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Thirty-One Years on the Plains and in the Mountains, Or, the Last Voice from the Plains

by William F. Drannan · English · Gutenberg #5337 · 814,214 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Thirty-One Years on the Plains and in the Mountains, Or, the Last Voice from the Plains

Author: William F. Drannan


        
Release date: March 1, 2004 [eBook #5337]
                Most recently updated: December 28, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/5337

Credits: Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THIRTY-ONE YEARS ON THE PLAINS AND IN THE MOUNTAINS, OR, THE LAST VOICE FROM THE PLAINS ***




Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.



THIRTY-ONE YEARS ON THE
PLAINS AND IN THE MOUNTAINS

OR,

THE LAST VOICE FROM THE PLAINS.
AN AUTHENTIC RECORD OF A LIFE TIME OF HUNTING,
TRAPPING, SCOUTING AND INDIAN FIGHTING IN THE FAR WEST

BY

CAPT. WILLIAM F. DRANNAN,

WHO WENT ON TO THE PLAINS WHEN FIFTEEN YEARS OLD.






PREFACE.

In writing this preface I do so with the full knowledge that the
preface of a book is rarely read, comparatively speaking, but I
shall write this one just the same.

In writing this work the author has made no attempt at romance, or
a great literary production, but has narrated in his own plain,
blunt way, the incidents of his life as they actually occurred.

There have been so many books put upon the market, purporting to
be the lives of noted frontiersmen which are only fiction, that I
am moved to ask the reader to consider well before condemning this
book as such.

The author starts out with the most notable events of his boyhood
days, among them his troubles with an old negro virago, wherein he
gets his revenge by throwing a nest of lively hornets under her
feet. Then come his flight and a trip, to St. Louis, hundreds of
miles on foot, his accidental meeting with that most eminent man
of his class, Kit Carson, who takes the lad into his care and
treats him as a kind father would a son. He then proceeds to give
a minute description of his first trip on the plains, where he
meets and associates with such noted plainsmen as Gen. John
Charles Fremont, James Beckwith, Jim Bridger and others, and gives
incidents of his association with them in scouting, trapping,
hunting big game, Indian fighting, etc.

The author also gives brief sketches of the springing into
existence of many of the noted cities of the West, and the
incidents connected therewith that have never been written before.
There is also a faithful recital of his many years of scouting for
such famous Indian fighters as Gen. Crook, Gen. Connor, Col.
Elliott, Gen. Wheaton and others, all of which will be of more
than passing interest to those who can be entertained by the early
history of the western part of our great republic.

This work also gives an insight into the lives of the hardy
pioneers of the far West, and the many trials and hardships they
had to undergo in blazing the trail and hewing the way to one of
the grandest and most healthful regions of the United States.
W. F. D.

  CHICAGO, August 1st, 1899.




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER 1. A Boy Escapes a Tyrant and Pays a Debt with a Hornet's
Nest--Meets Kit Carson and Becomes the Owner of a Pony and a Gun

CHAPTER 2. Beginning of an Adventurous Life--First Wild Turkey--
First Buffalo--First Feast as an Honored Guest of Indians--Dog
Meat

CHAPTER 3. Hunting and Trapping in South Park, Where a Boy,
Unaided, Kills and Scalps Two Indians--Meeting with Fremont, the
"Path-finder"

CHAPTER 4. A Winter in North Park--Running Fight with a Band of
Utes for More than a Hundred Miles, Ending Hand to Hand--Victory

CHAPTER 5. On the Cache-la-Poudre--Visit from Gray Eagle, Chief of
the Arapahoes.--A Bear-hunter is Hunted by the Bear--Phil, the
Cannibal

CHAPTER 6. Two Boys Ride to the City of Mexico--Eleven Hundred
Miles of Trial, Danger and Duty--A Gift Horse--The Wind River
Mountains

CHAPTER 7. A Three Days' Battle Between the Comanches and the Utes
for the Possession of a "Hunter's Paradise"--An Unseasonable Bath.

CHAPTER 8. Kit Carson Kills a Hudson Bay Company's Trapper, Who
Was Spoiling for a Fight--Social Good Time with a Train of
Emigrants

CHAPTER 9. Marriage of Kit Carson--The Wedding Feast--Providing
Buffalo Meat, in the Original Package, for the Boarding-house at
Bent's Fort

CHAPTER 10. Robber Gamblers of San Francisco--Engaged by Col.
Elliott as Indian Scout--Kills and Scalps Five Indians--Promoted
to Chief Scout

CHAPTER 11. A Lively Battle with Pah-Utes--Pinned to Saddle with
an Arrow--Some Very Good Indians--Stuttering Captain--Beckwith
Opens His Pass

CHAPTER 12--Col. Elliott Kills His First Deer, and Secures a Fine
Pair of Horns as Present for His Father--Beckwith's Tavern--
Society

CHAPTER 13--Something Worse than Fighting Indians Dance at Col.
Elliott's--Conspicuous Suit of Buckskin I Manage to Get Back to
Beckwith's

CHAPTER 14. Drilling the Detailed Scouts---We Get Among the Utes--
Four Scouts Have Not Reported Yet--Another Lively Fight--Beckwith
Makes a Raise

CHAPTER 15. A Hunt on Petaluma Creek--Elk Fever Breaks Out--The
Expedition to Klamath Lake--A Lively Brush with Modoc Indians

CHAPTER 16. More Fish than I Had Ever Seen at One Time--We
Surprise Some Indians, Who Also Surprise Us--The Camp at Klamath
Lake--I Get Another Wound and a Lot of Horses

CHAPTER 17. Discovery of Indians with Stolen Horses--We Kill the
Indians and Return the Property to Its Owners--Meeting of Miners--
In Society Again

CHAPTER 18. Trapping on the Gila--The Pimas Impart a Secret--
Rescue of a White Girl--A Young Indian Ages--Visit to Taos--Uncle
Kit Fails to Recognize Me

CHAPTER 19. A Warm Time in a Cold Country--A Band of Bannocks
Chase Us Into a Storm that Saves Us--Kit Carson Slightly Wounded--
Beckwith Makes a Century Run

CHAPTER 20. Carson Quits the Trail--Buffalo Robes for Ten Cents--
"Pike's Peak or Bust"--The New City of Denver--"Busted"--How the
News Started

CHAPTER 21. A Fight With the Sioux--Hasa, the Mexican Boy, Killed
--Mixed Up With Emigrants Some More--Four New Graves--Successful
Trading With the Kiowas

CHAPTER 22. A Trip to Fort Kearney--The General Endorses Us and We
Pilot an Emigrant Train to California--Woman Who Thought I Was "no
Gentleman"--A Camp Dance

CHAPTER 23. Bridger and West Give Christmas a High Old Welcome in
Sacramento--California Gulch--Meeting with Buffalo Bill--Thirty-
three Scalps with One Knife

CHAPTER 24. Face to Face with a Band of Apaches--The Death of
Pinto--The Closest Call I Ever Had--A Night Escape--Back at Fort
Douglas

CHAPTER 25. Three Thousand Dead Indians--A Detective from Chicago
--He Goes Home with an Old Mormon's Youngest Wife and Gets into
Trouble--The Flight

CHAPTER 26.--Through to Bannock--A Dance of Peace Fright of the
Negroes--A Freight Train Snowed in and a Trip on Snow-shoes--Some
Very Tough Road Agents

CHAPTER 27. Organization of a Vigilance Committee--End of the
Notorious Slade--One Hundred Dollars for a "Crow-bait" Horse--
Flour a Dollar a Pound.

