How quietly wound the train, between the low dun hills! No lashes cracked, no voices shouted, mule, ox and horse steadily plodded, and the only sounds were the subdued words of the teamsters encouraging their animals, and the creaking of the dry wagon-frames. But hark! Right in the midst of this brooding atmosphere drifted down from the hills upon the right a rifle-report; and when Oliver caught sight of the place, here came, full tilt, from flankers’ duty, Dan and his comrades; behind them the smoke of the report was still wafting.

“Injuns!” This was the alarm. Instantly the caravan was again in a frenzy of commotion. Teamsters curled their lashes and sent their mules into a lope, their oxen into a lumbering trot; loud rose a medley of exclamations, orders, rumbling of wheels. From behind little Oliver, who, his heart in his mouth, was shouting at his lazy cavvy, urging them forward (Oh, such a long way must he go!), rode for him the rear-guard.

“Quick! Roust these critters!” they bade, one to another, and helped him. The cavvy was forced into a trot.

From right and left and before, the flankers and van-guard were hustling in, bending low and lashing their horses. Now another report of rifle drifted in; another, and another! Barely pausing in their mad flight, Dan and his two comrades were turning in saddle and aiming to their rear; jets of white smoke sped from the muzzles of their guns, as one after another they fired. For there were the Indians—issuing from the crest of the sand-ridge, as if springing out of holes, and pouring over, down the slope, trying to catch Dan and the other men. They must be Indians, because they flourished lances, and because they were naked, with feathers streaming in the breeze.

But they couldn’t overtake Dan and his men.

Now from the opposite slope echoed more shots. Indians here also! See them come, after that squad of scouts! Why didn’t the trappers get out from the wagons, and help? Why didn’t the cavvy travel faster? What a lot of Indians! And would the wagons be parked, in time, and would there be a hole left for the cavvy? Supposing there wasn’t, and he, Oliver, must stay outside!

“Roust those critters! Roust those critters!” urged the men with Oliver, as in the dust and the hubbub and the excitement they all shrieked together.

Almost crying, in his earnestness, little Oliver did his best.

As fast as they arrived at trot and gallop the wagons swung to right and to left, tongues inside, front wheels locked with hind wheels of the previously arrived, the teams were unhitched, the teamsters knelt to thrust their yagers between the spokes and aim. Smaller and smaller grew the opening, as the oval closed—but amidst yell and murk, in through the opening galloped at last the cavvy, and like the rest little Oliver, breathless, gasping, found himself “forted.”

None too soon was it! Down streamed, on either flank, the foe—a hideously screaming, whooping, feathered, painted foe: riding, many of them bridleless, most of them garmentless, brandishing tufted lance and strung bow, with here and there a gun, face and body daubed lavishly with red and yellow.

“Kiowas!” ran through the wagon-fort the muttered exclamation. And——

“Get out o’ there, you trappers! You Kit Carson men!” rose the angry cry. “Get out o’ yore holes an’ show what you can do!”

But from within the wagons answered never a sound nor a stir.

However, ’twas no time nor place, now, to berate the dastard mountain-men, so false to their reputation. The teamsters were green; the wagon-fort had been poorly formed, in the haste; the location was bad, for defense; and darting from wagon to wagon, along the circle, Captain Blunt and other leaders besought the defenders to keep cool and hold their fire.

The painted Kiowas on-rushed as if they were to ride right over the wagons! “Bang!” spoke the yager of a teamster. And “Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bangity-bang!” bellowed the smooth-bores as his excited mates pulled triggers. In vain Captain Blunt and his aides ran, ordered, implored, threatened. The Kiowas were two hundred yards away; too far for a clumsy yager—but at the volley every one fell from his horse. Were they all killed? Were they? Hurrah, thought little Oliver. No—a fellow in bright yellow leggins was left! But at the “pop!” of little Oliver’s pistol he, also, fell over! Then——

No! More were left, on this side; and on the other side! See? Even the yellow-leggins had come to life. Saddle-pad after saddle-pad miraculously grew a figure, and on dashed the Kiowas again, as many as ever, with joyous yelps charging empty guns. That was what they had hoped for—empty guns.

Realizing, the panicky teamsters fumbled and made mistakes, as rattling their pieces among the wagon-spokes they would pour powder, ram ball, prime pan, cock, aim, fire. Disdaining to hang now by thong-loops upon the opposite side of their horses, with bows drawn, lances poised, and a gun or two speaking, the wild redmen of the sand-hills bore headlong for the weakly answering caravan.

So swiftly they neared! Ere half the yagers had been reloaded they were within fifty yards. Could anything stop them? With thud upon thud their arrows pelted in and through. Their paint patterns were plain, their faces glared, their guttural exclamations could be heard—and boy Oliver, with one last frantic glance about, dived under a low-hung wagon.

Even as he did so, he heard a new sound. It was not “Bang!” and “Bang!” It was “Spat!” “Spat! Spat!” and “Whing!” The wagon over him swayed, a fresh fume of powder-smoke floated to his nostrils. The trappers! He had forgotten the trappers! They had fired, at last, from beneath the wagon-covers—but they were too late.

