Gazing about the camp, he counted on his fingers the inmates—including a mule that was being shod! He counted twenty-two.
“Why, there are none of you,” he jeered. “But of us——” and he pointed to the hills and mountains, “there are many, many.” He pointed to the rifles, of which he appeared to think little. “You have those.” He twanged his bow. “We have these!”
Up sprang Kit Carson, who had been sitting near. His tanned face was white-hot, his grayish eyes flamed bright blue. The filthy Indian’s contemptuous, ignorant words had stung him to the quick. He was the Kit Carson of the Kiowa fight, at the wagon-train corral on the Santa Fé Trail. Not since then had Oliver witnessed him so angry.
He had cocked his rifle; with one hand he clenched it, and the other hand he shook under the Indian’s nose.
“Don’t say that, old man!” he bade, in short, stern tone. “Don’t say that, unless you want to die.”
He spoke in English; and the old chief recoiled, his eyes darting the venom of a snake’s, as if he understood.
Oliver stepped forward, ready to help the man he loved. Through the camp sped the click of gun-locks.
“Steady, Kit,” now warned the lieutenant, alarmed. “We’re avoiding trouble, remember. He’s only an ignorant Digger.”
“No Injun, Digger or not, can come into camp whar I am an’ talk that way. We’re boss in this camp; it’s our camp,” declaimed Kit, still angry. “They can insult us from outside, ’cause that air Injun way; but if we once get to letting ’em in, with arms, they’ll massacree us, sure. This ought to be stopped right at the start, captain.” And again he applied himself to the hateful old chief. “Get out! Go!” Pointing, with stamp of foot, while he relaxed not his glare, Kit Carson at that moment looked to Oliver as fancy once had painted him—eight feet tall and four broad.
Slightly wilting, but defiant, the old chief and his squad reluctantly slunk away.