WITH CARSON AND
FRÉMONT

SECOND EDITION

THE
“Trail Blazers” Series

CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH

By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

An interesting work on the life and times of this famous soldier of fortune and American colonist, intended primarily for the young, but of such a character as to appeal to all.

With Four full-page Illustrations in Color by
HARRY B. LACHMAN

12mo. Cloth, $1.50

DANIEL BOONE, BACKWOODSMAN

By C. H. FORBES-LINDSAY

It is such a story of stirring adventure in the wilderness, based as it is on solid fact, that makes one thrill with pride in the bravery and manhood of the pioneers.

With Four full-page Illustrations by
FRANK McKERNAN

12mo. Cloth, $1.50

DAVID CROCKETT, Scout

By CHARLES FLETCHER ALLEN

A story setting forth all Davy’s versatility and recounting his many exploits in the East and in the new South-West. It tells of him as Indian Fighter, Bear Hunter, Statesman, and Defender of the Alamo.

With Four full-page Illustrations by
FRANK McKERNAN

12mo. Cloth, $1.50

[“WE TAUGHT THOSE THAR RED DEMONS A LESSON THEY’LL NOT FORGET.”]

WITH CARSON
AND FRÉMONT

BEING THE ADVENTURES, IN THE YEARS 1842–’43–’44, ON TRAIL OVER MOUNTAINS AND THROUGH DESERTS FROM THE EAST OF THE ROCKIES TO THE WEST OF THE SIERRAS, OF SCOUT CHRISTOPHER CARSON AND LIEUTENANT JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT, LEADING THEIR BRAVE COMPANY INCLUDING THE BOY OLIVER

BY

EDWIN L. SABIN

AUTHOR OF “BAR B. BOYS,” “THE MAGIC MASHIE,”
“BEAUFORT CHUMS,” ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
CHARLES H. STEPHENS
AND PORTRAITS

“We live in deeds, not years.”
—Philip James Bailey

PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1913

COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY

PUBLISHED, OCTOBER, 1912

PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.

TO THAT BOYS’ BEST FRIEND

THE MOTHER

AND IN PARTICULAR TO MY OWN MOTHER

ESTHER FRANCES SABIN

ABOUT WHOSE GRACIOUS NAME
CLINGS THE EVERLASTING
SWEETNESS OF HER MEMORY

PREFACE

The trail journals of the first two government exploring expeditions commanded by Lieutenant John Charles Frémont, of the United States Engineers, and advised by Kit Carson, mountain-man, are to be found together published, spring of 1845, as reports transmitted by the Secretary of War to the National Senate and House.

These journals, recording peril and privation faced for the wide public good and not for narrow private gain, occupy their honored niche among the golden archives of the Republic, and should be better known in American school and home. The trails themselves are eternal, denoted by names which have endured, many of them, unto this day. Of the men who may proudly and truthfully say, “I was with Frémont,” or “I was with Carson,” few indeed remain; and they will soon be gone, for man passes on, while that which he has wrought survives.

The Oliver Wiggins in this narrative is real. I have talked with him. He was the little boy under the wagon, and he was the Taos lad who won the Kit Carson rifle; he was upon the Frémont and Carson First Expedition, and he was upon the Second Expedition, by way of the Salt Lake to Fort Hall. However, there he turned back, with the other Carson men. In taking him through, as in having him ascend the highest peak, voyage the Salt Lake in the rubber boat, and be prominent in various such adventures, I have added to his biography as told to me. Yet in these credits I have not exalted him more than is his due, for brave men rarely tell of all that they have done well.

The other personages also are real, as members of the Frémont or of the Carson party. Some of the conversation is quoted from the Frémont reports; the remainder is applied according to the characteristics of the speakers, or is adapted from sentiments expressed at divers times and places. The incidents of course are based upon the Frémont journals, with sidelights from the recollections of Major Wiggins, and from the Frémont “Memoirs of My Life,” and like chronicles bearing upon the day.

The two principals, Lieutenant (later Captain, Colonel and General) Frémont, and Scout (later Colonel and General) Christopher Carson, thought highly each of the other; and this is warrant that they were manly men. Manly men respect manly men. Lieutenant Frémont said: “With me, Carson and truth are the same thing;” and he refers to their “enduring friendship.” Kit Carson left all—new ranch, home, wife, dear associates—which, save honor, he valued most, to accompany the lieutenant upon a Third Expedition, and in every crisis of march, camp, battle and politics he stuck stanchly to him. “I owe more to Colonel Frémont than to any other man alive,” he declared. Thus friend should stand by friend.

This Third Expedition, of 1845–1846, again into the Great Basin and across the Sierra Nevada Range to the Valley of the Sacramento, was timed to the conquest of California by American arms; but it is another long story. Following the Third Expedition, having resigned from the Army Colonel Frémont, in 1848–1849, voluntarily conducted a Fourth Expedition, upon which many lives were lost to cold and hunger amidst the winter mountains of south central Colorado; and in 1853–1854, a Fifth Expedition, once more across the Great Basin to California. In these two expeditions Kit Carson did not take part. He had the duties of home, and family, which also are man’s duties; and the duties of agent over the Ute and Apache Indians.

After that, came Civil War service for both friends, in fields separate.

Edwin L. Sabin.

San Diego, California.
May 15, 1912.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE

WITH CARSON AND FRÉMONT

[I]
KIT CARSON TO THE RESCUE

It was the middle of November, 1840; and across the sandy face of southwestern Kansas was toiling, outward bound from Missouri, a Santa Fé caravan: fifty-two huge, creaking canvas-topped wagons, drawn each by six or eight span of mules or yoke of oxen.

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.

