The grizzled old trapper who had spoken to the boys when the company’s venture was being related, laughed at this declaration when it was translated. “Trouble with that Greaser is that he is too public in his invitations,” grinned he. “If he wants to treat us so consarned bad, why don’t he do it privately? I reckon nobody here’d refuse.” There was a laugh at this; and one of the Americans who spoke some Spanish called to the captain across the firelight: “Very well, señor, if you want to be sociable, we’ll not discourage you.” The Mexican smiled in an oily fashion and rubbed his thick, strong hands. He spoke English very badly, but at once entered into a conversation with some of the men. Kit Carson, who, with the two boys, had not returned to the camp-fire at the officer’s approach, stood leaning upon his rifle, watching the strangers. “Up to some of his games,” the lads heard him mutter. Then to them he said: “Move quietly and follow me; I reckon I’ll be able to show you the reason for the captain’s visit.” Softly he stole away westward from the camp, the boys following in his steps; when about two hundred yards distant he made a détour toward the south and after some little time paused. “I think the Greasers took this way when they approached,” said he. Then slowly he stepped along in the direction of the distant firelight; the night was a moonless one, but the stars twinkled in the light-colored sky and they were enabled to see without difficulty. Quietly they paced along among the trees, until at length the trunk of a giant cottonwood reared itself a little to one side. “Ah!” said the trapper, “I think I noticed that tree before.” They approached it; upon the far side it showed a large hollow at the base. The long rifle barrel was poked into this and struck something that gave out an unusual sound. “I thought so,” said Kit, and with that he put down his gun, reached into the crevice and rolled out a heavy looking keg. “What is it?” asked the boys, in a breath. “Liquor!” replied the trapper. “And put here by that Greaser a while ago. And before he leaves camp to-night he’ll see to it that our men know where the stuff is hidden.” “But what is his object?” asked Joe, puzzled. There was a little pause; the trapper’s moccasined feet prodded the keg; then he said: “You see, all this region is claimed by the Mexican government. A license is needed to hunt and trap hereabout. And they refused to grant one to an American. When we reached here the captain undertook to arrest us, but we showed fight. Ever since then he’s been trying to get our fellows intoxicated; once let him succeed, and the rest will be easy for him.” [Illustration: “WHAT IS IT?” ASKED THE BOYS] He drew a heavy, short-handled hatchet from his belt. With one blow the head of the keg was stove in; the strong liquor rushed out and sank into the ground.