“I never told the rest of the men how you were in communication with the Blackfeet in the fall,” said he. Then as the man tried to interrupt, he lifted a hand for silence. “If I had,” he went on, “I guess you know what would have happened--for they don’t love that people. But,” and the ring in his voice was as hard as before and the menace was as clear, “if you make an attempt to leave camp to give warning they will be told now. So, if you value a whole skin, you’ll sit tight and say nothing.” “I never meant to----” began the bully, but Kit stopped him. “It makes no difference what you meant,” he said. “The thing is there, just the same. I’ll give Fontenelle a hint, and there will be a quiet guard over you until our little business with the redskins is done. So mind what movements you make when away from the camp. You’ll not know which one’ll draw the bullet from some pistol.” And that there was something behind this warning was soon made plain to the bully; as he sat by the fire, as he rolled in his blanket, he felt the watch held over him; not once during the long night did it relax; and though he desired ever so much to warn his confederate among the Indians, he did not dare to make a move. Long before dawn the camp was astir, breakfast was cooked and eaten, and the entire party of one hundred trappers, under the guidance of Lopez, started in the direction of the Blackfoot village. After a march of some six hours they struck a broad and well-defined trail. “This leads straight to the village,” said Lopez. “Two or three hours more and we are there.” But at this point Fontenelle halted the column of trappers. “I think it would be best,” said he, “if a small party went ahead and reconnoitered. In marching on blindly this way there is always danger of a trap.” Lopez protested loudly; but the trappers as a body thought well of the suggestion. “Carson,” said the head trapper to Kit, “take five men and go have a look at the trail and the village. We’ll camp here until you return.” Accordingly, with Zeke Matthews, the two boys and a pair of seasoned woodsmen, Kit started off. Silently they rode along the narrow Indian trail, being careful to make a note of every spot that would afford a chance for an ambuscade; at length they drew near the village, a perfect city of lodges; creeping among the rocks and trees they managed to get a close view of what was going on. From the opposite side of the town a great drove of horses was being driven in; camp equipment was being brought together as though for a move. “We’re none too soon,” said Kit in a whisper, to Dave. “By this time to-morrow they’d be gone.” “Look!” said Joe, in a low voice, his rifle barrel indicating a place near to the end of a row of lodges. “A white man!” “Moccasin Williams,” were Kit’s words, as his eyes rested upon the renegade. “Well, Spotted Snake was right, wasn’t he?” CHAPTER XIV THE LAST BATTLE