And “Whang!” “Bang!” spoke the pieces of the teamsters.
Fleeing figures pitched headlong to the dewy sward; from amidst the rocks of the crumbling, sheer walls, where, at bay, they vainly answered with shot and yell, others pitched headlong, or sank back, to be still. While two or three of their number guarded the exit, that the ponies and mules might not escape, the teamsters charged on, searching the rocks with rifle and pistol; and not an Indian of the eighteen thieving warriors was left alive.
But young Oliver found that this was very different from shooting at rabbits; and in after days he never was certain whether he had killed all—or none. However, he fired only the one shot; and at the close of the battle he still was trying to reload!
In the sunrise, with eighteen ponies bearing Apache brands or ear-marks, and with thirty-five mules and horses bearing trader or trapper brands or ear-marks, the triumphant little cavalcade rode out from the trampled strong-hold, upon trail for Taos. Sharing with the teamster leader the advance, Oliver sat proudly his yellow horse. He had earned his place.
At the close of the second day they entered Taos. Summoned by the great clatter of hoofs and the loud volley of triumphant whoops, the villagers cheered.
“Buen’ muchacho!” praised the natives, calling to Oliver: “Good boy!”
And Oliver passed on, to share in the report by the teamster captain at the house of Kit Carson.
Kit Carson said little, but his blue-gray eyes brightened.
“Wall, I reckoned you’d find ’em thar,” he said, from his couch against the wall. “Hyar, boy; fetch me that gun yonder.”