CHAPTER 28. Twenty-two Thousand Dollars in Gold Dust--A Stage
Robbery--Another Trip to California Meeting with Gen. Crook--Chief
of Scouts

CHAPTER 29. Find Some Murdered Emigrants--We Bury the Dead and
Follow and Scalp the Indians--Gen. Crook Is Pleased with the
Outcome--A Mojave Blanket

CHAPTER 30. A Wicked Little Battle--Capture of One Hundred and
Eighty-two Horses--Discovery of Black Canyon--Fort Yuma and the
Paymaster

CHAPTER 31. To California for Horses--My Beautiful Mare, Black
Bess--We Get Sixty-six Scalps and Seventy-eight Horses--A Clean
Sweep

CHAPTER 32. Some Men Who Were Anxious for a Fight and Got It--Gen.
Crook at Black Canyon--Bad Mistake of a Good Man--The Victims

CHAPTER 33. The Massacre at Choke Cherry Canyon--Mike Maloney Gets
Into a Muss--Rescue of White Girls--Mike Gets Even with the
Apaches

CHAPTER 34. Massacre of the Davis Family--A Hard Ride and Swift
Retribution--A Pitiful Story--Burial of the Dead--I am Sick of the
Business

CHAPTER 35. Black Bess Becomes Popular in San Francisco--A Failure
as Rancher--Buying Horses in Oregon--The Klamath Marsh--Captain
Jack the Modoc

CHAPTER 36. The Modoc War--Gen. Wheaton Is Held Off by the
Indians--Gen. Canby Takes Command and Gets It Worse-Massacre of
the Peace Commission

CHAPTER 37-The Cry of a Babe--Capture of a Bevy of Squaws--
Treachery of Gen. Ross' Men in Killing Prisoners--Capture of the
Modoc Chief

CHAPTER 38. Story of the Captured Braves--Why Captain Jack
Deserted--Loathsome Condition of the Indian Stronghold--End of the
War--Some Comments

CHAPTER 39. An Interested Boy--Execution of the Modoc Leaders--
Newspaper Messengers--A Very Sudden Deputy Sheriff--A Bad Man
Wound Up

CHAPTER 40. In Society Some More--A Very Tight Place--Ten Pairs of
Yankee Ears--Black Bess Shakes Herself at the Right Time--Solemn
Compact.

CHAPTER 41. We Locate a Small Band of Red Butchers and Send them
to the Happy Hunting Grounds--Emigrants Mistake Us for Indians--
George Jones Wounded

CHAPTER 42. "We Are All Surrounded"--A Bold Dash and a Bad Wound--
Mrs. Davis Shows Her Gratitude--Most of My Work Now Done on
Crutches

CHAPTER 43. Poor Jones Makes His Last Fight--He Died Among a Lot
of the Devils He Had Slain--End of Thirty-one Years of Hunting,
Trapping and Scouting

CHAPTER 44. A Grizzley Hunts the Hunter--Shooting Seals in Alaskan
Waters--I Become a Seattle Hotel Keeper and the Big Fire Closes Me
Out--Some Rest--The Old Scout's Lament




CHAPTER I.

A BOY ESCAPES A TYRANT AND PAYS A DEBT WITH A HORNET'S NEST--MEETS
KIT CARSON AND BECOMES THE OWNER OF A PONY AND A GUN.

The old saying that truth is stranger than fiction is emphasized
in the life of every man whose career has been one of adventure
and danger in the pursuit of a livelihood. Knowing nothing of the
art of fiction and but little of any sort of literature; having
been brought up in the severe school of nature, which is all
truth, and having had as instructor in my calling a man who was
singularly and famously truthful, truth has been my inheritance
and in this book I bequeath it to my readers.

My name is William F. Drannan, and I was born on the Atlantic
ocean January 30, 1832, while my parents were emigrating from
France to the United States.

They settled in Tennessee, near Nashville, and lived upon a farm
until I was about four years old. An epidemic of cholera prevailed
in that region for some months during that time and my parents
died of the dread disease, leaving myself and a little sister,
seven months old, orphans.

I have never known what became of my sister, nor do I know how I
came to fall into the hands of a man named Drake, having been too
young at that time to remember now the causes of happenings then.
However, I remained with this man, Drake, on his plantation near
The Hermitage, the home of Gen. Andrew Jackson, until I was
fifteen.

Drake was a bachelor who owned a large number of negro slaves, and
I was brought up to the age mentioned among the negro children of
the place, without schooling, but cuffed and knocked about more
like a worthless puppy than as if I were a human child. I never
saw the inside of a school-house, nor was I taught at home
anything of value. Drake never even undertook to teach me the
difference between good and evil, and my only associates were the
little negro boys that belonged to Drake, or the neighbors. The
only person who offered to control or correct me was an old negro
woman, who so far from being the revered and beloved "Black
Mammy," remembered with deep affection by many southern men and
women, was simply a hideous black tyrant. She abused me
shamefully, and I was punished by her not only for my own
performances that displeased her, but for all the meanness done by
the negro boys under her jurisdiction.

Naturally these negro boys quickly learned that they could escape
punishment by falsely imputing to me all of their mischief and I
was their scape-goat.

Often Drake's negro boys went over to General Jackson's plantation
to play with the negro boys over there and I frequently
accompanied them. One day the old General asked me why I did not
go to school. But I could not tell him. I did not know why. I have
known since that I was not told to go and anyone knows that a boy
just growing up loose, as I was, is not likely to go to school of
his own accord.

I do not propose to convey to the reader the idea that I was
naturally better than other boys, on the contrary, I frequently
deserved the rod when I did not get it, but more frequently
received a cruel drubbing when I did not deserve it, that, too, at
the hands of the old negro crone who was exceedingly violent as
well as unjust. This, of course, cultivated in me a hatred against
the vile creature which was little short of murderous.

However, I stayed on and bore up under my troubles as there was
nothing else to do, so far as I knew then, but "grin and bear it."
This until I was fifteen years old.

At this time, however ignorant, illiterate, wild as I was, a faint
idea of the need of education dawned upon me. I saw other white
boys going to school; I saw the difference between them and myself
that education was rapidly making and I realized that I was
growing up as ignorant and uncultured as the slave boys who were
my only attainable companions.

Somehow I had heard of a great city called St. Louis, and little
by little the determination grew upon me to reach that wonderful
place in some way.

I got a few odd jobs of work, now and then, from the neighbors and
in a little while I had accumulated four dollars, which seemed a
great deal of money to me, and I thought I would buy about half of
St. Louis, if I could only get there. And yet I decided that it
would be just as well to have a few more dollars and would not
leave my present home, which, bad it was, was the only one I had,
until I had acquired a little more money. But coming home from
work one evening I found the old negress in an unusually bad
humor, even for her. She gave me a cruel thrashing just to give
vent to her feelings, and that decided me to leave at once,
without waiting to further improve my financial condition. I was
getting to be too big a boy to be beaten around by that old
wretch, and having no ties of friendship, and no one being at all
interested in me, I was determined to get away before my tormentor
could get another chance at me.

I would go to St. Louis, but I must get even with the old hag
before starting. I did not wish to leave in debt to anyone in the
neighborhood and so I cudgeled my brain to devise a means for
settling old scores with my self-constituted governess.

Toward evening I wandered into a small pasture, doing my best to
think how I could best pay off the black termagant with safety to
myself, when with great good luck I suddenly beheld a huge
hornet's nest, hanging in a bunch of shrubbery. My plan instantly
and fully developed. Quickly I returned to the house and hastily
gathered what little clothing I owned into a bundle, done up in my
one handkerchief, an imitation of bandanna, of very loud pattern.
This bundle I secreted in the barn and then hied me to the
hornet's nest. Approaching the swinging home of the hornets very
softly, so as not to disturb the inmates, I stuffed the entrance
to the hornet castle with sassafras leaves, and taking the great
sphere in my arms I bore it to a back window of the kitchen where
the black beldame was vigorously at work within and contentedly
droning a negro hymn.

Dark was coming on and a drizzly rain was falling. It was the
spring of the year, the day had been warm and the kitchen window
was open. I stole up to the open window. The woman's back was
toward me. I removed the plug of sassafras leaves and hurled the
hornet's nest so that it landed under the hag's skirts.

I watched the proceedings for one short moment, and then, as it
was getting late, I concluded I had better be off for St. Louis.
So I went away from there at the best gait I could command.

I could hear my arch-enemy screaming, and it was music to my ears
that even thrills me yet, sometimes. It was a better supper than
she would have given me.

I saw the negroes running from the quarters, and elsewhere, toward
the kitchen, and I must beg the reader to endeavor to imagine the
scene in that culinary department, as I am unable to describe it,
not having waited to see it out.

But I slid for the barn, secured my bundle and started for the
ancient city far away.

All night, on foot and alone, I trudged the turnpike that ran
through Nashville. I arrived in that city about daylight, tired
and hungry, but was too timid to stop for something to eat,
notwithstanding I had my four dollars safe in my pocket, and had
not eaten since noon, the day before.

I plodded along through the town and crossed the Cumberland river
on a ferry-boat, and then pulled out in a northerly direction for
about an hour, when I came to a farm-house. In the road in front
of the house I met the proprietor who was going from his garden,
opposite the house, to his breakfast.

He waited until I came up, and as I was about to pass on, he said:
"Hello! my boy, where are you going so early this morning?"

I told him I was on my way to St. Louis.

"St. Louis?" he said. "I never heard of that place before. Where
is it?"

