In this day the so-called foreign government of Mexico extended north through New Mexico to the Arkansas River in Colorado and southwestern Kansas. The United States stopped at the Rocky Mountains; and, moreover, from Missouri to the Rockies all was “Indian Country” and the “Great American Desert.” From Missouri extended two long roads or trails, separating like a “V” with its point near present Kansas City. Up the Platte River, for the Northwest, ran the old trappers’ and fur-traders’ trail, now being made the Oregon Trail of emigrants. Up the Arkansas River, for the Southwest, ran the trail of the Santa Fé caravans. The desolate, unimproved Great American Desert was like a sea; and across this sea sailed, spring and fall, upon an 800 mile voyage, fleets of American wagons, to trade with the capital of northern Mexico.
They took out cargoes of calico, powder, lead, flour, shoes, and such American products; they brought back, at profit in money and at loss in life, cargoes of furs, hides, gold, gay blankets and such Mexican products.
This caravan of November, 1840, with its fifty-two wagons and harnessed teams, had at the beginning of the journey stretched out in a line almost a mile of length. Each wagon had a teamster. Some of the teamsters straddled the near animal of the wheel span (the span next to the wagon); others, in their boots and flannel shirts and broad hats, walked beside the wagon; horsemen, escort to the wagon-captain, who was the boss of the train, led the march, reconnoitering ahead; other horsemen paced at right and left; and at the rear of all, upon an old mule, driving a collection of loose horses and mules, rode a ragged little boy—Oliver Wiggins.
This was Oliver’s place—in the dust, at the tail of the long caravan. His duty was to herd the “cavvy,” as was styled for short the caballada (Spanish for horse-herd). His pay was five dollars a month, and the fun and the glory, and the work, of fifty days’ travel, at the rate of fifteen miles a day, across the plains of sand and sage, buffalo and antelope, hunger and thirst, storm and Indians, to strange far-off Santa Fé.
At first the march had been very pleasant. The caravan sometimes had spread out over the prairie in formation of four abreast. By day the teamsters had sung and cracked their long whips, beside the wagons; by night they had sung and told stories, beside the camp-fires. Everybody had been happy. But within the last two days the atmosphere had changed; for there had come riding fast, on the homeward way from Mexico, two traders, and had left the word, with the captain:
“Watch sharp! The Kiowas are out!”
That was enough. Quickly through the caravan spread the news—“The Kiowas are out!” All carelessness, all singing, ceased; and the order of march was made double file or two abreast, so that in case of attack the wagons could swing to right and left and quickly join in a great circle.
The Kiowas! The fiercest fighting Indians of the Southwest plains were they, outrivalled by neither Pawnee nor Comanche. Their name was terrible to the Santa Fé traders. Their range was southwestern Kansas and southeastern Colorado, thence south into the dread Comanche country below the Arkansas. When the caravan had left Missouri, the Kiowas were said to be at peace; but now they were said, on good authority, to be not at peace, and well might Wagon-Captain Blunt worry. He had a lot of green teamsters, poorly armed with old smooth-bore yagers; and whether, if given time to form a circle of wagons, they could beat off the painted warriors, he did not know.
Holding the rear of all, boy Oliver Wiggins, aged thirteen, left to the dust and the shuffling loose stock (defenseless beasts, a prize for the Indians), also well might worry. He wished now that he had not run away from home; and he began to wonder whether, after all, his pistol, about the size of the palm of his hand, was large enough. This pistol had seemed to him weapon in plenty for fighting Indians, in Missouri; but the farther from Missouri he journeyed, and the more stories he heard, the smaller the pistol grew.
Here in southwestern Kansas of to-day the Santa Fé Trail veered south, beyond the Great Bend of the river, to cross and to head for the Cimarron Desert and for New Mexico. This, the Crossing of the Arkansas, was half way to Santa Fé; but the half already covered was the easy half, the half to come was the dry, thirsty half, and the Kiowa and Comanche half.