“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?”
“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.