Fitzpatrick, the head of the fur hunting expedition of which Kit Carson now made one, was a hardy, courageous man, a good trapper, and knew the country and its signs as well as any other man of his time.

He led his party almost north; this course they held until they reached the head waters of the Platte.

Winter was now upon them in the midst of the mountains; the snow filled the defiles, the icy wind moaned in the naked trees and among the crags. But besides their buckskins the trappers now wore thick furs; and the warm blood of a vigorous life in the hills and on the prairies made the experience only one of increased pleasure to the hardy border men.

At each camp enough “half faced” houses were erected to shelter the men from the wind and snow. These were made of boughs, barks and skins and were of three sides and a roof. The front was open, toward the fire; the men slept on fur robes or blankets, their feet turned to the blazing logs.

The Platte was followed slowly, the party taking furs all the way to the Sweet Water, one of its tributaries; and this stream in turn was trapped until they reached Green River. From there they progressed to Jackson’s Hole, a fork of the Columbia; then on to the Salmon River where a part of their own band, which had left Taos some days in advance, joined them.

Old Zeke Matthews was among these new men; and at once Kit and the boys began questioning him with regard to any news which he might have heard of Gaunt’s men.

“Nothing at all,” replied the old fellow. “A couple of Injuns came into camp one night and told us that some trappers were at work a little west of us; but from what they said I’m pretty nigh sure they were Sinclair’s party who left about the same time we did.”

The entire Fitzpatrick expedition now having gathered, a group of warm huts was erected in a sunny valley, protected from the sweep of the winds; and as the trappers meant to spend the remainder of the winter there, they were at more pains to arrange the camp, and make themselves comfortable.

Most of the time in this long encampment was spent in dressing pelts and mending and making equipment and clothing. The only hunting done was for food. They were in the country of the Blackfeet, a daring nation of red marauders, but because of the cold the trappers did not expect any troublesome attention from them.

“They’ll stick to their lodges,” said Zeke; “the varmints don’t like hard weather.”

But that they had all reckoned without the wile of the red man and his desire for the property of the whites was soon made evident. A herd of buffalo was sighted one day on a plain, and a party of four of the trappers mounted and went in pursuit. Just how their fate overtook them will never be known; but that it was sudden and dreadful was plain to their comrades. A band of Indians dashed down upon them and all four lost their lives.

Vengeance shook the camp on the Salmon River; in a fury the trappers armed; but for all their swiftness the savages escaped; not even an eagle plume was seen; and their tracks were lost in the falling snow.

When the spring opened operations were commenced on the Salmon; at length they reached the Snake or Shoshone River; and the giant falls one day burst upon the vision of the boys. The lava peaks rose in wild grandeur all about it; the mighty rush of the water awed and amazed even the hardy spirits of the buckskinned adventurers.

Along the Snake they trapped to the Bear; and from there to the Green River once more. Here they encountered a trapper band which proved to be that of Sinclair, of whom Zeke had spoken.

“Captain Gaunt,” said head trapper Sinclair to Kit. “Why, yes, I’ve heard of him now and then since we got up into this country. He put in the winter on the Laramie River; and if I’m not much mistaken he’s now trapping somewhere in the South Park.”

At once Kit sought out Mr. Fitzpatrick; he told the adventurous Irishman as much as he saw fit of the hunt for Moccasin Williams and the desire of himself and the boys to hunt up Gaunt’s band without delay, now that it was located.

“Why, then,” said the chief trapper, “go, and good luck to you. And it’s catch the thief of the world I hope you do. For the like of him is a bigger danger than the Blackfeet themselves.”

Zeke Matthews and another seasoned adventurer named Gordon elected to follow Kit and his young friends in their journey to the South Park.

“The Fitzpatrick company are about through their trapping,” said the first of these veterans, “and there’s no use taking a long ride back to Taos, only to turn about and make for the rivers again in a little while after. Gaunt’s going to stay; he’ll cache his pelts until he’s put in a couple of seasons.”

So the four, well armed, set out; and without any notable adventures reached the trapping ground of Captain Gaunt. The latter was a hearty man past sixty, a true type of the Westerner of the time. He welcomed the visitors to his outfit with the utmost warmth. But when Kit spoke of the object of their journey he frowned blackly.

“Moccasin Williams, do you say?” he almost shouted; before he could continue Kit laid a warning hand upon his arm.

“Not so loud,” said the young trapper; “he’ll hear you.”

“Well, if he does, he’s got mighty good ears,” said the downright Captain Gaunt. “For he’s away somewhere in the hills with the redskins. And stole some of my best horses when he went.”

