“Wall, we had to; we had to. My men had to,” declared Kit Carson, and he brought down his clenched hand. “But we didn’t like to; that is, we oughtn’t to like to. Nobody likes to kill human beings; an’ these Injuns, pore critters, ain’t been raised to know any better’n to rob an’ murder. They think this hyar’s their country, an’ we whites air using up the game they depend on. But o’ course, these Kiowas come down ’specting to wipe out a defenceless train that warn’t doing ’em any harm, an’ we simply _had_ to shoot into ’em. If this caravan didn’t lick ’em, proper, some other caravan must. Now the job’s over.” “How many did you kill, of ’em? You got the chief, didn’t you?” “Me?” queried Kit Carson, again mildly surprised. “Oh, thar war jest a lot o’ shooting an’ riding around, an’ we did the best we could. We war lucky to have these six-shooter pistols――revolvers, they call ’em. Ever see ’em before?” “You’ll never get him to talk about himself,” warned a trapper to a listener near Oliver. “Sometimes he will, with Injuns, ’cause they understand boasting, an’ they all know Kit Carson. But ’tain’t white man way with him. So you might as well quit. He hates the leetle letter ‘I.’” “That’s heap weepon, shorely,” commented a teamster, examining. “Beats the big gun of that boy, yonder.” Now, this caused everybody to look at Oliver, which was most embarrassing. He was well aware that his little pistol was not so grand as these new-style revolvers; and he did not like to be laughed at. But Kit Carson, as if glad to change the subject from himself, smiled and said quickly: “Hello, boy. You’re safe, they say, an’ so’s yore cavvy. You’ll make a warrior yet.” Oliver must hang his head and turn and twist. He didn’t deserve such praise. “Yes, sir; but I crawled under a wagon,” he blurted. “I didn’t fight any.” “Haw! Haw!” rose the laughter. “Wall,” remarked Kit Carson, quietly, but clearly, “I’ve seen many a time when I wished I war under a wagon, myself.” At this moment “Catch up! Ketch up!” sounded the calls, and the talk must end, while the caravan resumed the trail. Not another Indian came into sight, as the train plodded on, with the Kit Carson men still acting as escort. At sunset camp was made for the night, beside a dried water-course where grew a few hardy cottonwoods. Sitting wearily his old mule, watching his cavvy until the night guard should relieve him, little Oliver wished that he was by one of the trappers’ mess-fires instead, where Kit Carson might smile upon him, again. However, while he sat upon the mule, a figure rode to him, through the dusk. It was the booming Sol Silver, once more. Sol spoke direct. “Boy, Kit sent me to ask how’d you like to go on to Touse with us, ’stead o’ to Santy Fee with the caravan?” Oliver gasped. “Can I? With you!”