Scouting with Kit Carson

by Everett T. Tomlinson

For ten minutes the wild flight continued, until the pony no longer was able to maintain its pace. Again and again Reuben had glanced behind him, but not once had he seen the mountain lion. What pleased him still more was the fact that in advance of him he saw the end of the narrow valley. Once there he would be able to move down upon the plains, and he did not believe that the hungry brute would dare to follow him beyond the protection of the mountain. However, he halted and with trembling hands reloaded his rifle. He had decided that it would be safe as well as wise for him to take this precaution. If the beast should appear again he would stop his horse and fire at the animal. Resuming his flight, not many minutes had elapsed before Reuben found himself upon the plains.

The night now was upon him, but the light was still sufficient to enable him to see, though somewhat indistinctly, the outlines of the rocks and trees behind him. But the valley was no place of shelter, although he was aware that the Mission of San Gabriel was not more than seven or eight miles distant.

Only a brief time had elapsed before the young trapper was convinced that the mountain lion had abandoned its pursuit and turning back had sought the shelter of the defiles of the mountain.

Satisfied now that he had nothing more to fear, Reuben allowed his horse to proceed more slowly, though the manner in which the poor beast was holding its head as it advanced clearly indicated how nearly exhausted the pony was.

In this manner he moved steadily forward until he had come near to one of the farms owned by the mission and cultivated by the Indians. A rude little house was plainly to be seen in the distance, but as no light was shining from its windows, the young trapper decided to push forward and not stop until he had arrived at the destination he was seeking.

He had left the farmhouse far behind him and was moving forward over the dusty road when suddenly he saw before him the outlines of an approaching man. The man, however, was advancing in a strange manner. He was moving from one side of the road to the other, and yet as Reuben keenly watched him he was sure that the stranger was not intoxicated. Why then was he approaching in such a strange manner? He was carrying no burden upon his back, and both hands were free.

Still keenly watching the man who was steadily coming nearer, Reuben suddenly was startled by a motion that seemed to him strangely familiar. It reminded him of the companion whom he had lost among the foothills of the Rockies. But not a word had been heard from Jean Badeau.

Still believing that it was impossible that anything more than a resemblance had been discovered in the man, when Reuben came close to him he halted his horse and peered intently into the face of the stranger. The face strongly resembled that of the missing French trapper. And yet it was so unlike his friend’s that Reuben was at a loss to decide whether or not his former companion was indeed now before him.

The strangest part of all was that the man appeared to be entirely unaware of the presence of Reuben. He seldom glanced at him, and even when he did so Reuben felt a shiver creep along his spine, for there was something uncanny in the expression of the man’s face. Reuben somehow had a feeling that the man was not so much looking at him as looking through him. Indeed, his fear increased when he became aware that the man not only did not reply to his questions, but that he did not even seem to be aware of his presence.

“Jean, Jean!” called Reuben in a low voice. “Is that you?”