“Oh,” said Kit Carson, slowly rubbing his chin. “That war some o’ Captain Gant’s men. Captain Gant had lost some hosses, by these Crows, an’ his men went an’ got ’em. Can’t do without hosses, in the mountains.”
“But weren’t you along?”
“Wall, I might have followed,” drawled Carson, uneasily. “I don’t exactly remember ’bout that. They war brave fellows, though. They——”
“Reckon you’ve made a heap o’ Injuns run, all the same,” interrupted an admiring caravaner.
“Sartinly, sartinly,” agreed Kit Carson. “Part the time I’ve been running after them, an’ most the time they’ve been running after me.”
“You gave ’em a good dose this time, though.”
“Wall, we had to; we had to. My men had to,” declared Kit Carson, and he brought down his clenched hand. “But we didn’t like to; that is, we oughtn’t to like to. Nobody likes to kill human beings; an’ these Injuns, pore critters, ain’t been raised to know any better’n to rob an’ murder. They think this hyar’s their country, an’ we whites air using up the game they depend on. But o’ course, these Kiowas come down ’specting to wipe out a defenceless train that warn’t doing ’em any harm, an’ we simply had to shoot into ’em. If this caravan didn’t lick ’em, proper, some other caravan must. Now the job’s over.”
“How many did you kill, of ’em? You got the chief, didn’t you?”
“Me?” queried Kit Carson, again mildly surprised. “Oh, thar war jest a lot o’ shooting an’ riding around, an’ we did the best we could. We war lucky to have these six-shooter pistols—revolvers, they call ’em. Ever see ’em before?”