Through the shallow water and the quick-sands forged the wagons of the Blunt caravan, upon the farther bank to halt, for camp and to fill the water-casks. The sun was low and red in the west, the long, high white-hooded wagons had been parked in the customary circle, outside the circle camp-fires were curling, pots were bubbling, meat was hissing, and before each camp tethered animals were grazing; sentries had been posted, and boy Oliver, hungry and grimy, was guarding his browsing cavvy, when a sudden commotion struck the peaceful scene. A sentinel upon a sand-hill fired his gun to signal “Injuns! Injuns!” and rushed like wild-fire the word. Every teamster sprang to round up his picketed team, or to help collect the oxen; the sentries came in at a gallop; and men sped to help Oliver with the cavvy. Through the opening left in the circle of wagons poured men and animals, from outside to inside. And against the sunset glow could be descried a long file of black mounted figures, approaching at rapid trot.

However, Captain Blunt, viewing them by spyglass, shouted thankfully:

“Not Injuns, men! Whites! Look like traders.”

Whereupon a sigh of relief swept the tense cordon.

The cordon did not dare yet to open out again; nevertheless, as the riders across the rolling sand-hills neared, they were seen by the naked eye to be whites indeed. They resolved into a double file of horsemen: trapper-clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggins, in broad-brimmed hats, in moccasins, and every man carried across his saddle-horn a tremendously long rifle.

“Mountain-men! Trappers!” announced Teamster “Dutch” Jake, in Oliver’s hearing. “Now if we only had them with us——!”

“They’re the chaps to make the Injuns stand ’round,” agreed another. And many a head nodded.

The cavalcade was within gun-shot. A man riding alone was leader; and as on they came, at the steady, fast “rack” or single-foot, straight for the camp, he held up his hand, palm outward, in a peace sign.

“High jinks! I know that man!” exclaimed “Dutch” Jake. And he added: “If it only be, now.”

Captain Blunt and two or three of his lieutenants, carrying their guns, walked outside a few steps to meet this leader. The conversation was wafted clearly through the still, dry air, while all the camp listened.

“Howdy?”

“Howdy?”

“Who’s yore captain?” This from the horseman.

“I’m the captain.” This from Blunt.

“Wall, my name’s [Kit Carson]. We’ve come over from Touse to ride the trail through Kiowa country, with anybody that needs us. S’pose you know the Kiowas air bad?”

[CHRISTOPHER CARSON]

“So we’ve heard. And we’re mighty glad to see you, Mr. Carson,” declared Captain Blunt, reaching up and shaking hands heartily.

Kit Carson! Kit Carson! The name passed from lip to lip around the wagon cordon; and a hundred eyes were fastened eagerly upon the spot where now this leader squatted beside a fire, as guest and counsellor of Captain Blunt.

The others in the party (which numbered about forty) had unsaddled like lightning, had turned their horses out, under a guard, and starting fires or gnawing strips of jerked meat were making their own camp near at hand. Darkly tanned, long-haired, broad-shouldered men were they, the majority heavily bearded. They moved lithely in moccasins, their buckskin suits were patched and stained, they scarcely stirred without rifle in hollow of arm, their belts bore pistol or pair of pistols, and knife; their talk was a curious jargon, but very expressive, and they themselves were exceedingly business-like.

But the wonderful Kit Carson, famous hunter and Indian fighter—was that really he? Of course, everybody on the Santa Fé Trail knew about Kit Carson, the free-trapper and captain of trappers, who as merely a boy had made such a name for himself in the mountains and who recently had come out of them, to live at Fernandez de Taos and to supply meat for Bent’s Fort, north. Ere leaving the Missouri frontier little Oliver had heard of Kit Carson as though he were ten feet tall and four feet wide, and bore a pine-tree for a club; but now little Oliver beheld an ordinary-looking person, not much taller than himself and not nearly so tall as many of the other trappers; with wiry body, bandy legs, flat features, and a voice so ridiculously low that his present conversation with Captain Blunt did not carry beyond the camp-fire light.

Murmured comment by teamsters, here and there among the wagons, showed to Oliver that he was not alone in his disappointment.

“That’s Kit Carson, is it?”

“That leetle feller, with the captain yon?”

“Wall, naow, I thought Kit Carson war some punkins!”

“A big Injun’s liable to pick him right up!”

“Whar’s his whiskers?”

But Dan Matthews, Captain Blunt’s first lieutenant, came hurrying, from point to point in the circle.

“Turn out your critters, men; and you guards post yourselves as before. Lively. There’s likely no danger to-night, Carson says; but keep your eyes and ears open, jest the same.”

“Is that thar reely Kit Carson—that leetle chap?” queried Teamster Henry, as the camp bustled to resume its routine.

“Yes.”

Henry grunted.

“Wall, he’s the smallest pea for the amount of pod ever I see!”

“Don’t you be fooled, Henry,” retorted Lieutenant Matthews. “You wait a bit, and if you don’t find that he’s got the biggest do for the size of his tell that ever you ran across, I’ll eat my hat.”

“That’s right,” affirmed “Dutch” Jake, overhearing. “Brag’s a good dog but he won’t fight; an’ you mustn’t jedge a race-hoss by the color of his hide. You’re seeing one Kit Carson, a gentle-speaking, mild-appearing, sort o’ nincompoop who you might think didn’t know beans. But there’s another Kit Carson, half hoss an’ half alligator, as they say on the Mississippi, or half grizzly b’ar an’ half charging elk, as I say; an’ I reckon you’ll see him, too, ’fore we’re through Injun country.”

These words of “Dutch” Jake impressed Oliver deeply, for Jake spoke as if he knew. At any rate, ’twas pleasant to have the reinforcements: to watch their easy figures, to hear their voices, to stroll through their camp and catch their conversation, to note their fringed, beaded clothing, their worn weapons, and their wildly shaggy faces; and to feel their presence, so handy, when in the darkness the fires died and both camps went to sleep.

All the next day the march proceeded, southward from the Arkansas, amidst sand hills and sparse vegetation. The trappers from Taos rode in a line along either side of the train, with scouts ahead and out upon the flanks. The men of the train laughed and talked, bantering back and forth. And behind, in the reek of the procession, boy Oliver, ragged and upon his old mule, driving the cavvy, strained eye and ear to keep tab upon what was being done and said. At the noon camp he had opportunity to scan, close by daylight, Kit Carson again.