I told him I thought it was in Missouri, but was not certain.

"Are you going all the way on foot, and alone?"

I answered that I was, and that I had no other way to go. With
that I started on.

"Hold on," he said. "If you are going to walk that long way you
had better come in and have some breakfast."

You may rest assured that I did not wait for a second invitation,
for about that time I was as hungry as I had ever been in my life.

While we were eating breakfast the farmer turned to his oldest
daughter and said:

"Martha, where is St. Louis?"

She told him it was in Missouri, and one of the largest towns in
the South or West. "Our geography tells lots about it," she said.

I thought this was about the best meal I had ever eaten in my
life, and after it was over I offered to pay for it, but the kind-
hearted old man refused to take anything, saying: "Keep your
money, my boy. You may need it before you get back. And on your
return, stop and stay with me all night, and tell us all about St.
Louis."

After thanking them, I took my little bundle, bade them good-bye,
and was on my journey again. I have always regretted that I did
not learn this good man's name, but I was in something of a hurry
just then, for I feared that Mr. Drake might get on my trail and
follow me and take me back, and I had no pressing inclination to
meet old Hulda again.

I plodded along for many days, now and then looking back for Mr.
Drake, but not anxious to see him; rather the reverse.

It is not necessary to lumber up this story with my trip to St.
Louis. I was about six weeks on the road, the greater part of the
time in Kentucky, and I had no use for my money. I could stay at
almost any farm-house all night, wherever I stopped, and have a
good bed and be well fed, but no one would take pay for these
accommodations. When I got to Owensboro, Ky., I became acquainted
by accident with the mate of a steamboat that was going to St.
Louis and he allowed me to go on the boat and work my way.

The first person that I met in St Louis, that I dared to speak
with, was a boy somewhat younger than myself. I asked him his
name, and in broken English he replied that his name was Henry
Becket.

Seeing that he was French, I began to talk to him in his own
language, which was my mother tongue, and so we were quickly
friends. I told him that my parents were both dead and that I had
no home, and he being of a kind-hearted, sympathetic nature,
invited me to go home with him, which invitation I immediately
accepted.

Henry Becket's mother was a widow and they were very poor, but
they were lovingly kind to me.

I told Mrs. Becket of my troubles with Mr. Drake's old negro
woman; how much abuse I had suffered at her hands and the widow
sympathized with me deeply. She also told me that I was welcome to
stay with them until such time as I was able to get employment. So
I remained with the Beckets three days, during all of which time I
tried hard to get work, but without success.

On the morning of the fourth day she asked me if I had tried any
of the hotels for work. I told her that I had not, so she advised
me to go to some of them in my rounds.

It had not occurred to me that a boy could find anything to do
about a hotel, but I took Mrs. Becket's advice, and that morning
called at the American hotel, which was the first one I came to.

Quite boldly, for a green boy, I approached the person whom I was
told was the proprietor and asked him if he had any work for a
boy, whereupon he looked at me in what seemed a most scornful way
and said very tartly:

"What kind of work do you think you could do?"

I told him I could do most anything in the way of common labor.

He gave me another half-scornful smile and said:

"I think you had better go home to your parents and go to school.
That's the best place for you."

This was discouraging, but instead of explaining my position, I
turned to go, and in spite of all that I could do the tears came
to my eyes. Not that I cared so much for being refused employment,
but for the manner in which the hotel man had spoken to me. I did
not propose to give up at that, but started away, more than ever
determined to find employment. I did not want to impose on the
Beckets, notwithstanding that they still assured me of welcome,
and moreover I wished to do something to help them, even more than
myself.

I had nearly reached the door when a man who had been reading a
newspaper, but was now observing me, called out:

"My boy! come here."

I went over to the corner where he was sitting and I was trying at
the same time to dry away my tears.

This man asked my name, which I gave him. He then asked where my
parents lived, and I told him that they died when I was four years
old.

Other questions from him brought out the story of my boy-life;
Drake, Gen. Jackson, the negro boys and the brutal negress; then
my trip to St. Louis--but I omitted the hornet's-nest incident. I
also told this kindly stranger that I had started out to make a
living for myself and intended to succeed.

Then he asked me where I was staying, and I told him of the
Beckets.

Seeing that this man was taking quite an interest in me, gave me
courage to ask his name. He told me that his name was Kit Carson,
and that by calling he was a hunter and trapper, and asked me how
I would like to learn his trade.

I assured him that I was willing to do anything honorable for a
living and that I thought I would very much like to be a hunter
and trapper. He said he would take me with him and I was entirely
delighted. Often I had wished to own a gun, but had never thought
of shooting anything larger than a squirrel or rabbit. I was ready
to start at once, and asked him when he would go.

Smilingly he told me not to be in a hurry, and asked me where Mrs.
Becket lived. I told him as nearly as I could, and again asked
when he thought we would leave St. Louis. I was fearful that he
would change his mind about taking me with him. I didn't know him
then so well as afterward. I came to learn that his slightest word
was his bond.

But visions of Mr. Drake, an old negro woman and a hornet's nest,
still haunted me and made me overanxious. I wanted to get as far
out of their reach as possible and still remain on the earth.

Mr. Carson laughed in a quiet and yet much amused way and said:

"You must learn to not do anything until you are good and ready,
and there are heaps of things to do before we can start out. Now
let's go and see Mrs. Becket."

So I piloted him to the widow's home, which, as near as I can
remember, was about four blocks from the hotel. Mr. Carson being
able to speak French first-rate, had a talk with Mrs. Becket
concerning me. The story she told him, corresponding with that
which I had told him, he concluded that I had given him nothing
but truth, and then he asked Mrs. Becket what my bill was. She
replied that she had just taken me in because I was a poor boy,
until such time as I could find employment, and that her charges
were nothing. He then asked her how long I had been with her, and
being told that it was four days, he begged her to take five
dollars, which she finally accepted.

I took my little budget of clothes and tearfully bidding Mrs.
Becket and Henry good-bye, started back to the hotel with my new
guardian, and I was the happiest boy in the world, from that on,
so long as I was a boy.

On the way back to the hotel Mr. Carson stopped with me at a store
and he bought me a new suit of clothes, a hat and a pair of boots,
for I was barefooted and almost bareheaded. Thus dressed I could
hardly realize that I was the Will Drannan of a few hours before.

That was the first pair of boots I had ever owned. Perhaps, dear
reader, you do not know what that means to a healthy boy of
fifteen.

It means more than has ever been written, or ever will be.

I was now very ready to start out hunting, and on our way to the
hotel I asked Mr. Carson if he did not think we could get away by
morning, but he told me that to hunt I would probably need a gun,
and we must wait until he could have one made for me, of proper
size for a boy.

The next day we went to a gun factory and Mr. Carson gave orders
concerning the weapon, after which we returned to the hotel. We
remained in St. Louis about three weeks and every day seemed like
an age to me. At our room in the hotel Mr. Carson would tell me
stories about hunting and trapping, and notwithstanding the
intense interest of the stories the days were longer, because I so
much wished to be among the scenes he talked of, and my dreams at
night were filled with all sorts of wonderful animals, my fancy's
creation from what Mr. Carson talked about. I had never fired a
gun in my life and I was unbearably impatient to get my hands on
the one that was being made for me.

During the wait at St. Louis, Henry Becket was with me nearly all
the time, and when we were not haunting the gun factory, we were,
as much as possible, in Mr. Carson's room at the hotel, listening
to stories of adventure on the plains and among the mountains.

I became, at once, very much attached to Mr. Carson and I thought
there was not another man in the United States equal to him--and
there never has been, in his line. Besides, since the death of my
mother he was the only one who had taken the slightest interest in
me, or treated me like a human being, barring, of course, the
Beckets and those persons who had helped me on my long walk from
Nashville to St. Louis.

Finally Mr. Carson--whom I had now learned to address as Uncle
Kit--said to me, one morning, that as my gun was about completed
we would make preparations to start West. So we went out to a
farm, about two miles from St. Louis, to get the horses from where
Uncle Kit had left them to be cared for during the winter.

We went on foot, taking a rope, or riatta, as it is called by
frontiersmen, and on the way to the farm I could think or talk of
nothing but my new rifle, and the buffalo, deer, antelope and
other game that I would kill when I reached the plains. Uncle Kit
remarked that he had forgotten to get me a saddle, but that we
would not have to wait to get one made, as there were plenty of
saddles that would fit me already made, and that he would buy me
one when he got back to town.

