“Why did they do that?” inquired Reuben.
“The Indians are always good to crazy people. They think they are under the special guidance and protection of the Great Spirit. Perhaps they are. I don’t know,” said Kit Carson, thoughtfully. “Certainly they act as if there was something in their life different from what we see among the trappers.”
“That’s so,” said Reuben in a low voice, as he again looked keenly at the subject of their conversation, who, apparently unmindful of the attention he had aroused, had now turned away. In a low voice he was speaking to himself and apparently was unmindful of the presence of any one near.
“That may be Jean Badeau,” again suggested Kit Carson. “If it is he has a long and strange story to tell.”
“What do you suppose happened to him?”
“I haven’t the remotest idea. Of course, I am not even sure that he is your friend, nor are you positive that he is, but I am willing to take your word for it. No one in the tribe here knows where he came from nor what made him crazy.”
“What do you think did?”
“As I told you, I have no idea, and I am not even sure that it is your friend. All I am saying is that he may be and that something may have happened after you left him that brought this trouble upon him.” Reuben was silent throughout the remainder of their stay in the village and indeed seldom spoke when they rode back to the camp of the trappers.
Early the following morning Kit Carson appeared and at his suggestion Reuben accompanied him in the round of his traps. An unusually good catch was made, and the spirits of both trappers were high when soon after noon they returned to the camp.
Directly after dinner had been served Kit Carson suggested to his young friend: “I think it is time for us to see if the wild horses have not come back. I don’t want that black leader to get away from us.”