Making sure that the savages were merely in the first stages of their preparations for departure, Kit and his little party of scouts crept away through the trees and grass to the place where they had left their horses. Mounting, they gained the trappers’ camp just after nightfall. When the news was broken, the woodsmen gathered about their fires in council. After some discussion a plan was agreed upon. “Kit will take half of you,” said the chief trapper, “and ride to the attack. The other half will stay behind with me to guard the pack animals and the furs.” “But don’t stand still,” was Kit Carson’s advice. “Advance slowly in our track. Then you’ll be a kind of reserve in case we need you.” Everything agreed upon, the trappers rolled themselves in their robes and blankets around the fires; and at dawn next day they divided according to their plan; Kit and his fifty taking the Indian trail at a swinging pace, every man in the advance eager for the fight. “After to-day,” prophesied Zeke Matthews, “those varmints of Blackfeet won’t be so quick with their monkey shines. They’ll get a lesson they’ll remember for some time to come.” They approached the Indian town without being discovered; the savages were in the heart of their own country, never dreaming of attack, and therefore had out no sentinels. The trappers, each well mounted, rifle in hand and side arms ready to be grasped at a second’s notice, drew up in a line. “Now, men,” said Kit, his eyes running over them, to make sure that all were prepared. “At full speed! Charge!” Like a thunderbolt the woodsmen struck the Blackfoot village; a volley from the long rifles swept among the warriors and a dozen of them pitched headlong. A shrill yell arose; the savages gripped their weapons and fell back from their town, fighting every step of the way. The Blackfoot was a fighting man of craft, courage and generalship. Unlike the Crows and more southern tribes, he did not go mad with excitement when he faced the superior weapons of the white man. On the contrary he always fought them according to a carefully laid out plan. From behind rocks and stumps and fallen trees the long arrows began to wing their deadly way; taking the cue the trappers protected themselves in much the same fashion, and their rifles continued to speed bullets wherever a tufted head showed itself. For fully three hours this sort of warfare continued; the Blackfeet fought with courage and judgment; craftily they drew the fire of the trappers until the supply of ammunition began to grow low. As this latter grew apparent to Kit he passed the word to slacken the fire. “Don’t press a trigger unless you are sure of a redskin,” was his command. And as the rifle fire slacked the Indians grew more bold. They understood what had happened, and crept forward from tree to tree, from rock to rock, meaning to get near enough for a grand rush and then to engage the whites hand to hand.