“Anyway, the trappers had a good time there. They found lots of beaver and the men had enough to eat and drink. When the warm weather came they went into camp down on the lower Sacramento. They had enough to do, hunting deer and antelope. Kit Carson then was the best shot in the whole band. All the men had somehow come to rely upon him.”
“Did he say so?”
“No, sir, he didn’t. He never told me about it, but some other men who were with him told me, and they said he was the one man the Indians were afraid of.”
“That’s a good un, too,” laughed Rat.
“Well, the men thought so,” retorted Reuben angrily. “One of the priests came over and told Mr. Young how some bad Indians had gone over to an Indian village and wouldn’t come out. The priests wanted some of Mr. Young’s men to get the runaways. Of course the men said they would, and they said right away that Kit would have to be their leader. So Kit took the men over to the village and told the Indians they must give up the men for whom they had come, but the big chief said they wouldn’t do any such thing.”
“So they had a fight, did they?”
“Yes, they did.”
“And all the redskins were killed?”
“No, not all of them, but they lost so many that they gave up the bad Indians. One night not long afterward a lot of Indians came into the camp of the trappers and made off with sixty horses. Kit said most of the men were angrier to have their horses stolen than they were to have some of the men shot. They were mad through and through, and pretty soon twelve of them, with Kit Carson at their head, started after the thieves. They had a long ride across the mountains and through the valleys, and for a long time they couldn’t find any signs of the men they were after. They went more than one hundred miles before they caught up with them.”
“Then Kit Carson shot every one of them, I suppose?”