When we reached the farm where the horses were, Uncle Kit pointed
out a little bay pony that had both his ears cropped off at the
tips, and he said:

"Now Willie, there is your pony. Catch him and climb on," at the
same time handing me the riatta.

The pony being gentle I caught and mounted him at once, and by the
time we had got back to town money could not have bought that
little crop-eared horse from me. As will be seen, later on, I kept
that pony and he was a faithful friend and servant until his
tragic death, years afterward.

In two days we had a pack-train of twenty horses rigged for the
trip. The cargo was mostly tobacco, blankets and beads, which
Carson was taking out to trade to the Indians for robes and furs.
Of course all this was novel to me as I had never seen a pack-
saddle or anything associated with one.

A man named Hughes, of whom you will see much in this narrative,
accompanied and assisted Uncle Kit on this trip, as he had done
the season before, for besides his experience as a packer, he was
a good trapper, and Uncle Kit employed him.




CHAPTER II.

BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTUROUS LIFE.--FIRST WILD TURKEY.--FIRST
BUFFALO.--FIRST FEAST AS AN HONORED GUEST OF INDIANS.--DOG MEAT.


It was on the morning of May 3, 1847, that we rounded up the
horses and Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes began packing them.

It being the first trip of the season some of the pack-ponies were
a little frisky and would try to lie down when the packs were put
on them. So it became my business to look after them and keep them
on their feet until all were packed.

Everything being in readiness, I shook hands, good-bye, with my
much-esteemed friend, Henry Becket, who had been helping me with
the pack-horses, and who also coveted my crop-eared pony, very
naturally for a boy. Then we were off for a country unknown to me,
except for what Uncle Kit had told me of it.

My happiness seemed to increase, if that were possible. I was
unspeakably glad to get away from St. Louis before Mr. Drake had
learned of my whereabouts, and up to the time of this writing I
have never been back to St. Louis, or Tennessee, nor have I heard
anything of Mr. Drake or my ancient enemy, the angel of Erebus.

From St. Louis we struck out westward, heading for Ft. Scott,
which place is now a thriving little city in southeastern Kansas,
but then the extreme out-edge of settlement.

The first day out we traveled until about 2 o'clock in the
afternoon, when we came to a fine camping place with abundance of
grass, wood and water.

Uncle Kit, thinking we had traveled far enough for the first day,
said:

"I reckon the lad is gittin' tired, Hughes, 's well as the horses,
an' I think we'd better pull up for the day."

I was glad to hear this, for I had done more riding chat day than
in any one day in my life, before.

Uncle Kit told me it would be my job, on the trip as soon as my
horse was unsaddled, to gather wood and start a fire, while he and
Mr. Hughes unpacked the animals. So I unsaddled my horse, and by
the time they had the horses unpacked I had a good fire going and
plenty of water at hand for all purposes. Mr. Hughes, meantime,
got out the coffee-pot and frying-pan, and soon we had a meal that
I greatly enjoyed and which was the first one for me by a camp-
fire.

After we had eaten, and smoked and lounged for a while, Uncle Kit
asked me if I did not wish to try my rifle.

Of course I did.

So taking a piece of wood and sharpening one end that it might be
driven into the ground, he took a piece of charcoal and made on
the flat side of the wood a mark for me to shoot at.

"Now Willie," said Uncle Kit, "if you ever expect to be a good
hunter you must learn to be a good shot, and you can't begin
practicin' too soon."

I had never fired a gun, but I had made up my mind to be a mighty
hunter and so started in for shooting practice with much zeal.
Uncle Kit gave me few instructions about How to hold the gun, and
I raised the rifle to my face and fired the first shot of my life.

I do not know how close my bullet came to that mark, nor how far
it missed, for the wood was untouched. But I tried it again and
with much better success, for this time I struck the stick about
eight inches below the mark. This was great encouragement and from
that on I could scarcely take time to eat meals in camp, in my
anxiety to practice, and I was further encouraged by Uncle Kit's
approval of my desire to practice.

One evening I overheard Uncle Kit say to Mr. Hughes, "That boy is
going to make a dead shot afterwhile."

This gave me great faith in my future as a hunter and Uncle Kit
and Mr. Hughes seemed to take great delight in teaching me all the
tricks of rifle marksmanship.

After we had traveled about two days we came to a belt of country
where there were wild turkeys in great numbers, and on the morning
of the third day out, Uncle Kit called me early, saying:

"Come Willie, jump up now, an' le's go an' see if we can't git a
wild turkey for breakfast." He had heard the turkeys that morning
and knew which direction to go to find them.

I rolled out and was quickly dressed and ready.

When near the turkey haunt Uncle Kit took a quill from his pocket
and by a peculiar noise on the quill called the turkeys up near to
him, then took aim at one, fired and killed it.

"Now Willie," he said, "do you think you can do that to-morrow
morning?"

I told him that I thought if I could get close enough, and the
turkeys would stand right still, I believed I could fetch one. And
I desired to know if it was certain that there would be turkeys
where we were to camp that night.

"Oh, yes;" said he, "thar'll be plenty of 'em for some days yit."

Early the next morning Uncle Kit called me as usual, and said,
"Git up now, an' see what you can do for a turkey breakfast."

Instantly I was on my feet, Uncle Kit showed me the direction to
go, loaned me his turkey-call quill, which, by the way, he had
been teaching me how to use as we rode the day before.

I shouldered my rifle and had not gone far when I heard the
turkeys, up the river. Then I took the quill and started my turkey
tune. Directly a big old gobbler came strutting towards me and I
called him up as near to me as he would come, for I wanted to make
sure of him.

Uncle Kit had told me about the "buck-ague" and I knew I had it
when I tried to draw a bead on that big gobbler. I had never shot
at a living thing, and when I leveled my rifle it was impossible
to control my nerves.

The turkey seemed to jump up and down, and appeared to me to be as
big as a pony, when I looked at him along the rifle. Two or three
times I tried to hold the bead on him, but could not. Now I
wouldn't have missed killing him for anything, in reason, for I
feared that Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes would laugh at me.

At last, however, the sights of my gun steadied long enough for me
to pull the trigger, and to my great delight--and I may as well
admit, surprise--Mr. Gobbler tumbled over dead when I fired, and
he was so heavy as to be a good load for me to carry to camp.

Now I was filled with confidence in myself, and became eager for a
shot at bigger game; antelope, deer or buffalo.

In a few days we passed Ft. Scott and then we were entirely beyond
the bounds of civilization.

From that on, until we reached our destination, the only living
things we saw were jack-rabbits, prairie-dogs, antelope, deer,
buffalo, sage-hens and Indians, barring, of course, insects,
reptiles and the like, and the little owls that live with the
prairie-dogs and sit upon the mounds of the dog villages, eyeing
affairs with seeming dignity and wisdom.

The owls seem to turn their heads while watching you, their bodies
remaining stationary, until, it has been said, you may wring their
heads off by walking around them a few times. I would not have my
young friends believe, however, that this is true. It is only a
very old joke of the plains.

The first herd of buffalo we saw was along a stream known as Cow
Creek and which is a tributary to the Arkansas river. We could see
the herd feeding along the hills in the distance.

Here was good camping ground and it was time to halt for the
night. So as soon as we had decided on the spot to pitch camp,
Uncle Kit directed me to go and kill a buffalo, so that we might
have fresh meat for supper.

That suited me, exactly, for I was eager to get a shot at such big
game.

Uncle Kit told me to follow up the ravine until opposite the herd
and then climb the hill, but to be careful and not let the buffalo
see me.

I followed his instructions to the dot, for I had come to believe
that what Kit Carson said was law and gospel, and what he didn't
know would not fill a book as large as Ayer's Almanac. I was
right, too, so far as plainscraft was concerned.

Uncle Kit had also directed me to select a small buffalo to shoot
at, and to surely kill it, for we were out of meat.

It so happened that when I got to the top of the hill and in sight
of the herd again the first animal that seemed to present an
advantageous shot was a two-year-old heifer.

I dropped flat on the ground and crawled toward her, like a snake.
Once she raised her head, but the wind being in my favor, she did
not discern me, but put her head down and went on feeding. I
succeeded in crawling quite close enough to her, drew a bead on
her and fired. At the crack of the rifle she came to the ground,
"as dead as a door-nail," much to the surprise of Uncle Kit and
Mr. Hughes, who were watching me from a distance.

When the animal fell, I threw my hat in the air and gave a yell
that would have done credit to an Apache warrior.

Uncle Kit and I dressed the buffalo and carried the meat into camp
while Mr. Hughes gathered wood for the night-fires.

