In the Rockies with Kit Carson

Late one afternoon when the sunlight was slanting through the trees and wavering upon the adobe walls of the Pueblo of Los Angeles, when the only sounds were the whispering winds in the higher boughs, and the thrumming of a stringed instrument from the soldiers’ quarters, a tall Spanish mule came clattering into the village with two boys astride its back. They were bronzed, sinewy looking youngsters; each held a long barreled rifle.

A barefooted sentry, his piece over his shoulder, looked up at the sudden sound; and as the mule was abruptly checked beside him, and the two lads slipped from its back, he whipped his weapon about and with a brown thumb upon the trigger, cried:

“Halt!”

The elder of the two lads wiped his forehead with his sleeve; then to the other he said:

“Hold tight to that old chap, Joe; we may have further use for him, you know.”

“I hope not,” declared Joe, ruefully. “He’s got a back like a buck-saw, and a gait like a dromedary. And between the two he’s the worst thing I ever rode.”

The elder boy saluted the sentinel.

“We are strangers,” he said, in good Spanish. “We belong to the trading schooner ‘Gadfly’ now off the coast; and we are in pursuit of a man named Lopez who ran away.”

The sentry grinned.

“A deserter?”

“He is. But we don’t object to that so much as we do the fact that he’s a thief as well. He robbed us, swam ashore, and the last seen of him he was heading toward this village.”

The sentry placed the butt of his musket upon a stone and leaned socially upon the barrel.

“There are some strangers in the Pueblo now,” he said. “But they are Americans. And they are not sailors, but trappers. They came from Taos in New Mexico,” wonderingly; “they crossed the desert where they might have died of thirst. And all to trap beaver.”

“Lopez is a half-breed,” said the youth. “And he has a scar, made by the slash of a knife, across his left cheek.”

The sentry shook his head.

“I saw no such man,” said he. “It may be that he went with the Hudson Bay men who I hear were at work on the streams not far from here about a week ago.”

“The man we are after left the schooner only this morning,” said the boy.

“The señor captain may have seen him,” spoke the soldier, helpfully. “It is his duty to ask all strangers for their passports.”

“Where is the señor captain to be found?” asked the boy.

The soldier shook his head, shouldered his piece and prepared to resume his tramp up and down.

“At this hour,” said he, “the captain is always asleep. It is his habit. Later, you can see him.”

Joe Frazier, from his post at the tall mule’s head, laughed.

“The habit is a bad one,” said he in reply to an inquiring look from his friend. “And I think the quicker the señor captain is broken of it the better. So I think, Dave, it’s your plain duty to do it.”

Dave Johnson turned soberly to the sentry. In careful Spanish he said:

“I am grieved to hear that your officer is asleep. Also I am sorry that under the circumstances we shall be forced to awaken him. Give him our compliments and say that two Americanos are here in a matter of much haste.”

The sentry stared.

“Wake the señor captain! Never! He would beat me!”

Dave considered, still gravely.

“That would be awkward,” he decided. “And I wouldn’t care to see it done. So to save you trouble, I will awaken him myself.”

And before the astonished soldier could prevent him, he strode to the door of the adobe dwelling and began thundering upon the door. A sleepy muttering was the answer.

“Take care!” cried the dismayed sentry, apparently at a loss as to how to deal with the situation. “He has an evil temper, señor!”

As the knocking went on, the muttering within swelled into a roar; then the door was flung open and a squat, heavy-faced man with small, angry eyes, and a brass-hilted sword in his hand, appeared. He glared at Dave, the little eyes seeming to snap.

“And so,” said he, “you will come knocking, will you, my brave fellow! Nothing will do but I must be disturbed, eh? Not a wink must I get after all the labors of the day. Very well, señor; we shall see.”

He spoke quietly, but there was a menace in his tone which did not escape Joe Frazier.

“Careful there, Dave,” he called in English. “I think he’s up to something.”

The little eyes of the Mexican officer now went to the sentry.

“And my commands are worth nothing, are they, my man? I waste my breath telling you that I must not be disturbed, and you allow the first rascally Americano who comes along to come thundering at my door. Very well! It will be your turn later!”

Again his glance shifted to Dave. The young American saluted in stiff military fashion.

“Pardon me, señor,” he said. “It is my misfortune that I had to break in upon your slumbers. The fact is----”

But the man stopped him sharply.