For a moment Dave and Joe felt that the mountains had toppled over upon them; they had counted so strongly upon the result of coming up with this particular trapping expedition that the shock of disappointment was harder to bear than it had been at any other time. Gone! And they had possibly been within a few days’ journey of him frequently; if they had known where Gaunt’s men were working they could have set out for his camp while there was still hope of success. But now that was at an end.

“We’ve got it to do all over again,” said Joe in a weary sort of way, for the long anxiety had told on him.

“Yes; we must begin at the beginning,” admitted Dave. “But,” and there was a flash in his eyes, “we’ll find him for all that, and we’ll find the map too.”

Kit and Captain Gaunt were conversing aside.

“I was warned against the fellow,” said the head trapper. “They told me he wasn’t to be trusted.” Then with some curiosity in his voice, “Anything particular you wanted of him?”

“A kind of private matter,” said Kit.

“Some sort of rascality, I’ll venture to say,” was the captain’s comment.

Then the five wanderers from Fitzpatrick’s outfit held council together. Zeke and the other trapper, as has been noted, intended to join Gaunt’s party from their start for the South Park; and now Kit and the lads could see nothing but the same process for themselves. Gaunt was glad enough to secure them, as he had come out with fewer men than he intended, so the routine of camp and trap and rifle was taken up once more.

They had been with Gaunt’s men for some time, ever on the outlook for news of a white man among the savages of the region, when one night a band of marauders crept up to the camp. The guard was slack, perhaps; but that the night was a dark one was a certainty. At any rate the Indians managed to get among the horses without being detected; and when dawn came, nine of the very best animals were missing.

Zeke Matthews made the discovery, and his whoop startled the camp.

“Injuns,” stated he, pointing to the ground, where the “signs” were plentiful enough. “And they’ve driv’ off a lot of the hosses.”

From some articles of equipment lost by the savages, it was learned that they were Crows; and their trail led broad and plain into the hills. Captain Gaunt surveyed his men.

“I want a party to take the trail, bring back the nags and show the thieves that there’s a punishment waiting for every one who doesn’t respect the law of the wilderness,” said he. “Who will go?”

Kit Carson stepped out from among the men; the boys, who would have followed him anywhere, did the same; in a moment there was a party of a dozen saddling their mustangs and making ready for the chase.

“We’ll hold this camp until you return,” said Gaunt. “And bring back the horses.”

Along the trail sped the twelve, Kit Carson riding silently ahead, his eyes searching the ground. That the Crows were a rather numerous party was evident from the hoof-prints of the ridden horses.

“They’re ten to one against us,” said old Zeke, who was one of the pursuers and whose experienced eyes also searched the trail. “But that ain’t of no account. A white man ought to be good for twice that many redskins, any day!”

After following the trail something like five miles it grew greatly confused. During the night a huge herd of buffalo had crossed and recrossed it; but the genius of the wilderness was strong in Kit Carson even at that early time; in spite of everything he never failed to pick up the track each time it was lost.

“The foot of a horse is different from a buffalo’s,” said he, briefly, in answer to a question of Dave’s. “And if you keep a sharp eye on the trail, you’ll see the print of a horse every now and then, even among all the buffalo tracks.”

All day they rode at a good pace; and by late in the afternoon they had covered some forty miles. The horses were jaded, and if they were to be kept fit to continue the trail the next day they must be rested and fed.

There was a clump of trees near by their halting place which seemed an excellent spot for a camp.

“We’ll take a rest here,” said Kit, “and have a snack. The nags can pick up a little green stuff, too, maybe.”

Winter had come again, and the horses, from lack of herbage upon which to feed, were in poor condition. There was a promise of soft boughs and young bark in the grove; the trappers’ animals lived upon such fodder in the cold months, and the prospect made them as eager and restive for the camp as their riders.

They were within a hundred yards of the timber when a sound caught their ears. There was a low command from Kit, and the trappers drew rein instantly. Again the sound came to them, a sharp yelp as of an animal in pain.

“A dog,” said Kit; “and on the other side of the timber.”

The presence of a dog in the wilderness is a positive indication of the presence of man at no great distance. There was not one of the seasoned trappers but knew this; and the minds of Dave and Joe seeing the effect upon their companion grasped the fact instantly.

“Redskins!” said Kit Carson. “Look there.”

Above the tree tops two towering columns of smoke were ascending; that a camp of some size existed among or upon the opposite side of the trees the whites were now convinced.

“REDSKINS!”