I could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of my buffalo, and
could I have seen Henry Becket that night I would almost have
stunned him with my stories of frontier life.

The novice is ever enthusiastic.

The following morning we woke up early, and off, still heading up
the Arkansas river for Bent's Fort, and from here on the buffalo
were numerous, and we had that sort of fresh meat until we got
good and tired of it.

The second day out from Cow Creek, in the afternoon, we saw about
twenty Indians coming towards us. At the word, "Indians," I could
feel my hair raise on end, and many an Indian has tried to raise
it since.

This was my first sight of the red man. He looked to me to be more
of a black man.

Uncle Kit asked Mr. Hughes what Indians he thought they were. The
reply was that he thought them to be Kiowas, and on coming up to
them the surmise proved to be correct.

They were Black Buffalo, the chief of the Kiowas, and his
daughter, accompanied by twenty warriors.

Black Buffalo, and indeed all the Kiowa tribe, were well
acquainted with Uncle Kit and had great respect for him. So a
general hand-shaking and pow-wow followed.

Carson spoke their language as well as they could, and
consequently had no difficulty conversing with them.

In those days very few Indians knew a word of English,
consequently all conversation with them had to be carried on in
the several tribal languages or dialects, or in the jargon.

This latter was a short language composed of Indian, French and
English words, and was called "Chinook." It originated with the
fur traders of Astoria, Ore., and its growth was assisted by
missionaries, until it became the means of communication between
the whites and the Indians of the coast and interior of the vast
Northwest, and even between Indians whose dialects were unknown to
each other. In short it was a sort of Indian "Volapuk," and was
very easily mastered. There has been a dictionary of it printed,
and I have known a bright man to acquire the vocabulary in two or
three days.

Black Buffalo and his little band shortly turned about and rode
back to their village, which was only two miles away. But they
first invited us to visit them, which we did, as not to have done
so would have been a violent breach of plains etiquette, that
might cause a disruption of friendship.

In the Indian village, after our horses had been unpacked and
turned out to graze, Uncle Kit and Black Buffalo strolled about
among the lodges or wick-i-ups, of which there were something like
fifteen hundred. I followed very closely for I was mortally afraid
to get fifteen feet away from Uncle Kit, in that sort of company.

Black Buffalo did us the honor, that evening, to take us to his
own private wick-i-up for supper. It was a custom with this, and
many other tribes of Indians, that conveyed great distinction to
visitors, to kill and cook for them a nice fat dog. However, I was
not then aware that I was so distinguished a guest, as indeed
neither I nor Mr. Hughes would have been had we not been in the
company of Kit Carson. With him we shone by reflected greatness.

While we were out on our walk about the village, Black Buffalo's
cook was preparing this distinguishing feast for us.

I had kept unusually quiet all the time we were among the Indians,
not even asking one question, which was very remarkable in me. For
I presume that on the journey I had asked more questions to the
lineal mile than any boy ever had before.

But I ate the dog in silence and liked it. Of course I had no idea
what the meat was. So, Uncle Kit observing the gusto with which I
was devouring dog, asked me if I knew what the meat was. I told
him that I did not, but supposed it to be antelope, or buffalo. He
informed me that it was neither, but good, healthy dog.

I thought he was joking, and simply replied that it was mighty
good meat, even if it was dog, and gave the matter no further
reflection, at the time.

The next day, when Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes assured me that it was
really dog meat, we had eaten the night before, I felt very much
like throwing up everything I had eaten at the village, but it was
too late then.

After supper, that night in the Indian village, we had what was
called a "peace smoke." The Chief selected about a dozen of his
braves, and all being seated in a circle, two of our party on one
side of the Chief, and Uncle Kit at his right, a pipe was lit and
the Chief took one whiff, the smoke of which he blew up into the
air. He then took another whiff, and turning to his chief guest,
handed him the pipe, who blew a whiff into the air and the second
one into the face of the host. This performance having been gone
through with for each guest, the Chief then handed the pipe to the
first Indian on his right, and thus it went around the circle,
each Indian blowing a whiff into the air.

It was considered a great breach of etiquette to speak, or even
smile, during this ceremony.

This Indian village was situated at Pawnee Rock, on the Arkansas
river, in a beautiful valley, in what is now the southwest corner
of Benton Co., Kan. The wick-i-ups were made of poles set on ends,
gathered together at the top, and covered with buffalo skins from
which the hair had been removed.

The Kiowas were, at that time, the most numerous tribe of Indians
in the United States.

Early the next morning after our dog-feast and peace-smoke, our
party was up and off, and I was particularly glad to get away,
feeling that I would rather camp out and feed on buffalo,
antelope, jack-rabbits and wild turkey than dwell in the lodges of
Kiowas and be "honored" with banquets of the nicest dogs in all
that region.

We took the Santa Fe trail and the buffalo were so numerous along
the way that we had to take some pains to avoid them, as when they
were traveling or on a stampede, nothing could turn or stop them
and we would be in danger of being ground to atoms beneath their
thousands of hoofs.

In two days more of travel we reached another Indian village, on
another beautiful plain, in what is now Pawnee Co., Kan. Here the
country was so level that one could see for miles in any
direction, and the sun rising or setting, seemed to come up or go
down, as a great golden disk, out of or into the earth. We could
see many bands of wild horses feeding on the luxuriant grasses,
and little did I think, then, that I would live to see the day
when that broad and unfenced plain would be converted into homes
for hundreds of the pale-faced race.

We were met on the outskirts of the village by White Horse, Chief
of the Comanches, who, being an intimate friend of Uncle Kit,
shook hands with us and conducted us to his own wick-i-up. There
we unpacked the animals and piled up our goods, and White Horse
detailed an Indian to guard the packs day and night.

After our horses had been picketed out to grass, the Chief took us
into his lodge to dine with him, and here again we had boiled dog
and the peace smoke.

White Horse insisted upon our being his guests until morning, it
being about noon when we arrived, and as our horses were much
jaded we decided to give them the advantage of such a rest.

The Comanche Chief was most exceedingly hospitable, in his way,
and would not allow us to eat of our own provisions, but insisted
upon our eating with him, and "trotted" out the best "grub" he
had.

After breakfast the next morning our horses were brought in by the
Indians, who also helped us to pack, and we struck the trail
again, accompanied by White Horse and his daughter, who traveled
with us all that day and camped with us at night.

That evening Uncle Kit killed a fine buffalo calf, and I thought
it the best meat I had ever eaten--even better than dog.

The following morning the Chief and his daughter returned to the
village, and we proceeded on our journey.

That day, riding along on my crop-eared pony, about fifty yards
behind my companions, I chanced to look behind me and I saw what I
thought to be a man, walking on a hill towards us, and he appeared
to be at least twenty feet high. As he got further down the hill
he appeared to grow shorter, until, I thought, he went down a
ravine and out of sight.

I put spurs to Croppy and galloped up to Uncle Kit, and told him I
had seen the tallest man on earth, declaring that the man was at
least twenty feet high.

"An' you saw a man that high?" said Uncle Kit

"Indeed I did," I replied.

"Sure you saw him?" he asked.

"Yes, sir; and if you will watch you will see him come up out of
the ravine, directly."

Uncle Kit, laughing, said: "It was not a man you saw, my boy, but
a mirage," and he explained to me the phenomena, which I became
familiar with in the years that followed.

Sometimes the mirages present to the vision what appear to be men,
at other times bodies of water surrounded by trees, and often
houses and whole towns. They appear before you on the dryest
plains and then disappear as if the earth opened and swallowed
them.

Early in June we reached Bent's Fort and met there Col. Bent and
his son, Mr. Roubidoux and his son, and a man named James Bridger,
of whom you will see a great deal, later on in this narrative.
These men were all traders, buying furs and buffalo robes from
Indians, white hunters and trappers.

We remained at Bent's Fort six weeks, and often during that time
some one of the many hunters, trappers and traders, that made this
place their headquarters, would ask Uncle Kit what he was going to
do with that boy--meaning me. To all of which Carson would reply
"I'm goin' to make a hunter and trapper of him."

During the six weeks at the fort I was out nearly every day with
some of the men, and to me they gave the name of "Young Kit."

By the time we were ready to leave Bent's Fort, Young Kit became
quite a rider, and Uncle Kit had been training me in the dexterous
use of the rifle, shooting from my knee, lying on my back, resting
the gun on my toes, lying flat on my belly, resting the gun on my
hat, and in various other positions.

