On this, an afternoon in the last week of November, he had been permitted by Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain (a stalwart six-footer was Ike, and a tremendous fighter, they all said) to take out upon herd Ike’s favorite rifle――a heavy flint-lock, made by the celebrated gun-smith Hawkins, of St. Louis. It was taller than Oliver, and the long barrel was so heavy that he scarcely could hold it out; so when he shot it he rested it upon brush, or crossed sticks, or whatever else was handy. But the bullet sped true to the sight. “Plumb centre” shot a Hawkins rifle. With the heavy rifle balanced across his lap, with buffalo-horn powder-flask and beaded hide bullet-pouch slung from his shoulders, and with broad, keen skinning-knife belted by hide belt at his right thigh, he was prepared to shoot rabbits. Obeying instructions of Ike and Sol and the other men, he had learned to hit the rabbits only in the head. It was fairer to the rabbit, for the rabbit had more chance of escape by being missed. To hit a rabbit in the body was scorned by mountain-men, and was deemed careless, slovenly work. Bearing thirteen rabbits shot each through the head by single ball from the flint-lock Hawkins mountain rifle, Oliver proudly drove the Carson “cavvy” home at evening. Laden like valiant hunter he trudged through the village, to exhibit his spoils――and to get his supper. He found Taos stirred by excitement. Several strange teamsters were forming centres of little groups of listeners. These were Santa Fé caravan teamsters; they had sought Taos to report that between Taos and Santa Fé a band of Indians had stampeded fourteen span of their mules, and to ask help from the Kit Carson men. At an unfortunate moment had the teamsters applied for the succor. Trappers were out upon the final fur hunt of the year; a buffalo hunt for Bent’s Fort was in progress; Ike Chamberlain had ridden away that morning, upon errand bound; and Kit Carson was temporarily pallet-laid by reason of a pistol wound through the left leg. His new Colt’s revolving pistol had fallen from his belt, and striking upon its hammer had discharged its ball diagonally through between knee and ankle. As for the other men in Taos, they were slothful Mexican loungers, not at all of a spirit to help the Americans fight the Indians. “Let the Americans do their own fighting,” they said; “we want only to be let alone.” Kit Carson was much perturbed, half sitting, restlessly, on his couch of blankets and robes. “What you got thar, boy?” he demanded. “Rabbits. I shot every one in the head,” informed Oliver. “Let me see ’em.” Oliver brought in the bunch, and threw it down before Kit Carson, who explored it with his sound foot.