“The fellow got me in the shoulder,” replied Kit Carson. In a moment his hunting shirt was torn away by his excited friends. The weather was intensely cold and the blood from his wound had quickly frozen on his clothing. After one or two attempts had been made to lay bare the wound, the young scout, who was suffering intensely, said: “It will be better if only one of you tries to help me.” His face was drawn and colourless, but his courage in the midst of his suffering appealed so strongly to his friends that his directions were instantly followed. “Go down to the brook,” suggested Kit Carson to Reuben, “and bring back your cap full of water.” At his utmost speed Reuben ran down the slope of the valley to the noisy brook at its base. In his excitement he dashed into the stream unmindful of the fact that he might obtain the water he desired without wetting his own clothing. He was still unaware, however, of his condition when he rushed back to the place where his friend was lying, and in a brief time the trapper that had been designated for the task was washing the leader’s wound. Once during the operation the face of the patient became deadly white. He did not lose consciousness, however, and although he was suffering intense pain not a murmur escaped his lips. This heroic endurance of suffering was one of the cardinal requirements of the hardy men of the frontier. No one was surprised at their leader’s power of endurance, but the fact that he still directed his friends in their efforts to aid him, sending Reuben several times to the stream for fresh supplies of water, nevertheless impressed them all. Throughout this time guards had taken their places to make sure that the horde of Indians did not break through and attack them again while they were unprepared. In a brief time it became manifest that the Indians were unaware of the damage they had wrought, for they did not offer to advance from the rocks behind which they had been concealed. When at last the wound had been bathed and bandaged as best the men were able, and a hunting shirt from one of the trappers had been tied about the shoulders of the suffering man, preparations for the return to camp were speedily made. “The best thing to do is to make a litter and take me home on it,” said Kit Carson in a low voice. “Cut some poles and swing two of the blankets on them. I think that will be the best way to carry me.” In accordance with these directions a rough hammock-like litter was soon made and the wounded trapper was tenderly placed upon it. His friends gently lifted the poles to their shoulders and then, after advance and rear guards had been established for the little line, they proceeded on their way back to the camp. Fortunately they were not molested on their way. Once in the camp, the men no longer were afraid, and quickly a bed was made for their leader upon which he soon was placed.