Having disposed of all our blankets, beads and all of the tobacco,
except what was reserved for home consumption, we left Bent's
Fort, crossed the Arkansas river and followed up Apishapa creek
three days, when we came to the Rocky Mountains, among which we
were during four days, passing Trinkara Peak then turning south
toward a little Mexican village called Taos, where Uncle Kit made
his home, he having a house of his own in that village.

On the morning after our arrival at Taos, Uncle Kit said to me at
breakfast:

"Willie, there are a lot of Mexican boys here who would like to
play with you."

Some of them were standing near in a group, gazing at me in much
wonderment.

"But," continued Uncle Kit, "you will have to learn to speak their
language in order to have much fun. Go with them if you wish, and
tell me to-night how many words you have learned."

Then he spoke to the group of boys in their own tongue and told
them I wished to play with them but couldn't speak their language,
and wanted to learn.

We had a jolly time that day in many boyish games that I had never
seen, and when I came home Uncle Kit asked me how many words I had
learned.

"Three," I replied.

"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "'Twont be long fo' you are a fus'-class
Mexican."

One evening, after we had been in Taos about two weeks, Uncle Kit
told me to put on my best suit and he would take me to a fandango.
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
getting to be monotonous.

The reader will understand that in those early days we had only
muzzle-loading guns, and for every one of those we had to have a
pair of bullet-moulds the size of the rifle, and before starting
out on an expedition it was necessary to mould enough bullets to
last several weeks, if not the entire trip, and when you realize
that almost any time we were liable to get into a "scrap" with the
Indians, you can understand that it required a great number of
these little leaden missiles to accommodate the red brethren, as
well as to meet other uses.

That evening after I had gone to bed, Mr. Hughes said:

"Kit, what are you going to do with that boy?"

"What boy?" asked Uncle Kit, as if he were astonished.

"Why, Willie. What are you going to do with him while we are away
trapping?"

"Why, take him along to help us, of course."

"Thunderation!" exclaimed Hughes; "he will only be a bother to us
in the mountains."

I had been with Kit Carson three months, and this was the first
time I had seen him, apparently, out of humor. But at Hughes' last
remark, he said in a decidedly angry tone:

"Jim Hughes, I want you to understand that wherever I go that boy
can go, too, if he likes."

Hughes seeing that Carson did not like what he had said about
"that boy," turned the matter off by saying that he had only made
the remark to tease the boy.

Next morning Uncle Kit started a Mexican lad out to round up the
horses, and the next two days were spent in fixing up our pack-
saddles preparatory for the trip.

Our horses were as fat as seals, as there was no end to the range
for them in this part of the country.

All being in readiness we pulled out from Taos, four of us, Uncle
Kit, Mr. Hughes, myself and a Mexican boy named Juan. The latter
went along to bring our horses back home.

We crossed back over that spur of the Rocky Mountains that we had
came in through, and struck the Arkansas river near where Pueblo,
Colo., now stands, and from here we polled for the headwaters of
that river, carefully examining every stream we came to for beaver
sign.

We saw abundance of game on the trip, such as antelope, deer and
buffalo.

When we had traveled up the river about two days, Uncle Kit
thought it was not best to take the horses any further as the
country was now too rough for them, so we spent the next two days
caching our cargo.

As some may not know what a cache is, I will explain.

Cache is French for "hide." A hole is dug in the ground and the
things to be hidden are put in there and covered with brush, then
with dirt, then more brush and more dirt, and the whole is covered
with turf, to make the surface look as natural as possible, so
that it is not likely to be discovered by Indians at a distance.

We having about a thousand pounds of stores to cache, it was no
small job.

On the morning of the third day in this camp, we all started out
to kill some game for Juan to take back home. Mr. Hughes started
out in one direction and Uncle Kit and I in the opposite. We had
gone but a short distance, when, looking across a canyon, I saw a
herd of some kind of animals and asked Uncle Kit what they were.
He told me they were bison, and complimented me on having such
good eyes.

Bison, by the way, is the distinctive name in that region for
mountain buffalo, all buffalo belonging to the bison family.

We then started on a round-about way to try and get in gunshot of
the herd, in which we were successful. When we had got in gunshot
of them and he had pointed out the one for me to shoot at, he
said:

"Now take a rest on that big rock, and when I count three, pull
the trigger, and be sure that you break its neck."

The guns went off so near together that I turned and asked Uncle
Kit why he didn't shoot, too, for I did not think that he had
fired; but as soon as the smoke from our guns had cleared away, I
saw two bison kicking their last.

After dressing the animals we returned to camp and learned that
Mr. Hughes had killed two deer, which, with the two bisons, were
enough to load the pack-horses.

We were now in the extreme south end of South Park, which was
mostly a prairie country, except along the streams, and more or
less pine trees were scattered here and there along the hillsides.

Next morning we loaded the pack-horses with the game and Juan
started back home, alone, with the horses.

After we had seen him off, we rolled up our blankets and taking
enough provisions to last several days, we "packed up our packs"
and pulled out up the Arkansas again.

This, to me, was like breaking a colt to the saddle, only I didn't
buck.

Notwithstanding I had a light pack, for I was a light subject, it
was hard work for me. Mr. Hughes had been out the year before, and
being a grown man, it did not worry him as it did me. However, we
traveled very slowly, looking well all the time for beaver sign.

In the afternoon of the second day we came to where there was
plenty of beaver sign. In fact the trees they had gnawed down were
so thick that we could not travel along the river, but had to take
to the hillsides.

We camped that night at the mouth of a little stream that empties
into the Arkansas, and the following morning, after looking over
the trapping ground, the two men selected a place to build our
winter quarters, and we went to work. They worked at the cabin
while I killed the game for our meat and did the cooking, my
outfit being a frying-pan, a coffee-pot and a tin cup for each of
us.

They were about two weeks getting our cabin, or dugout, completed.
It was made by first digging out a place in the hillside, about
twelve feet square, and building up the front with logs, then
brush and pine boughs, and then the whole with dirt, the door was
made of hewed logs, fastened together with crossed pieces by means
of wooden pins, and it was hung on heavy wooden hinges.

Our winter quarters being thus completed, Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes
set out one morning for the cache, intending to return that same
evening. Before starting they told me to go out some time during
the day and kill a small deer, that I would be able to carry to
camp, and have a good lot of it cooked for supper, as they would
be very hungry when they returned that night. They started
sometime before daylight, and I stayed around the cabin, clearing
things up and cutting wood, until about ten o'clock, then cleaned
up my rifle and started out to kill the deer. It was an easy
matter to find one, for they were as thick in that country as
sheep on a mutton farm. But, boy-like, I wandered off up the
canyon about two miles before I found a deer that just suited me,
and I wanted to see the country, anyway.

At last I found a little deer that I thought about the right thing
and I killed and dressed it--or rather undressed it--threw it on
my shoulder and pulled for camp.

Instead of going the way I had come, I climbed out on the ridge to
avoid the down timber, that was so thick in the creek bottom. When
I was near the top of the ridge, I looked off a short distance and
saw three Indians, on foot, going down the ridge in the direction
of our dug-out.

I had often heard Uncle Kit tell how the Indians robbed the camps
of trappers and that they invariably burned the cabins.

As soon as I got sight of the Indians, I dropped back over the
ridge, for, luckily, they had not got sight of me. In a few
seconds I did some powerful thinking, and I came to the conclusion
that it would never do to let them find our dug-out, for while it
would hardly burn, they might carry off our bedding, or destroy
it. So I crawled up to a log, took good aim at the leader and
fired, striking him just under the arm, bringing him down. The
other two dropped to their knees, and looked all around, and I
suppose the only thing that saved me was the wind was coming from
them to me and blew the smoke from my gun down the canyon, so that
they did not see where the shot came from.

I heard Uncle Kit tell of lying on his back and loading his rifle,
when in a close place, so I did likewise and crawled up to my log
again. The remaining two Indians, having looked all around and
seeing no one, had got on their feet again, and were standing with
bow and arrow in hand, each having a quiver full of arrows on his
back, and if they had got sight of me that would have been the
last of Young Kit. But I took aim at one of them and fired, with
the same result as before. As my second Indian fell, the third one
started back up the ridge, in the direction from which they had
come, and if I ever saw an Indian do tall sprinting, that one did.
I watched him until he was out of sight, and then loaded my gun,
shouldered my deer and went to where the two Indians were lying.
They were both as dead as dried herring.

I had never seen an Indian scalped, but had often heard how it was
done, so I pulled my hunting-knife and took their top-nots, and
again started for the dug-out, a great hunter and Indian fighter,
in my own estimation.

