The advance scouts, whom Andrés and Pablo were guiding, spread and rode more cautiously, reconnoitring; but the Spring of Thomas was deserted; neither horse-herd nor Indians were there.
The signs were easy to read: the Indians had come in, afoot, from several directions, and had gone out driving the herd.
“I think we’d better follow those rascals, lieutenant, an’ teach ’em a lesson, or the trail won’t be safe for travel, all the year,” said Kit Carson. “If the Injuns get away unpunished, with these hyar hosses, they’ll take more. They’ll consider they’re boss.”
“Well,” answered the lieutenant, “go ahead, Kit. How many men do you want?”
“Godey an’ I’ll do. This Mexican’ll come, too, if we’ll lend him a fresh hoss.”
“Three of you, to tackle fifty?” queried the lieutenant. “Isn’t that a pretty big job?”
“Wall, I reckon we’re enough to stampede the animals, an’ raise a little ha’r if necessary,” asserted Kit, quietly. “Godey’s wuth a dozen ordinary men; an’ the Mexican’s wife air captured, you remember.”
“All right, Kit,” responded the lieutenant. “But we’re not asking you, or anybody, to go. That’s a risky proposition, pursuing Indians into the desert, and fighting somebody else’s battle. These are Mexicans—and their own caravan will be along, soon.”
“Mexicans or not, they’re human beings, lieutenant,” declared Kit, refilling his powder-flask. “Pore critters! Think o’ having yore own wife out thar, at the mercy o’ the savages. An’ thar’ll be other parties travelling the trail, with women an’ property. No, sir; those Injuns ought to be taught a lesson.”