Kit Carson proved to have a square face, rugged and weather-beaten, with sandy moustache, and framed in long brown hair combed smoothly down behind the ears. His cheek-bones were high, somewhat Indian-like, his forehead was high and full, his mouth straight and his chin firm. His most remarkable feature was his eyes—wide apart, level-set, and of an intense steely gray that fairly bored a hole where they looked. His movements were quick and sure; and how he stuck to a horse!

Oliver the more believed that “Dutch” Jake and Lieutenant Matthews both knew better than Henry and the other grumblers. Something about Kit Carson said so.

Despite the rough joking, the march was an earnest one. No straggling was permitted, to shoot antelope or elk. Yet the day was not uneventful, for once a great brown-bearded man—his beard reaching almost to his belt—who was Solomon Silver, a Carson man, dropping back, rode beside the cavvy until, having good-naturedly eyed Oliver, he joined him, to query, perhaps as a joke:

“Wall, boy; what’d ye reckon to do if the Injuns come down sudden?”

“I’d fight ’em,” said Oliver, bravely. “Here’s my pistol. See?”

“Haw! Haw!” boomed Sol Silver the trapper, in a rousing laugh; and behind his beard he chuckled. “That’s right, boy. Let’s see that shooting-iron o’ yorn,” and he laid it in the palm of his scarred hand. “No use o’ Kit an’ us a-riding the trail, when this air riding it too. I’ll tell him. ’Spec’ if you shoot an Injun with this, son, an’ he gets to find out, he’d be powerful mad at ye! But thar, boy; do yore best. Hyar’s ’nother kind o’ pistol. Ever see one?” And he pulled it from his buffalo-hide belt.

“No,” confessed Oliver.

It was an odd-looking pistol, with long barrel and a round bulge between barrel and stock.

“That air a pistol to shoot six times without reloading,” declared Sol. “It has one barrel an’ six chambers, in this cylinder; the barrel stays put, but the cylinder turns ’round, with a fresh load ready, whenever trigger air pulled. Wagh! It air made by a man named Colt, in the States; it air called Colt, but it air a full-size hoss.”

“Have you all got them?” asked Oliver.

“All we Carson men have ’em, an’ percussion-cap rifles, to boot. When Kit Carson goes into a fight, he goes in to win, an’ the best weapons air none too good for his men. We air Carson men.” Sol proclaimed this with a certain degree of pride.

“Will the Kiowas attack us, sure?” invited Oliver.

“’Bout to-morrow, Kit thinks. When they do, you give us fellows a chance ’fore you open up with yore battery an’ take all the scalps.”

But Oliver suspected that Sol was joking again. Still, he liked this jovial, burly Sol Silver, and hoped that he would tell Kit Carson.

Nothing especial happened this night in camp, save that Captain Blunt and lieutenants passed about, examining all the guns and asking if powder-horns were full. But at the breaking of camp, in the dawn, when the wagons were forming to pull out in the double-column, something very especial happened. Behold, into every wagon climbed a trapper or two, and stowed themselves safely away amidst the goods under the protective canvas hoods! Just a corner of the canvas was left looped up a few inches, as if for air.

Now throughout the caravan eddied a gale of jeer and derision and protest.

“This is the way they ride the trail with us, is it!”

“These ain’t mountain-men; they’re gophers!”

“Have we got to haul ’em an’ fight for ’em, both?”

Even Kit Carson had disappeared, for cover. But no response was made by the trappers; Captain Blunt and his assistants bade the teamsters “Ketch up!” and straighten out, for the march; and two by two on rolled the wagons, the teamsters angry, the trappers comfortably inside, and the trappers’ horses tethered to the end-gates.

The action on the part of the trappers seemed as strange to boy Oliver as it did to the teamsters. Was that how Kit Carson men battled—by hiding behind other men, and by crawling under cover and making the people they were pretending to defend fight outside? Humph! Maybe this wasn’t Kit Carson, after all.

The sand-hills were increasing in number and extent; dusty and dry was the way but nobody could drink, for it was against orders to drink out of the casks, or to fill canteens except once a day. The “dry march” of over fifty miles was beginning, and sometimes water gave out before it was traversed. So every drop must be cherished.

With the hot sun about two hours high the caravan was entering upon a long, rather narrow swale leading between rounded sand-ridges whereon only cactus and a few sprawly weeds grew. Captain Blunt and several other riders were in advance; out upon the right flank, and somewhat in advance rode Lieutenant Dan Matthews and two men, and similarly upon the left flank rode another wagon-train lieutenant. They climbed hill after hill, and ridge after ridge, and surveyed closely the country. As a rear-guard, behind even Oliver, rode a squad of half-a-dozen traders and free-lances. Thus the caravan was apparently well provided against surprise; and as evidently the Kiowas were thought to be near at hand, the rear-guard gave Oliver a more comfortable feeling.

If the train must take care of itself, with those trappers cravenly putting greater store on their own hides than on the purpose for which they had pretended to join, then the more precautions the better.

[II]
UNDER THE WAGON

How quietly wound the train, between the low dun hills! No lashes cracked, no voices shouted, mule, ox and horse steadily plodded, and the only sounds were the subdued words of the teamsters encouraging their animals, and the creaking of the dry wagon-frames. But hark! Right in the midst of this brooding atmosphere drifted down from the hills upon the right a rifle-report; and when Oliver caught sight of the place, here came, full tilt, from flankers’ duty, Dan and his comrades; behind them the smoke of the report was still wafting.

“Injuns!” This was the alarm. Instantly the caravan was again in a frenzy of commotion. Teamsters curled their lashes and sent their mules into a lope, their oxen into a lumbering trot; loud rose a medley of exclamations, orders, rumbling of wheels. From behind little Oliver, who, his heart in his mouth, was shouting at his lazy cavvy, urging them forward (Oh, such a long way must he go!), rode for him the rear-guard.

