“That air a pistol to shoot six times without reloading,” declared Sol. “It has one barrel an’ six chambers, in this cylinder; the barrel stays put, but the cylinder turns ’round, with a fresh load ready, whenever trigger air pulled. Wagh! It air made by a man named Colt, in the States; it air called Colt, but it air a full-size hoss.” “Have you all got them?” asked Oliver. “All we Carson men have ’em, an’ percussion-cap rifles, to boot. When Kit Carson goes into a fight, he goes in to win, an’ the best weapons air none too good for his men. We air Carson men.” Sol proclaimed this with a certain degree of pride. “Will the Kiowas attack us, sure?” invited Oliver. “’Bout to-morrow, Kit thinks. When they do, you give us fellows a chance ’fore you open up with yore battery an’ take all the scalps.” But Oliver suspected that Sol was joking again. Still, he liked this jovial, burly Sol Silver, and hoped that he _would_ tell Kit Carson. Nothing especial happened this night in camp, save that Captain Blunt and lieutenants passed about, examining all the guns and asking if powder-horns were full. But at the breaking of camp, in the dawn, when the wagons were forming to pull out in the double-column, something very especial happened. Behold, into every wagon climbed a trapper or two, and stowed themselves safely away amidst the goods under the protective canvas hoods! Just a corner of the canvas was left looped up a few inches, as if for air. Now throughout the caravan eddied a gale of jeer and derision and protest. “This is the way they ride the trail with us, is it!” “These ain’t mountain-men; they’re gophers!” “Have we got to haul ’em an’ fight for ’em, both?” Even Kit Carson had disappeared, for cover. But no response was made by the trappers; Captain Blunt and his assistants bade the teamsters “Ketch up!” and straighten out, for the march; and two by two on rolled the wagons, the teamsters angry, the trappers comfortably inside, and the trappers’ horses tethered to the end-gates. The action on the part of the trappers seemed as strange to boy Oliver as it did to the teamsters. Was that how Kit Carson men battled――by hiding behind other men, and by crawling under cover and making the people they were pretending to defend fight outside? Humph! Maybe this wasn’t Kit Carson, after all. The sand-hills were increasing in number and extent; dusty and dry was the way but nobody could drink, for it was against orders to drink out of the casks, or to fill canteens except once a day. The “dry march” of over fifty miles was beginning, and sometimes water gave out before it was traversed. So every drop must be cherished.