Steven joined the buffalo-hunters a few days after their encounter with the Indians, and brought down a bull. Swept along by a trained pony in company with the racing herd, thrilling with an excitement greater than any he had yet experienced, he drew bead after bead, but his shots went wild until, by chance he was honestly persuaded, a foolish creature swerved into the path of his bullet and fell. Nevertheless, it gave the Southern lad a standing with the hardened trappers and traders, along with his exploit with the Indian on his first night guard. “Lad,” said St. Vrain one night as he sat before the fire and rolled himself a cigarette in the thin inner husk of corn, “you seem to take to the life, but you’ve had but a taste. There are hardships ahead. We stop at Cow Creek tonight, and tomorrow afternoon we should strike the Arkansas at the Great Bend. Pawnee Rock lies not far beyond. Ah, that is where, my young fr’en’, I have encountered great dangers. It is the battleground of Cheyenne and Pawnee, the hunting-ground of all. Two years ago we stood with a caravan there for three whole days, fighting off a band of Pawnees. Forty-two men we were, and twenty-six mule wagons, with a bunch of loose stock. We were without water two nights and nearly three days till at length I ordered to hitch up and drive on to Pawnee Forks, where the trail crosses the Arkansas. We made it, a double crossing, for the river bends like a horseshoe, as you will see. But the wagons were smashed up, and when we reached the other side the Indians began firing on us from the bluffs. We cleaned ’em out and lost but four men, with seven wounded. Twenty mules were crippled and a dozen killed.” “There was another young fr’en’ of mine on that trip”--St. Vrain puffed at his cigarette reminiscently--“Christopher Carson. ‘Kit,’ we call him. Just a boy, Steven, make half of you, but fight like a mountain cat. Those bloodthirst’ Pawnees got to know him.” “Are all the Indians so hostile?” asked Steve. “No. The Comanches and Utes nearer the border of Mexican territory are much more friendly. We deal squarely with the Indians with whom we trade, and they with us. And the Indians of the towns, the Pueblos, as the Spaniards say, who live beyond the mountains only, in New Mexico, they do not fight unless attacked or treated badly. They cultivate the land, they work, they are good people.” “Except when the Mexicans set them on the Americanos,” said Pierre, who was sitting near. “Between Indian and Spaniard, though, monsieur, I rather deal with the Indian, me!” He spat disgustedly. “How many thousan’ mile I travel to get my wage after ten year. I no longer work for American Fur Company. I work for Rocky Mountain Fur Company. _Hein_, St. Vrain? I work from Taos to Bent’s Fort.”