The open order of the whites and the rifle fire which came like a thunder clap at the command of their leader discomfited the savages; the arrows flew wild, and as the horsemen came plunging at them, their small arms crackling, they broke and ran toward the river.

For perhaps a mile the trappers pursued them, more to keep them on the run and discourage another rally than anything else; then at a shout from Young they wheeled about and made for the herd on the other side of the village.

Calmly the victors selected the best of the animals, some of their number watching for the possible approach of the redskins. But the latter were too completely demoralized to venture an attack, so the trappers rode away to their camp leading a full score of pack animals, sufficient to carry all the fur they’d be likely to take, even with the best of luck, during the remainder of their work upon the Gila.

“That kind of a little lesson ain’t lost on the reds,” said old Zeke, after they had reached camp and were settled down watching their meat cooking over the coals. “They won’t be so ready to pitch into every company of whites they see for some time to come.”

From then on the party continued up the Gila River until they reached New Mexico; luck had continued to favor them and when they finally entered Santa Fé they had two thousand pounds of beaver fur.

“At twelve dollars a pound,” said Kit Carson, “that’s about——”

“Twenty-four thousand dollars,” spoke Joe.

The trapper looked at him admiringly.

“I never had any schooling,” said he, “except what I got from old Kin Cade one winter up north of Santa Fé. It’d take me some time to calculate that; and here you do it in your head, like a shot.”

“Was this Kin Cade a schoolmaster?” asked Dave.

The trapper laughed.

“No; he was an old fellow I stumbled on once, away up in the hills when I first came here. He lived all alone in a hut; and he knew more about the mountains, about Indians, animals and fish than anybody I ever met. He taught me Spanish and a couple of the Indian languages; also he showed me how to tan deerskins so that they would be soft and pliable, to dye them, to make them into hunting shirts, leggins and moccasins. Indian feather and bead work I also got from him. Kin was a wise old man.”

The trappers who had followed Ewing Young so hardily through all the perils of the mountains and deserts, of field and flood, were now given their share of the money brought by the pelts; they at once proceeded to Taos and there the company disbanded.

However, Kit Carson and the two boys remained in Santa Fé.

“Spotted Snake is or will be here,” said the trapper. “So we’ll just look around a little and see what we can see.”

Santa Fé then had a mongrel population of some three thousand; its sun-baked adobe buildings, its gaily clad Mexicans in trousers slashed to the knees and adorned with rows of buttons, great sombreros and high colored mantles; the barbarous peoples from around about, who came in to trade, the half-breeds, the picturesquely clad frontiersmen from the north, all served to give this city, renowned in the history of the Great West, a most unusual appearance.

The first morning there Kit Carson sought out a bronzed old trader who was outfitting for a trip among the Indians.

“Buck,” said the trapper, after they had greeted each other, “have you seen anything lately of that ‘breed’ they call Spotted Snake?”

“What do you want of him?” demanded the trader, surprised. “I should think you’d be well satisfied to let varmints like that alone.”

“This is a little matter of business,” said the trapper. “I’m not hunting him from choice, but because I must.”

The trader grunted. From his manner it was plain to the boys that he held Spotted Snake in no great esteem.

“Well, if you must see him, I’ll do my best for you,” he said. “The Snake was seen in the town only a few nights ago; a couple of my men met him and heard him doing a lot of wild talking about making a fortune—about gold which came so thick that you could gather it up in buckets. The sun must have struck through his sombrero,” added the trader, drily.

The trapper looked at the boys, and they returned the look with troubled eyes.

“I reckon though,” went on the trader, “if he did have anything valuable, he’d put himself in the proper company to get rid of it. Remember that fellow they called ‘Moccasin’ Williams up in Taos? Well, he was one of them; and,” with a nod of the head, “I think that speaks for itself.”

Kit and the two lads walked slowly down the narrow street.

“Moccasin Williams, eh?” said the trapper, thoughtfully. “Yes, as Buck Morgan says, he speaks for himself. There’s not a bigger rascal in the southwest. Once was a miner in old Mexico, I believe; and later lived among the Blackfeet and the Comanches. I’ve even heard it said that he was a renegade and took part with the redskins in attacking many a wagon train.”

That the man had been a miner interested both Dave and Joe vitally. A chill struck their hearts as they thought of the brave old veteran of MacDonough’s victory who waited away there in the Mission of San Gabriel for news of his boys and the map of the treasure country.

“Maybe we’d better go to see the man Lopez mentioned to you,” said Joe.

“Goat Beard?” said Kit. “Yes, I’d been thinking of that. It won’t do any harm to go talk to him. The ‘breed’ must have heard that our company’s got back, and so knows we’re around somewhere.”

They passed quickly through the town; at the far side was a squalid section mostly occupied by Indians and the riff-raff of a frontier settlement. A wretched sun-baked adobe house with very low doorways and a generally forlorn aspect bore some straggling lettering across the front.

“This is old Diaz’s storehouse,” said Kit.

Inside, the place was deep with shadows. Cured pelts and buffalo hides were heaped in corners; traps hung from the ceiling; rifles, clothing, knives, hardware, pottery and examples of feather work were displayed for sale.