“This way,” said Kit, as he turned his horse. Some little distance back, there was a rise in the ground; behind this he remembered to have seen a clump of timber something like that which had just been the object of their attention. Reaching the trees, they dismounted; the horses were tied and then Kit said quietly:

“Boys, we don’t know what’s ahead of us; so the best thing is to have a look over the ground before we make another move. I’m going across this bit of prairie and have a look at that camp over there. It may be the band we are after, or it may not be. In an hour you’ll know. Anyhow, get yourselves ready for action, for we don’t know what may be the outcome.”

He left them among the trees and advanced toward the timber from which the smoke was still ascending. The prairie was a rolling one; here and there cover was to be had; and Kit cautiously advanced from place to place, his woodcraft making him invisible for the greater part of the time from the grove ahead.

At length he reached the edge of the clump; upon his hands and knees he crept forward, parting the undergrowth and low hanging limbs that his body might slip noiselessly through. Finally he sighted the camp, and as he did so he settled down with a quick intake of the breath.

Two large fires were burning; and at each was roasting a butchered horse. A company of painted savages, full armed and with the feathers of their war bonnets hanging down their backs, were grouped about. A couple of lodges, strengthened so as to be used as places of defense in case of need, were erected at one side; a little distance away were tethered the horses stolen from the camp of Captain Gaunt, minus the two roasting to provide a feast for the Crows.

Usually keen to suspect the proximity of a foe, the Indians now displayed surprising laxity. Perhaps the great distance they had put between themselves and the trappers was the cause of this; they thought themselves beyond the reach of pursuit, and so were giving themselves up to the enjoyment of their enterprise.

Kit watched them for some time; then as the shadows began to thicken, he crept away across the stretch of prairie to the place where he had left his friends.

“It’s the party we are after,” said he. “I saw the horses. The reds are making preparations for a big feast, and haven’t any thought of danger.”

“Feasting, eh?” said old Zeke. “Well, boys, it seems to me we ought to have a little to say in these festivities. Captain Gaunt reckons on a trifle of powder being burned by way of protest against horse-stealing in general, and it’s as little as we can do to go according to his will.”

At nightfall the sound of barbaric song came across the prairie; and as the trappers stole toward the Indian camp they saw the red glow of the fires, and through the trees the swaying, contorting forms of the warriors going through a savage dance of triumph.

The Indians had come from the north with their booty of horse-flesh, and from the north alone they looked for pursuit; the trappers knew that this would be the case, so they took care to approach the camp from another side. When close enough to see all that went on at the camp-fires of the Crows, they crouched down in sheltered places and waited for the end of the feast.

It was a cold night, and there was some snow upon the ground. And as they waited the whites grew chilled and stiff; their limbs quaked and their teeth chattered. But when the braves had finally eaten their fill and danced themselves tired they laid themselves down to sleep; and soon a torpor overtook the camp.

This was the time for which the trappers had been waiting; Kit, with five others, slipped away to the place where the horses were grouped, freed, and drove them away. Some little distance away the remainder of the party joined them; then a council in low pitched voices was held as to what was the next step.

“We’ve got our horses,” counseled one of the men. “The redskins are a pretty powerful band and we’re a long way from support. So it’s my opinion that we ought to be satisfied with our good luck and start back for camp right away.”

A number of the others agreed to this; but Kit Carson said:

“The thieves should be punished. Another thing, our nags are pretty well done up and we’ll have to go slowly. Our trail will show the Crows that there’s only a few of us; and they’ll pursue us. In a thing like this there’s a big chance against us; so if we can, we had better shift things around in our favor.”

“How’s that to be done?” asked the trapper who had favored letting well enough alone.

“We have them now just where an attack would scare them most. Let us throw a volley into their camp and charge them; they’ll start running then, and the chances are we’ll have nothing more to fear.”

“Them words is words of wisdom!” declared Zeke Matthews, slapping the butt of his rifle emphatically. “Strike hard now and we needn’t be afraid later.”

The trappers, an adventurous lot by nature, at once fell in with the idea. They looked to their weapons carefully; then with steps trained to softness, they stole upon the Crow camp.

The fires had been allowed to die somewhat; the plumed head of a lonely guard nodded at the edge of the firelight; the sleeping warriors, laden with food, never stirred.

Then suddenly a lean dog arose; his ill shaped head lifted, and he began to sniff, suspicion in every hair. Then he sprang forward, barking loudly to arouse his savage masters. Trained to awake at such an alarm, some of the Indians sprang up; and as they did so the long rifles of the trappers lifted, and a volley went whistling into the camp.