Oliver was nothing loth; Kit Carson had told him exactly where to strike the one entrance into the basin—the one entrance which also was the one exit. Therefore, carrying the Ike Chamberlain rifle in approved fashion in hollow of left arm, ready, Oliver forced his yellow horse into the advance.
“When we charge, everybody yell ‘Kit Carson! Kit Carson!’” he proposed, huskily. “When they hear that they’ll run, sure. They’re afraid of Kit Carson.”
The teamster leader gravely nodded; and down the dim file, following the yellow horse, was passed the word: “Yell ‘Kit Carson’!”
The mist of dawn enveloped the world, and lay moist upon twig and leaf. In silence the single file threaded the pines; the moist carpeting of needles gave no sound. Into a gravelly draw through which ran a newly hoof-cut trail they rode; boulders closed about them; a stream flowed past for the outer country; they quickened their pace to a trot; and, every rifle poised, at a gallop they poured through the narrow entrance and charged across the open park inside.
“Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” shrilled little Oliver, excitedly hammering with his moccasined heels the flanks of his yellow horse.
“Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” welled hoarsely the chorus behind him.
Barked Apache dogs; snorted Apache pony and stolen mule, stampeding here and there in the grayness. Spreading, on left and right, the charging teamsters overtook Oliver. Before, recumbent figures around the smouldering fires had up-leaped, throwing off blankets and robes, seizing weapons, hesitating, to discharge hasty bullet or arrow, and at thud of hoof, crack of rifle, and that terrible cry, “Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” half-naked to flee, through the grayness—scurrying across the level and scrambling amidst the rocky walls.
“Whang!” spoke Oliver’s Ike Chamberlain rifle—its butt half-way to his shoulder, its heavy muzzle pointed out in the general direction of the rout.