At an unfortunate moment had the teamsters applied for the succor. Trappers were out upon the final fur hunt of the year; a buffalo hunt for Bent’s Fort was in progress; Ike Chamberlain had ridden away that morning, upon errand bound; and Kit Carson was temporarily pallet-laid by reason of a pistol wound through the left leg. His new Colt’s revolving pistol had fallen from his belt, and striking upon its hammer had discharged its ball diagonally through between knee and ankle.
As for the other men in Taos, they were slothful Mexican loungers, not at all of a spirit to help the Americans fight the Indians. “Let the Americans do their own fighting,” they said; “we want only to be let alone.”
Kit Carson was much perturbed, half sitting, restlessly, on his couch of blankets and robes.
“What you got thar, boy?” he demanded.
“Rabbits. I shot every one in the head,” informed Oliver.
“Let me see ’em.”
Oliver brought in the bunch, and threw it down before Kit Carson, who explored it with his sound foot.
“Wall!” he mused, slowly. “A lad who can shoot like that needn’t herd cavvy. It’s time you went on the hunt. I’ll put a Mexican at herding.” Oliver’s heart leaped gladly. Kit Carson fidgeted, ill at ease, and continued: “Now those teamsters have come in, expecting us to help ’em get back their stolen critters, an’ I haven’t got a single man to send out after the red rascals. An’ hyar I’m laid up, myself! What do you think, boy? You know the country. Do you reckon you could take these fellows an’ help ’em get back their critters, if I told you exactly whar to go?”
Oliver nodded. His eyes were big, his heart thumped in his throat so that at last he could only stammer:
“I’ll try. I guess I could. I’ll try.”