I hung the scalps up inside the dug-out, directly in front of the
door, so that Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes would see them the first
thing on entering the cabin. Then I set about getting supper, all
the while thinking what a mighty deed I had done in saving our
cabin, which was probably true.

The two men did not return until after dark and they were very
tired and hungry, having walked forty miles that day, carrying on
the return trip a hundred pounds each. That is a heavy load for a
man to carry twenty miles, but they did it, and it was no uncommon
thing for the hardy frontiersmen of that day to perform like feats
of strength and endurance.

When they pushed open the heavy log door, the scalps were almost
in their faces.

"Who did this?" said Uncle Kit, as he threw his heavy pack on the
dirt floor.

I told him and he was very much astonished.

"How was it, Willie?" he asked, and I told him the whole story.

While I was telling him the story, as briefly as I could, he
showed more agitation than I had ever seen him exhibit.

During all the time I had been with him, he had never spoken a
harsh word to me, up to this time. But while we were at supper he
said to me:

"My boy, don't let me ever hear of you taking such chances again.
Not that I care for you killin' the Injuns, but you took great
chances for losing your own hair, for had them redskins got sight
of you, by the time they had got through with you, your hide
wouldn't have held corn shucks. And it's a mystery to me that they
didn't see you."

The following morning after breakfast we all took a trip up the
canyon, where I had gone the morning before, and we took with us
twelve beaver traps that they had brought up from the cache, and
these we set at different places along the stream.

After they were set Uncle Kit asked me if I thought I could find
all of them again, and I said I thought I could.

"All right then," he said. "It will be your job to tend these
traps, until Jim and me get the balance of the stuff packed up
from the cache. Now le's go and see your Injuns."

I took them to where I had shot the two Indians, and Uncle Kit, as
soon as he saw them, said:

"They are Utes, and the wust hoss-thieves on the waters of the
Colorado. Willie, I'm dog-goned glad you killed 'em. I would a
give the best hoss I've got to a been here with you, for I think
Old Black Leg would a caught the other feller, afore he got to the
top o' the mountain."

"Black Leg" was Uncle Kit's pet name for his rifle.

That night, before going to bed, Uncle Kit said we must be up
early next morning, as he and Hughes would have to make another
trip to the cache, and that I must tend to the traps and keep a
sharp lookout for Indians "But whatever happens," he said, "don't
ever be taken prisoner."

They started very early the next morning, and as soon as it was
light I struck out to examine the traps. From the twelve I took
nine beaver, skinned them, reset the traps, returned to the dug-
out and stretched the skins.

The stretching is done by making a bow of a small willow or other
pliant wood, for each hide, and then pulling the hide over it. The
hides are thus left until they are dry, when the bows are taken
out and the hides are packed in a frame made for that purpose,
fifty in a bale.

All of this kind of work I had learned at Bent's Fort, while
there, from the many trappers there. Besides, Uncle Kit had given
me other lessons in the work.

Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes made a trip to the cache every other day
until the stuff was all packed up to our winter quarters.

I had my hands full attending to the traps, as the men brought
more of them on the second trip, and they set enough of them to
make double work for me. One dozen traps is called a "string," and
it is considered one man's work, ordinarily, to "tend a string."

The two men brought all the stuff up from the cache in five trips.
On the day the last trip was made, I went out early, as usual, to
attend to the traps, of which we had thirty-six. That morning I
took twenty-three beaver, and seeing that it would be impossible
for me to skin them all, I set about to carry them to the dug-out.
If ever a boy worked, I did that day, and had just got through
carrying them in when Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes returned.

After we had got caught up with our work and rested a few days,
Uncle Kit said one morning that we must be out early next day and
get our work done so that we could go and kill some elk. "For,"
said he, "we have got to have meat for the winter and we must have
some hides for beds."

In those days the trappers made their beds by first constructing a
frame or rough bedstand, over which they stretched a green elk
hide, securing that by thongs or strings cut from a green deer
skin. By lying on these at once, before they are dry, they get
shaped to the body and they make a first-class bed for comfort.

We were out early to the traps next morning, and the catch being
somewhat smaller than usual, we got through by 11 o'clock, and
after eating a "snack"--a lunch--we started on the elk hunt.

After going about four miles we jumped up a band of fifty elk,
which was considered a small herd then. But we didn't get close
enough to shoot any of them.

"Let 'em go," said Uncle Kit; "no doubt they will go to the
quaking-asp grove, and we can git 'em to-morrow." So we returned
to camp without any elk. But the next morning we went to the
quaking-asp thicket, and there, sure enough, we found the same
band of elk, and succeeded in killing five of them. Thus we had
enough meat to last a year, if we had wanted that much, and we had
skins enough for our beds and moccasins for the winter.

Now we were in no danger of starving, and from now on we could
devote our whole attention to the traps.

I had to work very hard that winter, but I was much better
contented than when I was with Drake and in the grasp of that old
"nigger wench."

Not until now did I tell Uncle Kit of the prank I played on the
black tyrant. I also told him why I was so anxious to get away
from St. Louis. That it was I feared Drake would discover me and
take me back to his farm and the society of his slaves.

Mr. Hughes here interrupted me to say: "Well Willie, you are safe
enough from Drake and the wench, but I think by the time you get
out o' here in the spring, you would much rather be with them."

I assured him, however, that he was mistaken, and that I was bent
on being a hunter and trapper.

"And an Indian fighter?" he added.

"Yes, and an Indian fighter, too, if you like;" I replied.

Well, we remained at this camp all winter, not seeing a person
outside of our own crowd, and to take it on the whole, it was one
of the most enjoyable winters of my life. It being my first winter
in the mountains, I was learning something new every day, and
whenever I found the track of any wild animal that I was not
acquainted with, I would report to Uncle Kit, and he would go
miles with me to see the sign, and would take great pains to tell
me what sort of an animal it was and all about its nature and
habits.

This was one of the most successful winter's trapping he had ever
had, as we were on entirely new ground, where trapping had not
been done before, and, moreover, the weather was particularly
favorable.

Winter began to break up about a month earlier than usual, it
being toward the last days of March when the snow commenced going
off. We then took a pair of blankets each, and enough provisions
to last us on our trip, and started for Taos, the only kind of
provisions we had left being dried elk and venison. It was an easy
matter to cure meat in this style in that country, for the air is
so light that meat stuck upon the top of a pole eight or ten feet
high, will quickly become dried, or "jerked." Trappers seldom take
enough flour and coffee to last all winter, as it made too much
bulk and weight to pack so far. Sugar was almost unknown in a
trapper camp.

The second day after leaving the dug-out we met Juan, the Mexican
boy. He was not bringing our horses, but was carrying a letter for
Uncle Kit, from Col. John C. Fremont, asking him to come to Taos,
as he wished to employ him as guide for his expedition to
California.

That evening, after reading the letter, Uncle Kit said: "Willie, I
have got to go to California in the summer to pilot Col. Fremont
through. Do you want to go along?"

I said I was perfectly willing to go anywhere that he went.

He said: "We will pass through some mighty rough country, and also
through the country of the Utes. If you go, you will, no doubt,
have plenty of chances to try your hand at shootin' Injuns, for
them Utes are tough nuts."

That didn't scare me a bit, for I was now sixteen years' old, had
killed and scalped two Indians, and had already begun to consider
myself a hunter and Indian fighter from away back. Besides, when
the story of my killing the two Indians got out, I came to be
generally called "the boy scalper." But Uncle Kit never spoke of
me in that way, for he always respected me as a father would his
own son.

Now Uncle Kit was anxious to reach Taos and meet Col. Fremont, so
we pushed on with all possible speed until the third day from
where we met Juan with the letter, we met Col. Fremont at the
crossing of the Arkansas river. He had became over-anxious and had
started out to meet us.

It was late in the afternoon, so we went into camp and had supper,
which consisted of dried venison and water, but for breakfast we
had a change of diet, which was dried elk and water.

We learned that Col. Fremont had been detailed the summer before
by the government to command an exploring expedition across the
continent, and, if possible, find a better route from the "States"
to California.

It leaked out that some of the trappers who did not like to have
him in the neighborhood of Bent's Fort, for their own selfish
motives, had misinformed him that first summer out, as to the lay
of the country, hoping thereby to mislead him and his company into
the mountains, where they would get snowed in and die of
starvation.

Fremont and his party, consisting of twenty-eight men, had started
up the Black Canyon, and they did get snowed in and had to stop
for the winter.

