It was well known by the trappers what a terrible scourge smallpox was among the Indian tribes. Entire villages had been wiped out of existence by its ravages.
“What do you think, Kit?” inquired one of the men. “Is this redskin left here for us, or do you think the village was trying to run away?”
“Perhaps both,” replied the guide quietly. “At all events we’ll go around the hill.”
“Better than that,” suggested one of the men. “I have had the smallpox and I’ll go ahead and drag the body out of the way.”
At last the advice of the volunteer was accepted, and as soon as the dead body had been removed from the pathway the advance was resumed.
Although he did not explain nor share his feelings with his companions, it soon became evident that Kit Carson was suspicious of the presence of other foes. Several times he had dropped behind the little cavalcade and as frequently had gone in advance of the body. It seemed more and more strange to Reuben that a man so boyish and slight as Kit Carson, in spite of his youth, should have such absolute control and such loyal support of the men who made up the little company.
Late in the afternoon Carson, who had been serving for an hour as the advance guard, hastily rejoined his fellows and said: “There are twenty-five redskins ahead. They have stopped right near the trail.”
“What are they?” inquired one of the men in a whisper.
“Blackfeet.”
“Are they armed?”