The trapper got a glimmer of the man’s meaning, but more by his manner than his words. He nodded, as though he understood; but he said nothing. “Maybe,” proceeded the half-breed, “if you were to go to old Diaz during the summer when the trapping season is done, some arrangements could be made in any matter that you care to speak of.” Again the trapper nodded. “California is a fine country; but I don’t care as much for it as I do for New Mexico,” said Lopez. “And, then, trapping is my business and not----” but he stopped short, as though not willing to commit himself to anything that would definitely incriminate him. “Anyway,” he continued, “look for old Diaz in the hot months; he may have something to say to you.” Here he wheeled his horse, calling over his shoulder: “And remember, Red Cloud is a friend to the paleface. His brother does him wrong when he thinks Red Cloud means anything but good feeling.” The spotted pony which the man rode raced back to the solid crescent of braves. Whatever Lopez reported had the effect of dismounting them; they picketed their horses and went into camp, outside the range of the white man’s fire. The fire at which the supper of the six was cooked after nightfall was masked so that the light might not attract a flight of arrows from any of the bucks who might be lurking in the darkness. The horses were well within rifle shot and were hobbled so that to stampede them would be impossible. However, a guard was kept over them; and during the night not more than one of the whites slept at a time. Morning dawned, and they saw the smoke ascending from the redskins’ camp-fires; apparently the warriors had remained all night as they had been at sunset. During the day Red Cloud and one of his braves visited the fort and were admitted; the chief in his halting Spanish protested the utmost friendship; but all the time the whites noted his evil little eyes coveting everything he saw in the camp, and so their suspicions were not abated. The second night passed much as the first; the little party did not dare sleep, for there was no telling at what moment the quiet of the night would be broken by the yells of the red horde, a sleet of arrows, and the leaping of demon figures over the barricade. At the beginning of the second day there was a stir in the Indian camp; preparations were being made for a movement of some sort. “They mean either an attack, or to break camp,” said Kit Carson, as he watched them for a space. “I am not sure which.” The braves swung themselves upon the backs of the ponies, fully armed as before; in a sweeping line they faced the little fort, the ponies snorting and prancing, the grim riders as still as death. “Fire when they reach a distance of seventy-five yards,” said Kit, resting his rifle barrel upon the wall of furs, and throwing himself upon the ground. “You’ll then have time to reload. And make every shot tell.”