“I came to warn you,” he said in Spanish, to Fontenelle. “Directly in your path, one day’s ride from here, is the main village of the Blackfeet. Hold to your present course and you’ll have them swarming around you like bees.” For a moment there was a dead silence. Then the many grievances they held against that particular tribe, and more especially the fate of the two messengers to Fort Laramie, came to the minds of the trappers. As one man they gripped their rifles and there arose a cry for vengeance. The half-breed sat his mustang quietly; he said nothing, but in his eye was a satisfied gleam. Kit Carson touched Dave Johnson’s sleeve. “Moccasin Williams is in that village. That is why the half-breed is here. Failing to get the Crows to attack them, he now tries our men.” “And with what result, do you think?” asked Dave. For answer Kit pointed to the trapper band; to a man, almost, they were gathered about Fontenelle; their voices were lifted in a harsh hubbub; their rifles were waved about; they clamored for war. It was a wild scene, and one neither of the boys ever forgot; the rough, bearded men, buckskin-clad, their weapons gleaming in the flare of the camp-fires, while all around was silence and the darkness of the wilderness. When the clamor died down, the chief trapper spoke. “We have suffered at the hands of the Blackfeet,” said he. “And now that a chance has come to strike a blow, we will not let it pass.” There was a wild hurrah, and the men scattered about the camp, gathering at the various fires, cleaning their rifles, oiling the locks of their pistols, seeing to the edge of knife and hatchet. “And see that there’s plenty of good black powder in your horns,” advised old Zeke. “Bullets and flints will be things you can’t have too much of either; for unless I’m much mistaken we’ve got a day of days ahead of us to-morrow, lads.” As the half-breed slipped from his horse and approached a fire at which Kit and the boys stood alone he nodded as though not at all surprised to see them. “I saw all three of you a dozen times during the winter,” said he. “But you did not see me. I often rode through the passes when the snow melted, and looked down at your camp in the valley from the hills.” “And it was then, I guess, that you thought how well it would fit in with your plans if you could get our party to attack the Blackfeet.” The half-breed smiled the disagreeable smile natural to him. “But,” said he, “I never hoped to have it happen, until the two riders going to Laramie were killed. After that,” and he snapped his fingers, “I knew it would be nothing.” “If you were so anxious to revenge yourself on Williams, why have you waited so long?” asked Kit. “A man who really wanted satisfaction would have tried for it single-handed.”