“Well,” said Kit, to the boys, “as there isn’t any time to lose, let’s see to your mounts.” He led them to the place where the horses were picketed; the animals lifted their heads at the approach of the trapper; some snorted and pawed the ground as though anxious to be off on the trail once more. Mr. Young pointed to a pair of fair sized mustangs which stood side by side. “They ought to do,” said he. “They are sound, not excitable and have speed.” “Couldn’t have made a better pick if you’d gone over the entire lot,” said Kit, approvingly. “But won’t we be depriving some one of a mount?” asked Joe. “Horses are plenty in this country; and cheap, too. You can have these for the price we pay for the ones we buy to replace them.” This was eagerly agreed to; there was little more said; the mustangs were led out, bridled and saddled; and the boys, good riders both, swung themselves upon their backs. “By daylight,” cried Dave, as he waved his hand. “And if we’re a little late,” called Joe, his impatient mount prancing under him, “we’ll try and pick up your trail.” “Good lads,” laughed Kit Carson; and then with another salute they were gone into the darkness. A strong guard of trusty men was kept about the trappers’ camp that night; Mr. Young was an experienced frontiersman and so took no chances with an enemy of the Mexican captain’s type. No one was permitted to leave camp for fear that the keg discovered by Kit was not the only one “planted” by the cunning official. At the first streak of dawn the trappers were astir; breakfast was cooked, traps and other equipment packed upon the horses used for that purpose, and everything was ready for the start. “Looks as though our young friends were going to fail us,” spoke Mr. Young. “If they do, I’m out the price of two good ponies.” “They’ll not fail unless something happened them on the way,” said Kit Carson, who had taken a fancy to the cousins. “They are a clean-looking pair, and I think I’d back them to do more than hold to a bargain.” The trappers, with their packhorses in the center of the column, moved off down the Indian trail; they had gotten entirely out of sight of the Pueblo of Los Angeles, when a distant shout caught the ear of Kit Carson; his sharp eye swept the hills which rose about them; across a ridge to the north two horsemen were coming like the wind. The trapper wheeled his mustang and dashed back; the newcomers were Dave and Joe, weary and sore from the unaccustomed labor of the night, but both game and willing, for all. “It was all right,” proclaimed Joe, delightedly. “Dad didn’t take to the thing at first, but we had him talked over in half an hour. The captain of the schooner knows a priest at San Gabriel; they are going to get a party of the mission Indians with ponies and a litter as you suggested; and he’ll stay at the mission till we return, or he hears from us.”