It seemed to little Oliver that he waited a long time for the charge. He still heard the whoops and grunts of the Kiowas, right at hand—they were coming, coming, coming! They would scalp the whole caravan, and steal all the cavvy! And while he waited, clutching his pistol, another sound arose. Inside the wagon-fort was a new commotion—a clamor of voices, a shuffling of hasty feet, a rattle of stirrup and a thud of many hoofs!

Had the Kiowas broken through? They must! The wagon over him swayed again, something struck it, almost shoved it to one side; he peered, craning his neck to see into the dust—and a set of hoofs passed right over his head. He glimpsed a buckskin rider, on the outside; a trapper had forced his horse between the loosely locked wheels of the two wagons, and was on the outside!

The Kiowas were here, too. Many were upon the ground, and the red which stained them was redder than the red of vermilion paint. Yes, many and many were upon the ground. But the others were charging about; little Oliver had not been waiting long, after all. He knelt, trembling in his eagerness. There were still a host of Kiowas, and they were very angry. The wagon-fort must be fairly oozing trappers, mounted; for from either direction they were galloping into the field, their lines loose, their buckskin-clad, fringed bodies leaning forward, pistol in hand.

Across the little space, to the line of prone and doubled figures they raced. “Bang! Bang!” jetted their pistols. The live Kiowas, dodging and hanging to the necks of their ponies, parted before the counter-charge, swerved at the volley, let the trappers into their midst—and with a great savage yell of vengeance turned, to close. For the trappers’ pistols were empty, as the teamsters’ yagers had been! Now long scores would be settled; a trapper’s scalp was worthy many a dance.

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.

“No, I didn’t. I didn’t try.”

“Whar war ye, then?”

Oliver flushed more and hung his head.

“Under a wagon.”

“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol, and chuckled through his beard. “What war the matter?”

Oliver wanted to cry.

“I guess I was afraid.”

“Haw! Haw!” roared Sol. “Guess mebbe you war.” Then he sobered. “You fetched yore cavvy in, though, I hear tell.”

“Men helped me.”

“But you come in behind an’ not ahead, jest the same,” asserted Sol. “That war right. Warn’t ye afraid the Injuns’d get ye, ’fore you war forted?”

Oliver nodded.

“That’s right, that’s right,” said Sol. “You corralled yore cavvy fust, an’ then you crawled under the wagon. Don’t blame ye for being afraid. Only a fool’s never afraid. Being afraid doesn’t make anybody a coward. I ’spec’ you thought us trappers war afraid, too, when we crawled into the wagons, ’fore you crawled under one.”

Oliver must nod again.

“We warn’t; not this time. But I reckon we’ve all been afraid, many another time. This time we crawled into the wagons so the Injuns wouldn’t see us. If the Injuns spied Kit Carson men riding with a wagon-train they’d never attack, you bet. These Southwest Injuns know us Kit Carson men by sight, now. An’ you jest say ‘Kit Carson’ to ’em, an’ out comes the peace-pipe mighty quick. They can depend on Kit to fight ’em if they’re bound to fight, or to talk straight with ’em if they want to talk straight. He air a bad enemy, an’ he air a best friend. He shoots plumb centre, with both tongue an’ rifle.”

The noon camp was very brief; long enough only for the animals to breathe, and for the men to munch a strip each of dried meat, while coffee boiled. But it was long enough for Oliver to sidle near where Kit Carson appeared to be telling stories to a group of caravan men. Anybody should know that Kit Carson must have marvellous stories to tell.

“But what about that time you sneaked on hands an’ knees, through the snow, close to the Injun fort, near head o’ the Arkansas, an’ cut the hosses loose an’ drove ’em off with snow-balls?” asked Teamster Henry.

“When war that?” inquired Kit Carson, as if mildly surprised.

“Some years back. When you fust went into the mountains.”

“Oh,” said Kit Carson, slowly rubbing his chin. “That war some o’ Captain Gant’s men. Captain Gant had lost some hosses, by these Crows, an’ his men went an’ got ’em. Can’t do without hosses, in the mountains.”

“But weren’t you along?”

“Wall, I might have followed,” drawled Carson, uneasily. “I don’t exactly remember ’bout that. They war brave fellows, though. They——”

“Reckon you’ve made a heap o’ Injuns run, all the same,” interrupted an admiring caravaner.

“Sartinly, sartinly,” agreed Kit Carson. “Part the time I’ve been running after them, an’ most the time they’ve been running after me.”

“You gave ’em a good dose this time, though.”

“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!”

“If you want to, an’ if Kit decides so. We take the Touse trail in the morning. Now, if you’re to come, thar’ll be a fire made at the foot o’ that thar cottonwood, standing out alone. See it? Wall, if you see the flare, pretty soon, you’ll know. But you’ll lose yore wages from the caravan. They’ll not pay ye less you go through to Santy Fee with ’em.”

“I don’t care,” stammered Oliver. “I’d rather go to Touse, with you. Can I be a Kit Carson man?”

“Reckon you can, some time, if you got it in you; an’ if Kit thinks you have, you have. All right; don’t say anything, an’ watch for the fire.”

Sol rode back to his mates. Oliver watched anxiously. Hurrah, the fire flared, just as he was trudging to supper. And when, in the morning, caravan and trappers parted company, into the west on the Taos trail rode with the Kit Carson men little Oliver Wiggins.