panther. As he jumped back he drew his knife and had a hand-to-hand fight with the huge feline and succeeded in killing it.
Johnnie and I sat at the camp-fire, knowing nothing of the affair until Uncle Kit came in, covered with blood from head to foot, and his heavy buckskin shirt, which had no doubt been the means of saving his life, was torn almost into strings. When he told us he had been engaged in a fight with some kind of a wild animal, Johnnie asked why he did not call for help, and his reply was that he did not have time to call as he had his hands full with the "varmint."
After we had dressed his wounds as best we could, we took a torch and went to the foot of the pine tree, and there lay the panther, dead. He had stabbed it to the heart.
Uncle Kit had a very bad wound in one thigh, also in one arm, so we did not move camp next day, but the day after we proceeded on our journey. We took our furs to Santa Fe, where we disposed of them at a good price, furs being higher that season than usual.
Our furs being disposed of we returned to Taos and rested for about two weeks.
CHAPTER V.
ON THE CACHE-LA-POUDRE.—VISIT FROM GRAY EAGLE, CHIEF OF THE ARAPAHOES.—A BEAR-HUNTER IS HUNTED BY THE BEAR.—PHIL, THE CANNIBAL.
Uncle Kit, having made quite a sum of money, concluded that he would take a trip over to the headwaters of the Cache-la-Poudre to look for a new field where he could trap the coming winter on a large scale, and wanted Johnnie and I to accompany him, which we did.
Each taking a saddle-horse and one pack animal, we started on the trip, taking a new route to Uncle Kit, as well as to Johnnie and myself.
Carson took the lead, for, like a deer, he could find his way anywhere he wished to go.
We crossed the Arkansas river above Bent's Fort, and from here we traveled along the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, striking the Platte at the mouth of Cherry creek, which is now the center of Denver City, Colo. Here we met Mountain Phil—of whom you will hear more in this narrative. He was living in a wick-i-up and had a squaw for a wife. Uncle Kit and I, being acquainted with him, stopped and had a chat with him while our horses were feeding. Uncle Kit asked him what he intended to do the coming winter, and he replied:
"I will trap for you if you like, but you will have to furnish me with an outfit, for I have none of my own."
"All right, Phil," said Carson, "I will give you a job, but you will have to stop alone, for none of my men will live with you."
"All right," said Phil, "me and Klooch will be enough to stop in one cabin, anyway."
These things being understood we rode off, Mountain Phil agreeing to meet us at Taos about two months from that time.
After we rode away I asked Uncle Kit why no one would live with Mountain Phil. His reply was, "Phil is a very bad man, and I yet have to