Oliver brought over to him, from the corner, the weapon. Kit Carson handed it back to him.
“Take it. It’s yores,” he said. “Now you’re a mountain-man, an’ what’s a mountain-man without a rifle? You’re a mountain-man an’ a Kit Carson man, an’ it’s ’bout time you went on the trap trail. But,” he added, with a twinkle, noting Oliver’s confusion, “you’ll have time to eat, fust, an’ sleep.”
Clutching his treasure, and crowded with thanks which he could not utter yet, Oliver staggered away.
Kit Carson’s rifle! Kit Carson’s own rifle! A rifle better than even Ike Chamberlain’s; for Ike’s was a flint-lock, whereas this, scarce a year old, was of the convenient new percussion-cap invention, and had cost sixty dollars, gold. Moreover, in the stock were nineteen brass-headed tacks, stuck there by Kit Carson, and each counting as an Indian scalp!
[IV]
WORD FROM OLD FORT LARAMIE
Spring and the beaver-hunt season opened. The whole Carson company organized for a trip far to the north. Oliver was apportioned his dozen traps, and his name was upon the pay-roll. The company left early in March; but Ike Chamberlain was in charge, for Kit Carson had astonished them all by announcing that he was going to the States.
“It’s time my little gal had education,” he said, quietly. “Touse or Bent’s air no place for her, or Santy Fee either, an’ I’m no fit person to raise her. I’ve got kin back thar in Missouri, an’ maybe I can put her with some o’ them, so she’ll grow up with white people an’ learn civilized ways.”
“Have you been back thar since you come out, Kit?” asked somebody.