own language, “are synonymous with truth.”  The gloom which had prevailed over the party, while the men recounted to their friends the details of the fight was temporarily dispelled; and, while thus engaged, the command moved on about two miles from the Indian village.  Having here selected a site, they went into camp.  After comfortably stowing themselves away in this resting-place, another “war talk” was called, and what was best to be done was canvassed over.  After the adjournment of the council, Fremont decided to send back twenty men, under Richard Owens, to the neighborhood of the ruins of the village, there to conceal themselves and await the return of the Indians; who, it was thought, might come back to look after their dead.  He did so; and Owens had not been secreted a great while before about fifty savages returned, and, by the moon’s light, were quite visible.  As had been previously agreed upon, word was sent by a trusty messenger to Fremont, who, with six companions, Kit Carson being of the number, hastened on horseback to join his outpost.  For fear of being discovered, Fremont chose a different route from the one taken by Owens, which was quite direct, while that of the former was circuitous.  On approaching the smouldering remains of the village, Kit Carson discovered only one Indian wandering about on the ground.  As soon almost as he was seen by the party, they made a dash at him.  Kit Carson was in the advance, and on arriving within about ten feet of the warrior, he drew up his horse and brought his rifle to his shoulder to fire, but the gun only snapped, and left its owner in a very precarious situation, as the red man had already drawn the string of his bow to plant an arrow in the body of his adversary.  A moment more and, in all probability, Kit Carson would have been breathing his last.  Fremont saw the danger his friend was in, although Kit had tried to avoid the arrow by throwing himself on one side of his horse.  With much forethought, as well as personal exposure, he plunged the rowels of his spurs deep into his riding animal.  The noble horse, obeying the impetus thus given by his rider, made a few extra strides, until he reached, knocked down and passed over the Indian, thereby causing his arrow to fly in a different direction from the one intended.  Before the savage could regain his feet, a ball from one of the rifles belonging to the party had sent him to his last resting-place.  Fremont now learned from Owens, that while the messenger was absent, the rest of the Indians had decamped, and as he had received orders from him to await his coming in case he found the enemy, therefore, he was obliged to let the rascals quietly depart without firing into them, which was much to his own and his men’s displeasure.

[Illustration:  A moment more and in all probability Kit Carson would have been breathing his last.  Fremont saw the danger his friend was in, although Kit had tried to avoid the arrow by throwing himself on one side of his horse.—­PAGE 265.]