That evening, with clatter of hoof and volley of victorious whoops and rifle-shots, amidst the sunset they galloped into the New Mexican village of Don Fernandez de Taos, sixty miles west from where they had parted with the Santa FÉ bound caravan.

Taos, or “old Touse,” as it was affectionately styled, lies in a mountain valley eighty miles north of Santa FÉ. Here had his home and headquarters Kit Carson, captain over his company of forty-five trappers. He lived in one of the box-like clay houses, with his little daughter Adaline. Adaline, four years old, was a dark, elfish lass, half Indian; for her mother, Kit Carson’s wife, had been an Arapahoe. Kit had married this Arapahoe in the mountains, in the summer of 1835, but she had died soon after the birth of little Adaline.

“Kit thought a heap o’ Alice,” declared Sol Silver, to Oliver. “Some trappers jest take a squaw as cook an’ lodge cleaner, an’ all that. But Kit air true man. He named his squaw Alice, an’ when she died he felt mighty bad. He’s got that gal to raise, now.”

The Kit Carson company of trappers were divided into two bands, under Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain and Lieutenant Sol Silver. They took turns going upon excursions after beaver—or sometimes they all were out together.

Besides the beaver-hunting, there was the buffalo-hunting for Bent’s Fort. Northeast of Taos, 250 and more miles, upon the Arkansas River in southern Colorado of to-day, was the large clay-built trading-post of Bent’s Fort, or Fort William, its hardy garrison trafficking with 20,000 wild Cheyennes, Utes, and Arapahoes.

Kit Carson had the contract for supplying the garrison with meat. So twice a year, in spring and in fall, the Carson men gathered at Bent’s Fort, for a great buffalo-hunt. Into the fort were brought thousands of pounds of buffalo-meat.

The great Kit Carson did not seem to think much of Oliver, after landing him in Taos. He gave him a place to sleep and a place at table; but he did not send him out to trap beaver, or hunt buffalo, or rescue traders. He put him upon the shabby mule, and set him at his old job of tending a horse-herd.

“It’s this way, boy,” consoled Sol Silver, when Oliver would complain. “You do well what’s yores to be done, an’ chance at more will come.”

The extra horses and mules belonging to the Kit Carson company were pastured in the open on the outskirts of town. Every morning they must be driven out to graze, and every evening they must be brought back to the corral. It was Oliver’s business to drive them out and to drive them back—which he did with many shouts and much rope-waving and gallant racing by his ancient mule. Thus for a year he was the official herder for the Carson company.

The Carson men came and went. Oliver heard their stories, of stirring deeds by themselves or by Bill Williams, Jim Bridger, Captain Billy Sublette, and others; and by Kit Carson. On the other hand, he never heard “Kit” (as his friends lovingly called him) make much mention of himself in any adventures; somebody else always was the hero.

When home in Taos Kit played much with his swarthy little daughter, Adaline. Just what to do with her appeared to bother him. Oliver once noted him saying, in his soft voice, with broad accent of the South and the border mingled:

“I war raised without schooling; then I ran away an’ I war twelve years on the trail an’ in the mountains ’fore I came out to Bent’s an’ to Taos again. Now I’m thirty-two, an’ without any education ’cept trapper education. ’Tisn’t human for a man not to be able to read or write; an’ what I’m to do with my leetle gal I don’t know. But I want her to have education.”

This seemed to Oliver rather a queer idea from the great Kit Carson, who could shoot and ride and trail and talk Indian talk and make Indian sign, besides speaking a rude Spanish and some French. Why should such a man care to read and write, or wish that his children should read and write? But Kit Carson had been much in earnest, nevertheless.

Now was it the late fall of 1841, and Oliver still was the official herder for the Carson company. However, he had grown very much during these twelve months in the fresh air, riding and tramping and doing man’s work. Tough of muscle and sturdy of frame, he was becoming full-chested like Kit Carson himself. But he could not yet be called a trapper.

The men were kind to him; he liked them; he stood their joking and their rough ways, and tried to do what they told him was best to do. So they apparently liked him, in turn, and would teach him how to shoot quick and straight, and to ride easily and surely.

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.

“Wall!” he mused, slowly. “A lad who can shoot like that needn’t herd cavvy. It’s time you went on the hunt. I’ll put a Mexican at herding.” Oliver’s heart leaped gladly. Kit Carson fidgeted, ill at ease, and continued: “Now those teamsters have come in, expecting us to help ’em get back their stolen critters, an’ I haven’t got a single man to send out after the red rascals. An’ hyar I’m laid up, myself! What do you think, boy? You know the country. Do you reckon you could take these fellows an’ help ’em get back their critters, if I told you exactly whar to go?”

Oliver nodded. His eyes were big, his heart thumped in his throat so that at last he could only stammer:

“I’ll try. I guess I could. I’ll try.”

“Wall,” said Kit, still restless, “nobody can do more than try. An’ hyar’s a chance for you at mountain-man work. ’Less I’m much mistaken, those red rascals air making straight for——” and he described to Oliver a well-known box-canyon or enclosed pocket, among the hills 150 miles westward. Oliver nodded; he had been that far, once, upon a little trip with Kit Carson, and he remembered the trail. “They’ll take the critters thar an’ hide ’em; an’ now they won’t be expecting pursuit. With everybody fresh mounted, if you leave right after eating this evening you ought to get thar to-morrow evening, so as to rush the camp in ’arly morning. Pick a good hoss out o’ the cavvy, for yoreself. Fust go get something to eat. Thar come some o’ the men; I’ll tell ’em what we’re to do.”

