“That’s a fav’rite little game with the reds,” the grizzled old trapper, whose name was Matthews, informed Dave. “You see, we couldn’t get along without horses to carry our camp stuff and traps and pelts; so if they can scare the critters and set ’em off wild with fright, they’ve broke up our trip and got us at their mercy.” But the night passed peacefully enough, as did the next and the next. Nine days after leaving Los Angeles, the company sighted the Colorado River. All thought, or all fear at least, of redskins had left the trappers; a camp was pitched near the river and the traps were made ready for an operation against the beaver. “I’ll send a party of seven up-stream and the same number down,” said Mr. Young on their first night on the Colorado. “The others with the two boys I’ll leave with you to guard the camp.” “Right,” said Kit Carson, quietly. Next morning the parties, taking a few of the horses, set out to range the river according to the leader’s plans. When they had gone, Kit, with the help of old Matthews, the boys and the two other men left behind, picketed the horses upon one side of the camp; the small bales of fur were built up in a complete circle, forming a sort of breastwork. “An arrow would never get through these bundles of pelts,” said Kit as he regarded the “walls” of the camp with critical approval. “Even a bullet would have something of a job doing it.” Everything belonging to the expedition, except the horses, was brought into the circle of hides. This had scarcely been done when the camp was startled by a sudden shout from old Zeke Matthews. He had been seeing to the mules, and now ran toward the enclosure, his rifle ready in his hands. “Injuns!” he shouted. “A whole tribe of them!” Startled, the little party leaped upon the rampart of hides. Advancing at a slow, swinging gallop across the soft turf that stretched away from the river was a perfect cloud of redskins. CHAPTER V WHITE VERSUS RED ON THE COLORADO The feathered head-dress of many colors waved gaily above the advancing braves; the streamers of their long lances danced in the breeze; their lithe ponies covered the ground in cat-like leaps. “Not a war party!” said Kit Carson, as he eyed the horde keenly. “But that makes little difference in this country; they use the Mexicans they come upon much as they please--rob them--make them prisoners, or turn them adrift unarmed. Sometimes even worse has happened.” “Well,” said old Zeke, grimly, as he looked to the priming of his rifle, “we ain’t Mexicans, and I reckon there’ll be nothing like that happen here.”