“When we charge, everybody yell ‘Kit Carson! Kit Carson!’” he proposed, huskily. “When they hear that they’ll run, sure. They’re afraid of Kit Carson.” The teamster leader gravely nodded; and down the dim file, following the yellow horse, was passed the word: “Yell ‘Kit Carson’!” The mist of dawn enveloped the world, and lay moist upon twig and leaf. In silence the single file threaded the pines; the moist carpeting of needles gave no sound. Into a gravelly draw through which ran a newly hoof-cut trail they rode; boulders closed about them; a stream flowed past for the outer country; they quickened their pace to a trot; and, every rifle poised, at a gallop they poured through the narrow entrance and charged across the open park inside. “Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” shrilled little Oliver, excitedly hammering with his moccasined heels the flanks of his yellow horse. “Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” welled hoarsely the chorus behind him. Barked Apache dogs; snorted Apache pony and stolen mule, stampeding here and there in the grayness. Spreading, on left and right, the charging teamsters overtook Oliver. Before, recumbent figures around the smouldering fires had up-leaped, throwing off blankets and robes, seizing weapons, hesitating, to discharge hasty bullet or arrow, and at thud of hoof, crack of rifle, and that terrible cry, “Kit Carson! Kit Carson!” half-naked to flee, through the grayness――scurrying across the level and scrambling amidst the rocky walls. “Whang!” spoke Oliver’s Ike Chamberlain rifle――its butt half-way to his shoulder, its heavy muzzle pointed out in the general direction of the rout. And “Whang!” “Bang!” spoke the pieces of the teamsters. Fleeing figures pitched headlong to the dewy sward; from amidst the rocks of the crumbling, sheer walls, where, at bay, they vainly answered with shot and yell, others pitched headlong, or sank back, to be still. While two or three of their number guarded the exit, that the ponies and mules might not escape, the teamsters charged on, searching the rocks with rifle and pistol; and not an Indian of the eighteen thieving warriors was left alive. But young Oliver found that this was very different from shooting at rabbits; and in after days he never was certain whether he had killed all――or none. However, he fired only the one shot; and at the close of the battle he still was trying to reload! In the sunrise, with eighteen ponies bearing Apache brands or ear-marks, and with thirty-five mules and horses bearing trader or trapper brands or ear-marks, the triumphant little cavalcade rode out from the trampled strong-hold, upon trail for Taos. Sharing with the teamster leader the advance, Oliver sat proudly his yellow horse. He had earned his place. At the close of the second day they entered Taos. Summoned by the great clatter of hoofs and the loud volley of triumphant whoops, the villagers cheered. “Buen’ muchacho!” praised the natives, calling to Oliver: “Good boy!”