“That rifle ready?” He must have noticed the cleaning operation.
“Yes, sir.”
“Get yore hoss an’ come along. See that you don’t lack powder, lead or caps.” And not having paused, Kit Carson continued upon his own way.
Quickly spread the word, that Baptiste Tabeau had been “wiped out.” Many more volunteers offered themselves to Kit than he could use. Everybody liked Tabeau; everybody wished to succor him, or to avenge him. However, Kit deemed that a small party, if well-armed, would be enough; so he chose Oliver, and Baptiste Bernier, Charles Townes, Godey, and Thomas Fitzpatrick—mountain-men all.
Scarcely a word was spoken, as they galloped forth. The errand was one of sorrow and grim determination.
The mile was covered, and the last night’s camping place lay right ahead. Now the high, gloomy ridges bordering the Virgin were closing down, and the camping place appeared sombre. Extending their front the posse rode right in—eye and ear and finger ready; but it was as silent and deserted as had been the Hernandez Spring at the Archilette. Of Baptiste and his horse, and of the lame mule which he had quested, not a trace could be found.
“Better ride on down,” suggested Charles Townes.
“Ought to search those cottonwoods, across,” said Kit.
“That’s a risky business, in the dark, when Injuns are better than white men,” remarked Thomas Fitzpatrick, nevertheless urging his horse into the water. Oliver promptly did the same.