“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.