“A couple of days ago the captain hit on a neat little plan. You see some of our men,” and his voice lowered a trifle so that the trappers in advance might not hear, “are a kind of a rough lot, and they’ll drink if they get the chance. The captain’s plan is to give them liquor, and then when they’re helpless, take away their rifles and hatchets and knives, and pen them up somewhere. Young got wind of it, and we’re keeping our eyes skinned until we’re ready to take the trail back to Taos.” About a mile south of the Pueblo of Los Angeles they came upon the trappers’ camp, a row of huts made of boughs, sod and bark. A number of buckskin-clad men lay about upon blankets or buffalo robes; others were cooking the evening meal at the camp-fire; while others again were cleaning their rifles or honing their broad-bladed hunting knives. “There’s Young, the trader who took out this expedition,” said the young trapper. “What are your names, boys? I’ll introduce you.” “Mine’s Dave Johnson; I’m from Boston,” announced that young gentleman. “And I’m Joe Frazier, from Charleston,” said the other. Then, curiously: “What’s yours?” “My name’s Kit Carson,” the trapper informed them; “once of Kentucky, later of Missouri, but now of Taos and Santa Fé.” CHAPTER II AROUND THE CAMP-FIRE The two lads were warmly greeted by Mr. Ewing Young, the Taos trader and leader of the trapper band. “A rather narrow squeak,” was his comment, when told of their misadventure; “the captain back there at the Pueblo is anxious to get his revenge upon an Americano because of the trouble he’s had with us, and you lads would have pleased him well enough.” Ewing Young was a very well-known trader and trapper. Some time before he had sent out a company in search of fur from Santa Fé toward the Colorado River country. On their way they were attacked by an Indian war party; after a desperate fight against great odds, the hunters were forced to fall back and make their way toward New Mexico once more. “But that just made me fighting mad,” said the trapper chief to the boys, “so I got together a party of forty Americans, Canadians and Frenchmen. At about the head of the Salt River we came on that identical war party which had so roughly handled my first company.” Kit Carson laughed as though at some amusing reminiscence. “I never saw any parsel of humans so tickled as those redskins were,” said he. “They had licked us once, and they figured they’d do it the second time even quicker than the first.”