“Quick! Roust these critters!” they bade, one to another, and helped him. The cavvy was forced into a trot.

From right and left and before, the flankers and van-guard were hustling in, bending low and lashing their horses. Now another report of rifle drifted in; another, and another! Barely pausing in their mad flight, Dan and his two comrades were turning in saddle and aiming to their rear; jets of white smoke sped from the muzzles of their guns, as one after another they fired. For there were the Indians—issuing from the crest of the sand-ridge, as if springing out of holes, and pouring over, down the slope, trying to catch Dan and the other men. They must be Indians, because they flourished lances, and because they were naked, with feathers streaming in the breeze.

But they couldn’t overtake Dan and his men.

Now from the opposite slope echoed more shots. Indians here also! See them come, after that squad of scouts! Why didn’t the trappers get out from the wagons, and help? Why didn’t the cavvy travel faster? What a lot of Indians! And would the wagons be parked, in time, and would there be a hole left for the cavvy? Supposing there wasn’t, and he, Oliver, must stay outside!

“Roust those critters! Roust those critters!” urged the men with Oliver, as in the dust and the hubbub and the excitement they all shrieked together.

Almost crying, in his earnestness, little Oliver did his best.

As fast as they arrived at trot and gallop the wagons swung to right and to left, tongues inside, front wheels locked with hind wheels of the previously arrived, the teams were unhitched, the teamsters knelt to thrust their yagers between the spokes and aim. Smaller and smaller grew the opening, as the oval closed—but amidst yell and murk, in through the opening galloped at last the cavvy, and like the rest little Oliver, breathless, gasping, found himself “forted.”

None too soon was it! Down streamed, on either flank, the foe—a hideously screaming, whooping, feathered, painted foe: riding, many of them bridleless, most of them garmentless, brandishing tufted lance and strung bow, with here and there a gun, face and body daubed lavishly with red and yellow.

“Kiowas!” ran through the wagon-fort the muttered exclamation. And——

“Get out o’ there, you trappers! You Kit Carson men!” rose the angry cry. “Get out o’ yore holes an’ show what you can do!”

But from within the wagons answered never a sound nor a stir.

However, ’twas no time nor place, now, to berate the dastard mountain-men, so false to their reputation. The teamsters were green; the wagon-fort had been poorly formed, in the haste; the location was bad, for defense; and darting from wagon to wagon, along the circle, Captain Blunt and other leaders besought the defenders to keep cool and hold their fire.

The painted Kiowas on-rushed as if they were to ride right over the wagons! “Bang!” spoke the yager of a teamster. And “Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bangity-bang!” bellowed the smooth-bores as his excited mates pulled triggers. In vain Captain Blunt and his aides ran, ordered, implored, threatened. The Kiowas were two hundred yards away; too far for a clumsy yager—but at the volley every one fell from his horse. Were they all killed? Were they? Hurrah, thought little Oliver. No—a fellow in bright yellow leggins was left! But at the “pop!” of little Oliver’s pistol he, also, fell over! Then——

No! More were left, on this side; and on the other side! See? Even the yellow-leggins had come to life. Saddle-pad after saddle-pad miraculously grew a figure, and on dashed the Kiowas again, as many as ever, with joyous yelps charging empty guns. That was what they had hoped for—empty guns.

Realizing, the panicky teamsters fumbled and made mistakes, as rattling their pieces among the wagon-spokes they would pour powder, ram ball, prime pan, cock, aim, fire. Disdaining to hang now by thong-loops upon the opposite side of their horses, with bows drawn, lances poised, and a gun or two speaking, the wild redmen of the sand-hills bore headlong for the weakly answering caravan.

So swiftly they neared! Ere half the yagers had been reloaded they were within fifty yards. Could anything stop them? With thud upon thud their arrows pelted in and through. Their paint patterns were plain, their faces glared, their guttural exclamations could be heard—and boy Oliver, with one last frantic glance about, dived under a low-hung wagon.

Even as he did so, he heard a new sound. It was not “Bang!” and “Bang!” It was “Spat!” “Spat! Spat!” and “Whing!” The wagon over him swayed, a fresh fume of powder-smoke floated to his nostrils. The trappers! He had forgotten the trappers! They had fired, at last, from beneath the wagon-covers—but they were too late.

It seemed to little Oliver that he waited a long time for the charge. He still heard the whoops and grunts of the Kiowas, right at hand—they were coming, coming, coming! They would scalp the whole caravan, and steal all the cavvy! And while he waited, clutching his pistol, another sound arose. Inside the wagon-fort was a new commotion—a clamor of voices, a shuffling of hasty feet, a rattle of stirrup and a thud of many hoofs!

Had the Kiowas broken through? They must! The wagon over him swayed again, something struck it, almost shoved it to one side; he peered, craning his neck to see into the dust—and a set of hoofs passed right over his head. He glimpsed a buckskin rider, on the outside; a trapper had forced his horse between the loosely locked wheels of the two wagons, and was on the outside!

The Kiowas were here, too. Many were upon the ground, and the red which stained them was redder than the red of vermilion paint. Yes, many and many were upon the ground. But the others were charging about; little Oliver had not been waiting long, after all. He knelt, trembling in his eagerness. There were still a host of Kiowas, and they were very angry. The wagon-fort must be fairly oozing trappers, mounted; for from either direction they were galloping into the field, their lines loose, their buckskin-clad, fringed bodies leaning forward, pistol in hand.

Across the little space, to the line of prone and doubled figures they raced. “Bang! Bang!” jetted their pistols. The live Kiowas, dodging and hanging to the necks of their ponies, parted before the counter-charge, swerved at the volley, let the trappers into their midst—and with a great savage yell of vengeance turned, to close. For the trappers’ pistols were empty, as the teamsters’ yagers had been! Now long scores would be settled; a trapper’s scalp was worthy many a dance.

