“That will depend somewhat on what comes to us. We shall go back to join the main camp pretty soon, but just now we are busy on some other work. You will be safe with us, and if you stay here you may not see another white face in a year.”
“But I don’t like to leave Jean,” persisted Reuben.
“As far as I can see you are not the one that left him. He left you. Come, my lad, there’s nothing else to be done.”
“I have no pony.”
“What became of it?” inquired Kit Carson.
“While I was chasing a buffalo I ran into a prairie-dog village and the horse stumbled and fell, and broke its leg. I had to shoot it.”
“We can fix you up. We have several ponies that are not being ridden. You may have one of them to use.”
Somehow, feeling as if the matter had been decided for him rather than that he had had any part in the decision, an hour later Reuben found himself astride a stocky little pony riding beside Kit Carson, who was leading the way. Conversation ceased, for still the guide did not explain the purpose of their journey.
A brief time later he selected two men to go in advance of the others. It was evident to Reuben that they were following what appeared to be an Indian trail. The captive Indian was still in their midst, although, he was no longer bound. What had become of his companion no one in the party knew. He had vanished in the night as soon as his comrade had been hit by the bullet of Kit Carson.
The journey was uneventful until the noon hour had passed, then when the guide began to look about for a suitable place where they might halt and prepare such food as they possessed for the mid-day meal, he said abruptly: “Do you see what that is ahead of us?”