A fat old woman, a Mexican half-breed, came waddling forward.

“A blessing on the brave Americanos,” wheezed she in Spanish. “You are our first patrons of the day. Good luck be with you; and what will you have?”

“Where is Diaz?” asked the trapper.

The old woman threw up her fat hands and wagged her fat head.

“Diaz!” she cried. “He is here; but he is almost mad! Never have I seen him so wrought up, and I have been married to him for forty years. But,” with the facility of much practice, “what will you have? I can buy, sell and trade as well as Diaz. What will you have?”

“We want to see your husband,” said Kit.

“See him!” Again the old woman flourished her hands. “Impossible, señor! He will see no one. He has met with a misfortune!”

From the back of the storehouse they now heard a wailing voice lifted to a pitch of great distress.

“Oh, a blight is on me,” it droned. “A darkness is shut down upon me. Never again will such a chance be mine. To think of it! A river running with gold—clear, yellow, beautiful gold!”

At this the three Americans looked at each other with quickened interest; the old woman wrung her fat hands and took up the wail.

“Running with gold, señors—a large river whom no one but the Indians have any knowledge of. And now the paper is gone. We shall never see it again.”

Kit Carson leaned his rifle against a heap of wolf skins; to the woman he said:

“We must see your husband, señora; the matter is of great importance.” Then, as she shook her head stubbornly, he added: “It is about this paper; tell him that.”

The woman gave him a greedy look; then as fast as her unwieldy body would permit, she scuttled to the rear of the storehouse and through a curtained doorway. Beyond this there came a babble of excited voices; then the woman reappeared followed by an old man with bent shoulders and a long, chin beard.

“Señors,” squeaked this latter, in a thin, trembling voice, “I welcome you. You have come to bring joy to my old heart, have you not? You have come with an offer from the señor of the moccasins?” eagerly, as his ratty old eyes ran from one to the other. “Sit down. Be comfortable. Let us approach this business quietly and with freedom.”

The trapper folded his arms across his chest and leaned his shoulders against the bare clay wall.

“We were told by Manuel Lopez to seek you out when we arrived in Santa Fé,” said he. “It is on a business about a paper which he has—a paper which he took from the schooner ‘Gadfly’ at Los Angeles.”

The quaking hands of Goat Beard began to gesture; his halting old tongue was striving to form a reply, when the curtains at the rear doorway were once more pushed aside—and Lopez himself stood before them!

The half-breed’s eyes were bloodshot and feverish; his brown hands trembled as badly as those of the old man.

“So you are here, are you?” said he, after he had stood staring at them for a moment from the doorway. “You are here, and looking for the map.”

He threw up his hands, pressing them tightly to his forehead; then he began to laugh in a way that made the flesh of the two lads creep.

“He’s like a madman,” whispered Dave to his cousin.

“SO YOU ARE HERE?”

“Something has happened,” replied Joe, in the same low tone. “And something that means ill luck for us, I’m afraid.”

Kit Carson made no movement nor answer; he continued leaning against the adobe wall, his strong arms folded across his chest. After a few moments the half-breed recovered from his frenzy; but his eyes still gleamed, his fingers opened and shut like the claws on an animal.

“Yes,” said he, nodding his head slowly. “I did ask you to come here; and I meant to deal honestly with you, too. But it’s too late! I’ve been an idiot; and I’ve been robbed!”

“Of the map!” Dave Johnson made a step forward.

“Yes; of the map,” replied Lopez. “I began to boast of the great luck I had. I showed the map to Moccasin Williams. He is a miner of experience. He had heard stories of gold in California, and had always wanted to go there. Later, while I was asleep, he robbed me.”

He sank down upon a heap of hides, his hands covering his face; from his manner one who did not know the merits of the case would have considered him an honest man grievously wronged.

“A river of flowing gold,” wailed Goat Beard. “Yellow, beautiful gold! And now we will never know where it is. We shall never see it—never gather a nugget, never a grain of its dust.”

After this outburst there was a moment’s silence; then Kit Carson spoke.

“So Moccasin Williams now has the map,” said he. “Have you any idea where he is?”

The half-breed leaped up.

“If I had, would I be here?” asked he, his eyes aflame. “Would I not be stepping in his tracks and hoping for the moment which would bring me up with him?”

“Have you searched the town?”

“I have. To-morrow I go to Taos. Then the settlements all through the hills will be searched. I have friends who will help me. There’s not an Indian village but will come under our eyes, or hide him from us. And when I find him——”

Here his gesture finished the sentence—a gesture as deadly in its meaning as the coiling of a rattlesnake.

After a few moments more in the storehouse of Goat Beard, the three Americans left.

“The map is gone, sure enough,” said Kit, as they went slowly down the street. “And that this blackguard Moccasin Williams has it, is more than likely.”

“But is Lopez to escape punishment?” asked Dave, who tingled with a desire to bring the half-breed to book for what he had done, and the labor, the anxiety, the peril he had caused them.

Kit shook his head.