But what a surprise! With “Bang! Bang!” the pistols spoke again and yet again and again, and needed no reloading! Down from their ponies plunged stricken Kiowas, fierce career ended; around wheeled the unstricken, lying low upon pony backs, hammering pony sides with desperate heels, fleeing the wondrous medicine of the whites. And through the lodges of plains and desert spread the wail: “White man shoot one time with rifle and six time with butcher-knife!” Thus before the eyes of boy Oliver, under the wagon, was broken by Kit Carson and his men the power of the caravan pirates.

Cheering and lashing, the trappers made pursuit clear out of sight. All around the wagon-fort the battle had resulted the same. With that result the teamsters really had little to do, after their first ineffective volley; and they could only stare, open-mouthed, when so unexpectedly the trapper rifles emptied the saddle-pads in earnest, and without hesitation out the trappers charged. They still were staring, scarcely crediting, when back the trappers rode, in little squads, grim and weary, but not without their banter. Slipped under the belts they brought scalps. Oliver saw Sol Silver, and he recognized others—and he found Kit Carson.

Kit Carson chanced to ride close in, past Oliver’s wagon, and paused here to shake hands with Captain Blunt. His face was flushed and his lips tight together; and his eyes! They were terrible eyes, not now steel-gray but a vivid blue, flaming like living amethysts or like blue stars.

“Yes, sir,” he said, in reply to Captain Blunt’s congratulations. “[We taught those thar red demons a lesson they’ll not forget.] It’s all over. Go ahead with yore caravan.”

Hearing, Oliver shame-facedly crawled out from beneath the wagon; and it seemed to him that Kit Carson the Great saw him, and smiled friendly at him.

Some of the teamsters would have liked to mingle with the trappers and to rehearse what had been done, and what had not been done, and what might have been done, in the short fight; but “Catch up! Ketch up!” and “Fall in, men!” rang the sharp orders of the caravan officers. Time had been lost, water was dwindling, every moment was precious; the march must proceed at once.

So team after team settled to collar and yoke, wagon after wagon lurched forward; and presently little Oliver was once more in the rear of all, driving his cavvy through the drifting dust. Strangely enough, not a man of caravan or trappers had been wounded, and only one mule had received an arrow, in the hip.

“Wall, boy, how’d you like the Kiowas?” It was Sol Silver, again, back beside Oliver. Brown-bearded and burly, he looked the same as ever and as if he had not been in any fight. But tucked in his belt were two scalps. “Whar’s yore pelts for trophies?”

“I haven’t any. I wasn’t close enough,” answered Oliver, truthfully.

“Didn’t I see you chasing the chief on yore mule?” invited Sol. “Kit took one chief an’ you took t’other.”

Oliver flushed, and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t try.”

“Whar war ye, then?”

Oliver flushed more and hung his head.

“Under a wagon.”

“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol, and chuckled through his beard. “What war the matter?”

Oliver wanted to cry.

“I guess I was afraid.”

“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol. “Guess mebbe you war.” Then he sobered. “You fetched yore cavvy in, though, I hear tell.”

“Men helped me.”

“But you come in behind an’ not ahead, jest the same,” asserted Sol. “That war right. Warn’t ye afraid the Injuns’d get ye, ’fore you war forted?”

Oliver nodded.

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Sol. “You corralled yore cavvy fust, an’ then you crawled under the wagon. Don’t blame ye for being afraid. Only a fool’s never afraid. Being afraid doesn’t make anybody a coward. I ’spec’ you thought us trappers war afraid, too, when we crawled into the wagons, ’fore you crawled under one.”

Oliver must nod again.

“We warn’t; not this time. But I reckon we’ve all been afraid, many another time. This time we crawled into the wagons so the Injuns wouldn’t see us. If the Injuns spied Kit Carson men riding with a wagon-train they’d never attack, you bet. These Southwest Injuns know us Kit Carson men by sight, now. An’ you jest say ‘Kit Carson’ to ’em, an’ out comes the peace-pipe mighty quick. They can depend on Kit to fight ’em if they’re bound to fight, or to talk straight with ’em if they want to talk straight. He air a bad enemy, an’ he air a best friend. He shoots plumb centre, with both tongue an’ rifle.”

The noon camp was very brief; long enough only for the animals to breathe, and for the men to munch a strip each of dried meat, while coffee boiled. But it was long enough for Oliver to sidle near where Kit Carson appeared to be telling stories to a group of caravan men. Anybody should know that Kit Carson must have marvellous stories to tell.

“But what about that time you sneaked on hands an’ knees, through the snow, close to the Injun fort, near head o’ the Arkansas, an’ cut the hosses loose an’ drove ’em off with snow-balls?” asked Teamster Henry.

“When war that?” inquired Kit Carson, as if mildly surprised.

“Some years back. When you fust went into the mountains.”

“Oh,” said Kit Carson, slowly rubbing his chin. “That war some o’ Captain Gant’s men. Captain Gant had lost some hosses, by these Crows, an’ his men went an’ got ’em. Can’t do without hosses, in the mountains.”

“But weren’t you along?”

“Wall, I might have followed,” drawled Carson, uneasily. “I don’t exactly remember ’bout that. They war brave fellows, though. They——”

“Reckon you’ve made a heap o’ Injuns run, all the same,” interrupted an admiring caravaner.

“Sartinly, sartinly,” agreed Kit Carson. “Part the time I’ve been running after them, an’ most the time they’ve been running after me.”

“You gave ’em a good dose this time, though.”

“Wall, we had to; we had to. My men had to,” declared Kit Carson, and he brought down his clenched hand. “But we didn’t like to; that is, we oughtn’t to like to. Nobody likes to kill human beings; an’ these Injuns, pore critters, ain’t been raised to know any better’n to rob an’ murder. They think this hyar’s their country, an’ we whites air using up the game they depend on. But o’ course, these Kiowas come down ’specting to wipe out a defenceless train that warn’t doing ’em any harm, an’ we simply had to shoot into ’em. If this caravan didn’t lick ’em, proper, some other caravan must. Now the job’s over.”

“How many did you kill, of ’em? You got the chief, didn’t you?”

