Another source of strife among the trappers assembled at Saint Vrain’s was to be found in the fact, that a friendly Indian tribe, the “Crows,” were encamped near the post; and among these birds, notwithstanding the name are many that are beautiful.
No soft courtship suits an Indian belle. If you want to win her, you must show bravery; and you will not risk losing her affections if your bravery degenerate into brutalism!
Such are the moral inclinings of both men and women in the state called “savage;” but it must not be supposed that this is the state of Nature. On the contrary, the savages, properly so-styled, have long since passed from their pristine condition of simplicity. (Note 3.)
Several quarrels had occurred among the trappers at Saint Vrain’s Fort—more than one that had ended in the shedding of blood—and one of the bloodiest was on the eve of breaking out, when a cry from the sentinel on the azotea (Note 4) caused a suspension of the broil.
The quarrellers were below, on the level plain that stretched away from the grand gate entrance of the building, and formed a sort of general ground for assemblage—as well for athletic sports, as for games of a less recommendable kind.
The shout of the sentry caused them to look towards the plain, where they saw two horsemen going at a gallop, and evidently making for the Fort.
The rapidity with which they approached, and the way they were urging on their steeds, told a tale of haste. It could be no caper of two men trying the speed of their horses. The animals seemed too badly blown for that.
“Thar’s Injuns after them two fellers!” said Black Harris, a celebrated mountain man. “Or hez a been not far back. Boys! can any o’ ye tell me who they are? My sight ain’t so plain as ’twar twenty yeer ago.”
“If I ain’t mistook,” answered another of the trapper fraternity, “that ’un on the clay-bank hoss is ole ’Lije Orton, oreeginally from Tennessee. Who the other be, durn me ef I know. A young ’un, I guess; an’ don’t look at all like these hyar purairies, though he do sit that black hoss, as though he war friz to him. Don’t the feller ride spunky?”
“Ay dios!” exclaimed a man whose swarth skin and bespangled costume proclaimed him a Mexican. “Call that riding, do you? Carrai! on our side of the mountains a child of six years old would show you better!”