“Santa Fé is only a frontier town,” said he. “And what little law there is is Mexican, and Mexican law don’t go very far in favor of an American. There are men who’d take the thing in their own hands and deal with Spotted Snake as Spotted Snake says he’ll deal with this man Williams if he ever puts his eyes on him; but we are not that kind. We’ll wait; for who knows what will happen, and maybe before a great while.”

That evening the three held council; and it was not long before they came to an agreement. Joe and Dave each wrote a long letter telling of what they had done and what they meant to do. These were addressed to Joe’s father at the San Gabriel Mission. They told him to be of good heart and to remain where he was until he heard from them again.

“We are going to search for Moccasin Williams until we find him,” wrote Joe to his father. “And to help us we have the finest fellow you ever saw—a dead shot, and one of the quickest brains on the frontier. It may be some time before we see you again; but don’t worry, dad; we’ll be all right, and will come through it all with credit to you.”

“Buck Morgan’ll be trading up as far as the Colorado this summer,” Kit told the boys. “And he’ll be sure to find a Mexican or a Pueblo who’ll carry the writings to the mission.”

Next day this was seen to; the trader, who was the same Kit had interviewed on the previous morning, readily agreed to see to the forwarding of the letters.

“And I’ll send a little word of my own,” said he kindly to the boys. “You see you’re only youngsters and he might think you’re plunging into some harum-scarum thing that’ll bring you nothing but danger. But if an outsider tells him it’s the best thing to be done, it might hearten him up a little.”

The boys thanked Mr. Morgan for his good-natured offer and begged him not to let the idea slip his mind; then, with Kit, they rode off toward Taos.

This latter town was even of a more primitive cast than Santa Fé; it was smaller and the population was less law abiding. Into Taos poured all the trappers, teamsters and other wild spirits of the country; and from Taos set out almost all the expeditions in search of fur, trade and adventure. A week was given to the search for Moccasin Williams; but they failed to find him.

They were careful to make but guarded inquiries for the man; to have him learn, in case he was skulking anywhere about, that he was being sought, would have no other effect than to frighten him away.

However, the search was thorough for all their secrecy; and the end was that Taos was given up as a possible hiding place.

Then they took up Lopez’ idea of the settlements off among the hills; weird barbarous places where the Mexicans and half-breeds lived in a most primitive condition; failing to find any trace of the man the Indians were tried at their lonely villages; but all to no purpose.

“He’s gone,” said Kit, with conviction, one day at the end of summer; “he’s gone as sure as shooting. But where?”

Then one day, on the main street of Taos, they encountered old Zeke Matthews.

“Just now joined Fitzpatrick’s company to trap on the Salmon River,” he told them, after they had exchanged greetings. “Lot of trapping going to be done this season. Old Cap’n Gaunt went out already. Got some of Young’s old men; I’d have gone too, but you see I’ve got so’s I pick my company very carefully these days.”

The trapper and the two boys smiled at the old fellow’s manner.

“You didn’t like some of Gaunt’s men, then?” said Kit.

“Hardly. There’s some right down scalawags among them,” said Zeke. “Good trappers, mind you. But that ain’t everything. I’ve had too many hard rubs from the Injuns in my day to join a company that’s got a renegade among ’em.”

“A renegade,” said Kit, and there was a quick snap in his eyes.

“Moccasin Williams,” said Zeke.

“So he’s gone out with Captain Gaunt’s party, has he?” said Kit. “And what country does the captain propose to trap?”

“Oh, the Laramie and the Snake Rivers, I hear,” replied Zeke. “About the same section as Fitzpatrick’s crowd.”

That evening Kit and his two young friends held another council.

“Williams’ going out with Captain Gaunt shows one thing very plainly,” said the trapper. “Either he’s heard of us searching for him, or Spotted Snake’s been so hot on his trail that there was nothing else to do. He didn’t dare make for California to prove the truth of the map, because he felt that somebody would be sure to be watching for him at the missions or towns.”

“What do you suppose his plans are?” asked Joe.

“It may be,” said the trapper, looking thoughtfully at them both, “that he’s gone out with Gaunt just to wait till the search for him dies down. Or it might be that he means to make for the coast by a longer way.”

Dave thought of the grim mountain chains, the trackless prairies, the roving bands of Indians, some of whom had never seen a white man.

“A single man could never make his way by that route,” said he.

Kit shook his head.

“Maybe not,” he said, slowly. “But, at the same time, don’t forget that Moccasin Williams has lived among the redskins; he knows their ways and talks their languages. What would be death to any other might be smooth going enough for him.”

“We must reach him before he leaves the trapping company he went out with,” said Joe, excitedly. “If we don’t he’ll get away from us for good.”

“Well,” said Kit, thoughtfully, “we can’t follow Gaunt’s track by ourselves. The Indians would be down on us before we’d been out a week. But old Zeke says Fitzpatrick’s company is going to trap in much the same country as Gaunt. What say if we join Fitzpatrick, and in that way get within striking distance of our man?”

Both lads jumped at the idea; and next morning the three went to see Mr. Fitzpatrick, a trapper and trader well known in the southwest. He was pleased to see them, for men were rather difficult to secure at the time.

The result was that in an hour all arrangements were made; and in a few weeks Kit Carson and his boy comrades had turned their faces toward the wilderness once more.