“Well,” commented the lieutenant, when all breathed easier, “that old fellow was nearer his end than he ever will be again until he meets it.”
Several horses and mules had been left behind, on the trail, to be brought along, later, after they had rested. Thomas Fitzpatrick, who had gone back after them, now reported that they had been killed by the Indians, cut up, and the fragments spread upon the brush, to cure. This evening the lieutenant turned over to some of the Indians another horse, for a feast; but instead of pleasing the tribe it only made those Indians who got none the more insulting.
It was the late afternoon of May 9, and the company had travelled twenty-eight miles up the Virgin River from the point where, twenty miles across from the Muddy, they had struck it. Now they were encamped in the northwestern corner of Arizona, at the foot of the Beaver Dam Mountains, and about opposite the stream which here comes into the Virgin. The camp was drowsy, after long and ceaseless vigils. A high wind had died away to merely a faint breeze which scarcely disturbed the summer temperature. Over the mountain ranges to the north rested masses of white cloud, which the sun, about to set, was tinging pink. A strong horse-guard was out with the animals, in charge of Baptiste Tabeau. Two sentries watched the camp, from either end. Most of the members off duty were dozing; but the hour was at hand when the mess fires must be built up. The lieutenant had been asleep, in his lodge, for three hours. The outlines of him could be seen, through the open flaps, and under the raised edges.
As Oliver, who was sitting cleaning his rifle, glanced at him again, the lieutenant stirred, as if awake; at that moment Kit Carson, buckskin-clad, wiry little man, came striding quick, rifle, as customary, in hollow of left arm.
“You awake, captain?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Haven’t seen Tabeau, have you?”
“Baptiste?” The lieutenant sat up. “No. He’s on horse-guard, isn’t he?”