“Me?” queried Kit Carson, again mildly surprised. “Oh, thar war jest a lot o’ shooting an’ riding around, an’ we did the best we could. We war lucky to have these six-shooter pistols—revolvers, they call ’em. Ever see ’em before?”

“You’ll never get him to talk about himself,” warned a trapper to a listener near Oliver. “Sometimes he will, with Injuns, ’cause they understand boasting, an’ they all know Kit Carson. But ’tain’t white man way with him. So you might as well quit. He hates the leetle letter ‘I.’”

“That’s heap weepon, shorely,” commented a teamster, examining. “Beats the big gun of that boy, yonder.”

Now, this caused everybody to look at Oliver, which was most embarrassing. He was well aware that his little pistol was not so grand as these new-style revolvers; and he did not like to be laughed at. But Kit Carson, as if glad to change the subject from himself, smiled and said quickly:

“Hello, boy. You’re safe, they say, an’ so’s yore cavvy. You’ll make a warrior yet.”

Oliver must hang his head and turn and twist. He didn’t deserve such praise.

“Yes, sir; but I crawled under a wagon,” he blurted. “I didn’t fight any.”

“Haw! Haw!” rose the laughter.

“Wall,” remarked Kit Carson, quietly, but clearly, “I’ve seen many a time when I wished I war under a wagon, myself.”

At this moment “Catch up! Ketch up!” sounded the calls, and the talk must end, while the caravan resumed the trail.

Not another Indian came into sight, as the train plodded on, with the Kit Carson men still acting as escort. At sunset camp was made for the night, beside a dried water-course where grew a few hardy cottonwoods. Sitting wearily his old mule, watching his cavvy until the night guard should relieve him, little Oliver wished that he was by one of the trappers’ mess-fires instead, where Kit Carson might smile upon him, again. However, while he sat upon the mule, a figure rode to him, through the dusk. It was the booming Sol Silver, once more. Sol spoke direct.

“Boy, Kit sent me to ask how’d you like to go on to Touse with us, ’stead o’ to Santy Fee with the caravan?”

Oliver gasped.

“Can I? With you!”

“If you want to, an’ if Kit decides so. We take the Touse trail in the morning. Now, if you’re to come, thar’ll be a fire made at the foot o’ that thar cottonwood, standing out alone. See it? Wall, if you see the flare, pretty soon, you’ll know. But you’ll lose yore wages from the caravan. They’ll not pay ye less you go through to Santy Fee with ’em.”

“I don’t care,” stammered Oliver. “I’d rather go to Touse, with you. Can I be a Kit Carson man?”

“Reckon you can, some time, if you got it in you; an’ if Kit thinks you have, you have. All right; don’t say anything, an’ watch for the fire.”

Sol rode back to his mates. Oliver watched anxiously. Hurrah, the fire flared, just as he was trudging to supper. And when, in the morning, caravan and trappers parted company, into the west on the Taos trail rode with the Kit Carson men little Oliver Wiggins.

[III]
OLIVER WINS HIS SPURS

That evening, with clatter of hoof and volley of victorious whoops and rifle-shots, amidst the sunset they galloped into the New Mexican village of Don Fernandez de Taos, sixty miles west from where they had parted with the Santa Fé bound caravan.

Taos, or “old Touse,” as it was affectionately styled, lies in a mountain valley eighty miles north of Santa Fé. Here had his home and headquarters Kit Carson, captain over his company of forty-five trappers. He lived in one of the box-like clay houses, with his little daughter Adaline. Adaline, four years old, was a dark, elfish lass, half Indian; for her mother, Kit Carson’s wife, had been an Arapahoe. Kit had married this Arapahoe in the mountains, in the summer of 1835, but she had died soon after the birth of little Adaline.

“Kit thought a heap o’ Alice,” declared Sol Silver, to Oliver. “Some trappers jest take a squaw as cook an’ lodge cleaner, an’ all that. But Kit air true man. He named his squaw Alice, an’ when she died he felt mighty bad. He’s got that gal to raise, now.”

The Kit Carson company of trappers were divided into two bands, under Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain and Lieutenant Sol Silver. They took turns going upon excursions after beaver—or sometimes they all were out together.

Besides the beaver-hunting, there was the buffalo-hunting for Bent’s Fort. Northeast of Taos, 250 and more miles, upon the Arkansas River in southern Colorado of to-day, was the large clay-built trading-post of Bent’s Fort, or Fort William, its hardy garrison trafficking with 20,000 wild Cheyennes, Utes, and Arapahoes.

Kit Carson had the contract for supplying the garrison with meat. So twice a year, in spring and in fall, the Carson men gathered at Bent’s Fort, for a great buffalo-hunt. Into the fort were brought thousands of pounds of buffalo-meat.

The great Kit Carson did not seem to think much of Oliver, after landing him in Taos. He gave him a place to sleep and a place at table; but he did not send him out to trap beaver, or hunt buffalo, or rescue traders. He put him upon the shabby mule, and set him at his old job of tending a horse-herd.

“It’s this way, boy,” consoled Sol Silver, when Oliver would complain. “You do well what’s yores to be done, an’ chance at more will come.”

The extra horses and mules belonging to the Kit Carson company were pastured in the open on the outskirts of town. Every morning they must be driven out to graze, and every evening they must be brought back to the corral. It was Oliver’s business to drive them out and to drive them back—which he did with many shouts and much rope-waving and gallant racing by his ancient mule. Thus for a year he was the official herder for the Carson company.

The Carson men came and went. Oliver heard their stories, of stirring deeds by themselves or by Bill Williams, Jim Bridger, Captain Billy Sublette, and others; and by Kit Carson. On the other hand, he never heard “Kit” (as his friends lovingly called him) make much mention of himself in any adventures; somebody else always was the hero.

