I was not sure what a fandango was but was willing to experience
one, just the same, and, togged out in our best, we went to the
fandango, which was simply a Mexican dance. Sort of a public ball.

I looked on that night with much interest, but declined to
participate further than that. I learned better in a little while,
and the fandango, with the tinkle of guitars and mandolins, the
clink of the cavalleros' spurs, and the laugh and beauty of the
Mexican senoritas, became a great pleasure to me.

Thus began our life at the little Mexican town of Taos, the home
of that great hero of the West, Kit Carson.




CHAPTER III.

HUNTING AND TRAPPING IN SOUTH PARK, WHERE A BOY, UNAIDED, KILLS
AND SCALPS TWO INDIANS--MEETING WITH FREMONT, THE "PATH-FINDER."


One evening in October as I was getting ready to retire for the
night, Uncle Kit said to me:

"Now Willie, to-morrow you must put in the day moulding bullets,
for we must begin making preparations to go trapping."

This was pleasant news to me, for I had laid around so long with
nothing to do but skylark with those Mexican boys, that life was