“Judging from the indications,” spoke the old trapper, “I reckon this here chief don’t know English. And that being the case, I make bold to tell you in that language that there’s about forty more of them come inside the fort since you began to talk.” That the men would admit any more of the savages to the enclosure, or even allow them to approach the wall, had never occurred to Kit; however, now that he was aware that they had done so, he showed no signs of haste or alarm. His quiet gray eyes ran around among the Indians who had adroitly wormed their way within the circle of pelts; coolly he took in all the details of the scene; calmly he gauged its possibilities. The savages, grinning and with growing aggressiveness, were thronging up and down within the little enclosure; a second glance showed the trapper that though the “talk” party may have entered unarmed, the others had only made the appearance of doing so. Under their clothes they carried hatchet and knife, sure testimony of their intentions. The swift, cool brain of the young trapper took in this fact and valued it properly in an instant; and almost as quickly his plans were made to meet the peril. The odds were overwhelming; within the fort there were ten redskins to each white man; in all, the savages outnumbered the hunters almost a hundred to one. But this fact had little effect upon Kit Carson; his arrangements were as quiet and methodical as they would have been had the numbers been equal. “Go quietly among the men,” said he to old Zeke. “Get them over here with all their arms; but, whatever you do, don’t let the bucks get an idea of what’s going on.” The veteran trapper nodded and leisurely made his way through the throng of savages. “It looks bad,” said Dave Johnson. “There’s enough of them to crush us into the ground just by sheer weight.” Kit Carson nodded. “If they were white men,” said he, “there wouldn’t be anything to do but wait till we were sure of what they were going to do--and then surrender. But, they being Indians, the thing’s something different. Redskins will never take a chance with death, and that’s a fact that’s saved the lives of many a band of trappers. Let them be sure that some of them are to die, and they’ll begin to play ’possum. Their style of fighting is to always have the upper hand. Otherwise there’s no fight.” Old Zeke passed the word calmly to his comrades; and one at a time the men sauntered across the circle and joined Kit and the boys. It was as though they had no object in the movement except to dawdle about, talk, and encourage their visitors to make themselves at home. When all six of the whites were finally together, rifles in hand, alert and ready for the desperate chance which meant life or death to them all, Kit Carson said quietly: “Now, boys, when I give the word, each pick out a head man and cover him with your rifle. I’ll take the chief with pock-marked face. At the slightest movement that looks like resistance--fire!”