When home in Taos Kit played much with his swarthy little daughter, Adaline. Just what to do with her appeared to bother him. Oliver once noted him saying, in his soft voice, with broad accent of the South and the border mingled:

“I war raised without schooling; then I ran away an’ I war twelve years on the trail an’ in the mountains ’fore I came out to Bent’s an’ to Taos again. Now I’m thirty-two, an’ without any education ’cept trapper education. ’Tisn’t human for a man not to be able to read or write; an’ what I’m to do with my leetle gal I don’t know. But I want her to have education.”

This seemed to Oliver rather a queer idea from the great Kit Carson, who could shoot and ride and trail and talk Indian talk and make Indian sign, besides speaking a rude Spanish and some French. Why should such a man care to read and write, or wish that his children should read and write? But Kit Carson had been much in earnest, nevertheless.

Now was it the late fall of 1841, and Oliver still was the official herder for the Carson company. However, he had grown very much during these twelve months in the fresh air, riding and tramping and doing man’s work. Tough of muscle and sturdy of frame, he was becoming full-chested like Kit Carson himself. But he could not yet be called a trapper.

The men were kind to him; he liked them; he stood their joking and their rough ways, and tried to do what they told him was best to do. So they apparently liked him, in turn, and would teach him how to shoot quick and straight, and to ride easily and surely.

On this, an afternoon in the last week of November, he had been permitted by Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain (a stalwart six-footer was Ike, and a tremendous fighter, they all said) to take out upon herd Ike’s favorite rifle—a heavy flint-lock, made by the celebrated gun-smith Hawkins, of St. Louis. It was taller than Oliver, and the long barrel was so heavy that he scarcely could hold it out; so when he shot it he rested it upon brush, or crossed sticks, or whatever else was handy. But the bullet sped true to the sight. “Plumb centre” shot a Hawkins rifle.

With the heavy rifle balanced across his lap, with buffalo-horn powder-flask and beaded hide bullet-pouch slung from his shoulders, and with broad, keen skinning-knife belted by hide belt at his right thigh, he was prepared to shoot rabbits. Obeying instructions of Ike and Sol and the other men, he had learned to hit the rabbits only in the head. It was fairer to the rabbit, for the rabbit had more chance of escape by being missed. To hit a rabbit in the body was scorned by mountain-men, and was deemed careless, slovenly work.

Bearing thirteen rabbits shot each through the head by single ball from the flint-lock Hawkins mountain rifle, Oliver proudly drove the Carson “cavvy” home at evening. Laden like valiant hunter he trudged through the village, to exhibit his spoils—and to get his supper.

He found Taos stirred by excitement. Several strange teamsters were forming centres of little groups of listeners. These were Santa Fé caravan teamsters; they had sought Taos to report that between Taos and Santa Fé a band of Indians had stampeded fourteen span of their mules, and to ask help from the Kit Carson men.

At an unfortunate moment had the teamsters applied for the succor. Trappers were out upon the final fur hunt of the year; a buffalo hunt for Bent’s Fort was in progress; Ike Chamberlain had ridden away that morning, upon errand bound; and Kit Carson was temporarily pallet-laid by reason of a pistol wound through the left leg. His new Colt’s revolving pistol had fallen from his belt, and striking upon its hammer had discharged its ball diagonally through between knee and ankle.

As for the other men in Taos, they were slothful Mexican loungers, not at all of a spirit to help the Americans fight the Indians. “Let the Americans do their own fighting,” they said; “we want only to be let alone.”

Kit Carson was much perturbed, half sitting, restlessly, on his couch of blankets and robes.

“What you got thar, boy?” he demanded.

“Rabbits. I shot every one in the head,” informed Oliver.

“Let me see ’em.”

Oliver brought in the bunch, and threw it down before Kit Carson, who explored it with his sound foot.

“Wall!” he mused, slowly. “A lad who can shoot like that needn’t herd cavvy. It’s time you went on the hunt. I’ll put a Mexican at herding.” Oliver’s heart leaped gladly. Kit Carson fidgeted, ill at ease, and continued: “Now those teamsters have come in, expecting us to help ’em get back their stolen critters, an’ I haven’t got a single man to send out after the red rascals. An’ hyar I’m laid up, myself! What do you think, boy? You know the country. Do you reckon you could take these fellows an’ help ’em get back their critters, if I told you exactly whar to go?”

Oliver nodded. His eyes were big, his heart thumped in his throat so that at last he could only stammer:

“I’ll try. I guess I could. I’ll try.”

“Wall,” said Kit, still restless, “nobody can do more than try. An’ hyar’s a chance for you at mountain-man work. ’Less I’m much mistaken, those red rascals air making straight for——” and he described to Oliver a well-known box-canyon or enclosed pocket, among the hills 150 miles westward. Oliver nodded; he had been that far, once, upon a little trip with Kit Carson, and he remembered the trail. “They’ll take the critters thar an’ hide ’em; an’ now they won’t be expecting pursuit. With everybody fresh mounted, if you leave right after eating this evening you ought to get thar to-morrow evening, so as to rush the camp in ’arly morning. Pick a good hoss out o’ the cavvy, for yoreself. Fust go get something to eat. Thar come some o’ the men; I’ll tell ’em what we’re to do.”

Treading air and vastly excited, himself, Oliver sped away to make his preparations.

“Better fill yore powder flask, boy,” called Kit, kindly. “Help yoreself from my horn, yonder. An’ thar’s the bullets. They fit Ike’s gun. But don’t shoot ’less you have to; an’ if you do shoot, shoot as straight as if you war shooting rabbits. Remember, it air the bullets that hit that count.”

“Yes, sir; I’ll remember,” engaged Oliver, working eagerly.

So presently into the twilight glow rode the dozen teamsters, armed and mounted as well as practicable. Two and two they rode: their bearded, booted, flannel-shirted captain, and ragged Oliver high on a yellow horse, side by side in the lead.

Through the twilight, and through the gloaming, and through the starry night, at trot broken by now and then a brief space of walk, westward rode the little cavalcade, to surprise the Apaches.

