The three mounted once more and continued in the trail they had been following; the boys noted that the trapper looked at the priming of his rifle, and they did the same. They had no notion of what to expect ahead; but that their guide considered it more or less serious was plain. Another hour went by; then they reached the bald hillock upon which they had seen the solitary brave. In a hollow about a hundred yards away was the remains of a large camp, the fires of which were still smouldering; all about it the ground was trampled by the hoofs of hundreds of horses. From the top of the hillock Kit Carson studied the scene. “There must have been four or five hundred redskins camped here up to a few hours ago,” said he. “The brave we saw was about the last to leave.” “But the trappers with Lopez, or Spotted Snake, are among them,” said Joe. “They have walked right into a trap, for their trail leads into the Indian camp.” But the trapper shook his head. “There were Indians and half-breeds in that company of trappers,” he said, “and they are mostly on good terms with the others of their kind. And the fact that they left the track that would have taken them to their hunting grounds, and took one leading straight to the big redskin camp, shows that they knew of it and made for it of their own accord.” “But why?” asked Dave. The trapper shook his head. “I don’t know,” said he. “There may be a thousand reasons for it; but we’d never guess one of them, like as not, if we tried for a month.” They spent a few minutes examining the Indian camp; then they rode back at a smart pace until they struck the trail of their own party. When this was overtaken it was found to be encamped for the night. After supper, Dave and Joe noticed Kit in earnest conversation with the chief trapper. The two men talked in low tones, but now and then the boys caught a disconnected word. “Indian” was one of frequent occurrence, “war party,” “trail,” and such fragments gave them something of the color of the conversation. “They seem to think that there’s danger in the air,” said Joe in a whisper. The two, having in mind Kit’s warning, sat beyond range of the firelight; the trappers were as usual gathered in groups; a vigilant guard was stationed off in the darkness upon each side of the camp. “I suppose it’s the size of the Indian party,” spoke Dave to Joe. “Here there’s only a score of us; what chance should we have against, say five hundred, if they made up their minds to attack us?” “Not much, I guess,” replied Joe, soberly. “But, after all,” with a hopeful note in his voice, “it’s not likely that the redskins know we’re around. And their trail as they left their camp led directly away from us. I noticed that particularly.” However, the trappers’ camp was one of precautions that night; the horses were not only picketed, but hobbled as well to prevent a stampede.