Treading air and vastly excited, himself, Oliver sped away to make his preparations.

“Better fill yore powder flask, boy,” called Kit, kindly. “Help yoreself from my horn, yonder. An’ thar’s the bullets. They fit Ike’s gun. But don’t shoot ’less you have to; an’ if you do shoot, shoot as straight as if you war shooting rabbits. Remember, it air the bullets that hit that count.”

“Yes, sir; I’ll remember,” engaged Oliver, working eagerly.

So presently into the twilight glow rode the dozen teamsters, armed and mounted as well as practicable. Two and two they rode: their bearded, booted, flannel-shirted captain, and ragged Oliver high on a yellow horse, side by side in the lead.

Through the twilight, and through the gloaming, and through the starry night, at trot broken by now and then a brief space of walk, westward rode the little cavalcade, to surprise the Apaches.

The dark blue sky gradually paled; paled the dusky earth; coyotes homeward slinked; little brown birds twittered amidst the brush; from the east spread upward a pink radiance; and stiff and chilled from the night’s travel through the great open sage country, at rising of the sun the pursuit jogged into the first of the hill defiles.

As they rode, the horsemen ate; chewing at strips of dried buffalo meat.

Higher and more numerous waxed the hills, their long steep slopes covered with chaparral and stunted timber, and separated by bouldered water-courses, many of them dry. The trail seemed a blind one.

“Do ye know whar you’re going, boy?” queried the teamster captain, doubtfully.

“Yes, sir. I’ve been in here before, and Kit Carson told me,” answered Oliver, hard at work thinking, and peering keenly.

At noon they rested by a stream, and let the horses graze, and dozed, themselves, while down upon the wild maze of quiet wooded hills poured the generous sun—his beams hot in the thin atmosphere.

After their nooning, again they rode. The country had grown wilder; the hills had become peaks, snow-capped; the water-courses had cut deep gulches and canyons. It was the favorite region of the Jicarilla (Heek-ah-ree-yah, i.e., Basket) Apaches; the ancient volcano land of northern New Mexico west of the Rio Grande. Here the Jicarillas had their retreats.

Now the pursuit must ride more carefully, for Oliver was not certain but that they might be near the Indians. So they scanned every ridge to catch timely glimpse of Indian scout, and every hollow to catch glimpse of tell-tale smoke. An oddly-shaped little peak was the landmark; and as by way of draw and pass, from valley to valley, they neared it, Oliver’s heart beat faster. Below the peak was that box-canyon or enclosed basin where, according to Kit Carson’s judgment, the stolen stock would be hidden.

At last the wearied little cavalcade wound around a wooded shoulder and could scan the spot where lay the outlaw refuge. Up-wafted lazily, as from the basin itself, into the sunset atmosphere above the fringing trees and rocks, a film of hazy blue smoke. Indian camp!

However, too late was it, this day, to attack; darkness would interfere. So the pursuit rode nearer, and sent two men forward afoot to spy. They left; and they returned, scratched and grimy, in the dusk, to report that a Jicarilla camp was located in the basin, that the Indians were gorging and making merry around a fire, and that more than fourteen span of mules, evidently stolen, were grazing freely, hobbled not nor tethered, upon the grass of the secluded niche. Having driven their spoil 150 miles into the heart of the Apache mountains, the Indians evidently were expecting no interference.

And here, likewise 150 miles from white settlement, the pursuit grimly squatted down to a fireless night and a long wait until dawn. They slept at intervals; even Oliver slept, exultant though he was at having led true, and anxious though he was for further results.

The dawn grayed; the men stiffly stirred about, saddling their hunched horses and priming afresh their weapons.

“Let the boy show the trail,” bade the teamster leader, gruffly. “He’s been hyar’bouts before, he says.”

Oliver was nothing loth; Kit Carson had told him exactly where to strike the one entrance into the basin—the one entrance which also was the one exit. Therefore, carrying the Ike Chamberlain rifle in approved fashion in hollow of left arm, ready, Oliver forced his yellow horse into the advance.

“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!”

And Oliver passed on, to share in the report by the teamster captain at the house of Kit Carson.

Kit Carson said little, but his blue-gray eyes brightened.

“Wall, I reckoned you’d find ’em thar,” he said, from his couch against the wall. “Hyar, boy; fetch me that gun yonder.”

Oliver brought over to him, from the corner, the weapon. Kit Carson handed it back to him.

“Take it. It’s yores,” he said. “Now you’re a mountain-man, an’ what’s a mountain-man without a rifle? You’re a mountain-man an’ a Kit Carson man, an’ it’s ’bout time you went on the trap trail. But,” he added, with a twinkle, noting Oliver’s confusion, “you’ll have time to eat, fust, an’ sleep.”

Clutching his treasure, and crowded with thanks which he could not utter yet, Oliver staggered away.

Kit Carson’s rifle! Kit Carson’s own rifle! A rifle better than even Ike Chamberlain’s; for Ike’s was a flint-lock, whereas this, scarce a year old, was of the convenient new percussion-cap invention, and had cost sixty dollars, gold. Moreover, in the stock were nineteen brass-headed tacks, stuck there by Kit Carson, and each counting as an Indian scalp!