The dark blue sky gradually paled; paled the dusky earth; coyotes homeward slinked; little brown birds twittered amidst the brush; from the east spread upward a pink radiance; and stiff and chilled from the night’s travel through the great open sage country, at rising of the sun the pursuit jogged into the first of the hill defiles.

As they rode, the horsemen ate; chewing at strips of dried buffalo meat.

Higher and more numerous waxed the hills, their long steep slopes covered with chaparral and stunted timber, and separated by bouldered water-courses, many of them dry. The trail seemed a blind one.

“Do ye know whar you’re going, boy?” queried the teamster captain, doubtfully.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been in here before, and Kit Carson told me,” answered Oliver, hard at work thinking, and peering keenly.

At noon they rested by a stream, and let the horses graze, and dozed, themselves, while down upon the wild maze of quiet wooded hills poured the generous sun—his beams hot in the thin atmosphere.

After their nooning, again they rode. The country had grown wilder; the hills had become peaks, snow-capped; the water-courses had cut deep gulches and canyons. It was the favorite region of the Jicarilla (Heek-ah-ree-yah, i.e., Basket) Apaches; the ancient volcano land of northern New Mexico west of the Rio Grande. Here the Jicarillas had their retreats.

Now the pursuit must ride more carefully, for Oliver was not certain but that they might be near the Indians. So they scanned every ridge to catch timely glimpse of Indian scout, and every hollow to catch glimpse of tell-tale smoke. An oddly-shaped little peak was the landmark; and as by way of draw and pass, from valley to valley, they neared it, Oliver’s heart beat faster. Below the peak was that box-canyon or enclosed basin where, according to Kit Carson’s judgment, the stolen stock would be hidden.

At last the wearied little cavalcade wound around a wooded shoulder and could scan the spot where lay the outlaw refuge. Up-wafted lazily, as from the basin itself, into the sunset atmosphere above the fringing trees and rocks, a film of hazy blue smoke. Indian camp!

However, too late was it, this day, to attack; darkness would interfere. So the pursuit rode nearer, and sent two men forward afoot to spy. They left; and they returned, scratched and grimy, in the dusk, to report that a Jicarilla camp was located in the basin, that the Indians were gorging and making merry around a fire, and that more than fourteen span of mules, evidently stolen, were grazing freely, hobbled not nor tethered, upon the grass of the secluded niche. Having driven their spoil 150 miles into the heart of the Apache mountains, the Indians evidently were expecting no interference.

And here, likewise 150 miles from white settlement, the pursuit grimly squatted down to a fireless night and a long wait until dawn. They slept at intervals; even Oliver slept, exultant though he was at having led true, and anxious though he was for further results.

The dawn grayed; the men stiffly stirred about, saddling their hunched horses and priming afresh their weapons.

“Let the boy show the trail,” bade the teamster leader, gruffly. “He’s been hyar’bouts before, he says.”

Oliver was nothing loth; Kit Carson had told him exactly where to strike the one entrance into the basin—the one entrance which also was the one exit. Therefore, carrying the Ike Chamberlain rifle in approved fashion in hollow of left arm, ready, Oliver forced his yellow horse into the advance.

“When we charge, everybody yell ‘Kit Carson! Kit Carson!’” he proposed, huskily. “When they hear that they’ll run, sure. They’re afraid of Kit Carson.”

The teamster leader gravely nodded; and down the dim file, following the yellow horse, was passed the word: “Yell ‘Kit Carson’!”

The mist of dawn enveloped the world, and lay moist upon twig and leaf. In silence the single file threaded the pines; the moist carpeting of needles gave no sound. Into a gravelly draw through which ran a newly hoof-cut trail they rode; boulders closed about them; a stream flowed past for the outer country; they quickened their pace to a trot; and, every rifle poised, at a gallop they poured through the narrow entrance and charged across the open park inside.

“Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” shrilled little Oliver, excitedly hammering with his moccasined heels the flanks of his yellow horse.

“Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” welled hoarsely the chorus behind him.

Barked Apache dogs; snorted Apache pony and stolen mule, stampeding here and there in the grayness. Spreading, on left and right, the charging teamsters overtook Oliver. Before, recumbent figures around the smouldering fires had up-leaped, throwing off blankets and robes, seizing weapons, hesitating, to discharge hasty bullet or arrow, and at thud of hoof, crack of rifle, and that terrible cry, “Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” half-naked to flee, through the grayness—scurrying across the level and scrambling amidst the rocky walls.

“Whang!” spoke Oliver’s Ike Chamberlain rifle—its butt half-way to his shoulder, its heavy muzzle pointed out in the general direction of the rout.

And “Whang!” “Bang!” spoke the pieces of the teamsters.

Fleeing figures pitched headlong to the dewy sward; from amidst the rocks of the crumbling, sheer walls, where, at bay, they vainly answered with shot and yell, others pitched headlong, or sank back, to be still. While two or three of their number guarded the exit, that the ponies and mules might not escape, the teamsters charged on, searching the rocks with rifle and pistol; and not an Indian of the eighteen thieving warriors was left alive.

But young Oliver found that this was very different from shooting at rabbits; and in after days he never was certain whether he had killed all—or none. However, he fired only the one shot; and at the close of the battle he still was trying to reload!

In the sunrise, with eighteen ponies bearing Apache brands or ear-marks, and with thirty-five mules and horses bearing trader or trapper brands or ear-marks, the triumphant little cavalcade rode out from the trampled strong-hold, upon trail for Taos. Sharing with the teamster leader the advance, Oliver sat proudly his yellow horse. He had earned his place.

At the close of the second day they entered Taos. Summoned by the great clatter of hoofs and the loud volley of triumphant whoops, the villagers cheered.

“Buen’ muchacho!” praised the natives, calling to Oliver: “Good boy!”

And Oliver passed on, to share in the report by the teamster captain at the house of Kit Carson.

Kit Carson said little, but his blue-gray eyes brightened.

“Wall, I reckoned you’d find ’em thar,” he said, from his couch against the wall. “Hyar, boy; fetch me that gun yonder.”