Through the shallow water and the quick-sands forged the wagons of the Blunt caravan, upon the farther bank to halt, for camp and to fill the water-casks. The sun was low and red in the west, the long, high white-hooded wagons had been parked in the customary circle, outside the circle camp-fires were curling, pots were bubbling, meat was hissing, and before each camp tethered animals were grazing; sentries had been posted, and boy Oliver, hungry and grimy, was guarding his browsing cavvy, when a sudden commotion struck the peaceful scene. A sentinel upon a sand-hill fired his gun to signal “Injuns! Injuns!” and rushed like wild-fire the word. Every teamster sprang to round up his picketed team, or to help collect the oxen; the sentries came in at a gallop; and men sped to help Oliver with the cavvy. Through the opening left in the circle of wagons poured men and animals, from outside to inside. And against the sunset glow could be descried a long file of black mounted figures, approaching at rapid trot. However, Captain Blunt, viewing them by spyglass, shouted thankfully: “Not Injuns, men! Whites! Look like traders.” Whereupon a sigh of relief swept the tense cordon. The cordon did not dare yet to open out again; nevertheless, as the riders across the rolling sand-hills neared, they were seen by the naked eye to be whites indeed. They resolved into a double file of horsemen: trapper-clad in fringed buckskin shirts and leggins, in broad-brimmed hats, in moccasins, and every man carried across his saddle-horn a tremendously long rifle. “Mountain-men! Trappers!” announced Teamster “Dutch” Jake, in Oliver’s hearing. “Now if we only had _them_ with us――――!” “They’re the chaps to make the Injuns stand ’round,” agreed another. And many a head nodded. The cavalcade was within gun-shot. A man riding alone was leader; and as on they came, at the steady, fast “rack” or single-foot, straight for the camp, he held up his hand, palm outward, in a peace sign. “High jinks! I know that man!” exclaimed “Dutch” Jake. And he added: “If it only be, now.” Captain Blunt and two or three of his lieutenants, carrying their guns, walked outside a few steps to meet this leader. The conversation was wafted clearly through the still, dry air, while all the camp listened. “Howdy?” “Howdy?” “Who’s yore captain?” This from the horseman. “I’m the captain.” This from Blunt. “Wall, my name’s Kit Carson. We’ve come over from Touse to ride the trail through Kiowa country, with anybody that needs us. S’pose you know the Kiowas air bad?” [Illustration: CHRISTOPHER CARSON] “So we’ve heard. And we’re mighty glad to see you, Mr. Carson,” declared Captain Blunt, reaching up and shaking hands heartily. Kit Carson! Kit Carson! The name passed from lip to lip around the wagon cordon; and a hundred eyes were fastened eagerly upon the spot where now this leader squatted beside a fire, as guest and counsellor of Captain Blunt.