But what a surprise! With “Bang! Bang!” the pistols spoke again and yet again and again, and needed no reloading! Down from their ponies plunged stricken Kiowas, fierce career ended; around wheeled the unstricken, lying low upon pony backs, hammering pony sides with desperate heels, fleeing the wondrous medicine of the whites. And through the lodges of plains and desert spread the wail: “White man shoot one time with rifle and six time with butcher-knife!” Thus before the eyes of boy Oliver, under the wagon, was broken by Kit Carson and his men the power of the caravan pirates. Cheering and lashing, the trappers made pursuit clear out of sight. All around the wagon-fort the battle had resulted the same. With that result the teamsters really had little to do, after their first ineffective volley; and they could only stare, open-mouthed, when so unexpectedly the trapper rifles emptied the saddle-pads in earnest, and without hesitation out the trappers charged. They still were staring, scarcely crediting, when back the trappers rode, in little squads, grim and weary, but not without their banter. Slipped under the belts they brought scalps. Oliver saw Sol Silver, and he recognized others――and he found Kit Carson. Kit Carson chanced to ride close in, past Oliver’s wagon, and paused here to shake hands with Captain Blunt. His face was flushed and his lips tight together; and his eyes! They were terrible eyes, not now steel-gray but a vivid blue, flaming like living amethysts or like blue stars. “Yes, sir,” he said, in reply to Captain Blunt’s congratulations. “We taught those thar red demons a lesson they’ll not forget. It’s all over. Go ahead with yore caravan.” Hearing, Oliver shame-facedly crawled out from beneath the wagon; and it seemed to him that Kit Carson the Great saw him, and smiled friendly at him. Some of the teamsters would have liked to mingle with the trappers and to rehearse what had been done, and what had not been done, and what might have been done, in the short fight; but “Catch up! Ketch up!” and “Fall in, men!” rang the sharp orders of the caravan officers. Time had been lost, water was dwindling, every moment was precious; the march must proceed at once. So team after team settled to collar and yoke, wagon after wagon lurched forward; and presently little Oliver was once more in the rear of all, driving his cavvy through the drifting dust. Strangely enough, not a man of caravan or trappers had been wounded, and only one mule had received an arrow, in the hip. “Wall, boy, how’d you like the Kiowas?” It was Sol Silver, again, back beside Oliver. Brown-bearded and burly, he looked the same as ever and as if he had not been in any fight. But tucked in his belt were two scalps. “Whar’s yore pelts for trophies?” “I haven’t any. I wasn’t close enough,” answered Oliver, truthfully. “Didn’t I see you chasing the chief on yore mule?” invited Sol. “Kit took one chief an’ you took t’other.” Oliver flushed, and shook his head.