They ran out of provisions and killed and ate some of their
horses, but the other horses died of starvation and six of the men
died of scurvy.

It being late when the Fremont party got into the mountains, and
the snow-fall being very deep, the game went early to the lowlands
and the men were forced to live on salt bacon and horse-flesh.
Even that became scarce and the entire company came near perishing
before spring.

In the camp with Col. Fremont that evening Uncle Kit and he made
their bargain. Carson was to furnish all the horses and was to
have the right to take as many extra men and horses as he liked,
also the right to trade for furs and send his men and their horses
back whenever he desired to do so.

After eating heartily of the dried venison and hearing Col.
Fremont's story of the dreadful experiences of his party in the
Black Canyon, it was bedtime, and each man rolled himself in his
blankets and soon all were sleeping, as tired men can, out on the
plains.

We had an early breakfast, each man's hunk of dried meat being
handy, so there was really no preparation to be made, except to
wash. No compulsion, however, as to that. But having distinguished
company, all hands washed this morning before squatting for
breakfast.

While we were eating, Fremont asked whose boy I was. Uncle Kit
replied that I was his boy, and "a first-class hunter and trapper,
and he shoots Injuns purty well, too." He then related the
incident of my killing the two Utes.

All arrangements having been made, Uncle Kit agreeing to meet Col.
Fremont at Bent's Fort in three weeks, they separated and we
pushed on for Taos. On arriving there Uncle Kit hired two Mexicans
to go back with Mr. Hughes to our beaver camp and get the furs,
and he gave instructions to take the furs to Santa Fe and dispose
of them. Uncle Kit then employed Juan and a Texan boy named John
West to assist us in fitting up for our California trip. So at the
end of three weeks we met Fremont at Bent's Fort as per agreement.

Fremont's company consisted of twenty-two men, and they were,
beyond doubt, the worst looking set of men I ever saw. Many of
them were scarcely able to walk from the effects of scurvy and
they were generally knocked out.

We had taken with us from Taos a pack-train loaded with
vegetables, such as potatoes, onions and the like, and after
Freemont's men had associated with those vegetables for a few
days, they came out fresh and smiling and were able to travel.

It was about the Middle of May, 1848, that we left Bent's Fort to
hunt a new route to the golden shores of California.

The first night out we camped at Fountain Qui Bouille--pronounced
Koh-boo-yah--and here a little incident occurred that created much
fun for all the party except one--that was me.

As soon as we went into camp, Carson told Johnnie West and me to
let Juan take our horses and for us to go out and kill some meat.

We started out in opposite directions, and I had not gone more
than a quarter of a mile when I saw a small deer, which I shot,
threw on my shoulder and pulled for camp. Only a few rods on the
way I came to a little mound of rock about three feet high, and from it
flowed a spring of the nicest looking, sparkling water I thought I had
ever seen. Being very thirsty, I made a cup of my hat by pinching the
rim together, dipped up some of the water and gulped it down, not
waiting to see whether it was hot or cold, wet or dry. But a
sudden change came over me. I felt a forthwith swelling under the
waistband of my buckskin breeches, and I seemed to have an
internal and infernal hurricane of gas, which in a second more
came rushing through my mouth and nostrils like an eruption from
Cotopaxi or Popocatapel. To say that I was frightened would be
putting it mild. I rushed down the hill like mad, and fairly flew
to camp and up to Uncle Kit, exclaiming as best I could, "I'm
poisoned!"

"Pizened?" said Uncle Kit.

"Yes, poisoned;" and just then another rush of gas came through my
nostrils.

When the men saw me running so fast they grabbed their guns,
thinking the Indians were after me, and quickly surrounded me to
hear what was the matter.

Uncle Kit asked me how I got poisoned, and I told him of the
spring water I had drank, and asked him if he could do anything to
save my life. Then there was another eruption.

Uncle Kit laughed harder than I had ever seen him, but he told me,
as fast as he could, that I had drank from a soda spring and that
it would not hurt me. Everybody laughed and then all went to the
spring to get some of the "poisoned water," which was very good
when taken in reasonable quantities and in a reasonable way.

My gun, deer and hat were all lying near the spring, and I secured
them, but it was many a day before I heard the last of the "pizen-
spring."

Johnnie West came in soon after, having missed all the fun, and
Juan and I went with him, taking each a horse, and packed the game
into camp.

I was anxious to get away from camp on that little packing trip,
hoping the crowd would forget all about the soda-spring before I
returned, but I hoped in vain, for when I returned they laughed at
and joked me more than ever.

We traveled up the Arkansas river nearly a hundred miles, and as
we neared the snow-line the deer and elk were more plentiful and
we never went hungry for meat.

At Jimmie's Fork we turned to the left and followed that stream to
its head, then crossed over to the Blue river, which is a
tributary of the Colorado. Now we were in the Ute country, and had
to keep a sharp lookout for Indians. Every evening, after making
camp, Uncle Kit would climb to the top of the highest hill near us
to look for Indian camps, as it was an easy matter late in the
evening to discover their camps by the smoke from their fires. He
used to take me along with him, and he would point out different
landmarks in the country and would tell me to make close
observations, as I would have to return, without him, over the
same route and if I were not careful I might lose my way.

On the third day after crossing the divide, we met Tawson, chief
of the Apache tribes. Tawson had never met Carson but knew him by
reputation; but a number of the warriors were personally
acquainted with him.

The Indians all turned about and rode back with us to their
village, which was only a short distance away.

Uncle Kit being able to speak Spanish, as were all the Indians in
that country, he had quite a talk with the old chief, and in the
meantime he had bought all the furs the Indians had to sell.

When we were ready to start from the village, Carson said in
Spanish:

"Now, Tawson, I have always been a friend to your tribe and I will
tell you what I'm going to do. In about one moon I will start this
boy back through your country, with the horses and two other boys-
-referring to Juan and West--and if anything happens to them while
passing through your country I will hold you personally
responsible."

The chief having heard a great deal of Carson, knew he meant just
what he said.

The third day after leaving the Apache village we reached the
Colorado river, and we had a hard time finding a suitable place to
cross. Finally we decided to build a raft of logs and ferry our
stuff on that, and swim the horses. This we did successfully, and
also cached the furs to keep them safe until my return.

As soon as we crossed the river we began to see signs of the Ute
Indians, and Uncle Kit told me to keep my rifle in trim as I might
need it soon.

The second day after crossing the river, about 4 o'clock in the
afternoon, and just as we had gone into camp, a band of about
forty Indians made a dash for our horses. This was the first time
I had ever heard the war-whoop, and it fairly made my hair stand
on end. Some of our crowd had seen the Indians while yet a
distance off, and when the men yelled "Indians! boys, Indians!" I
made a bee-line for Croppy, who had by this time fed himself away
about fifty yards from camp. When Col. Fremont saw me start on the
run, he asked me where I was going. I told him that I was going
for my pony as I didn't intend that the Utes should get him.

By the time I got to Croppy I could see the Indians coming, full
tilt, and some of the men had already fired upon them. I got back
to camp as fast as I could get Croppy to go, and when in a few
yards of the camp, I took a rest off of his back and fired, but I
missed my Indian. I reloaded as quickly as possible and laid my
gun on Croppy's back again, for another shot, and just then it
struck me that the reason I missed the first time was because I
didn't take good aim.

Uncle Kit had always taught me that it was not the fastest
shooting in an Indian fight that did the most execution, and that
it was better to fire one shot with good aim than four at random.

When I went to shoot the second time, Uncle Kit was near me, and
he said:

"Take good aim, Willie, before you fire."

I did take good aim and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian
tumble to the ground. But whether I killed him or some one else
did, I could not say, for an absolute certainty, but I have always
thought he belonged to my list.

The Indians were no match for Col. Fremont's men, being only armed
with bows and arrows, and they beat a hasty retreat, closely
followed for a distance by the soldiers, who, however, did not get
any Indians on the run.

When the men returned to camp, and, as usual, after a scrap with
Indians, were telling how many red-skins they had killed, Uncle
Kit turned to me and asked how many I had got. I said, "one."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "I took a rest off of Croppy's back; with a good
aim, at the crack of my rifle, the Indian came down."

The crowd went with me to where I had seen the Indian fall, and
there he was, as useless for Indian work as Powhattan is.

Col. Fremont then asked the soldiers where were their dead
Indians, and Uncle Kit said:

"I reckon Willie is the only one that got his man. Didn't I tell
you, Colonel, that he could shoot Injuns?"

However, after looking around awhile, he found five more dead
Indians, and, doubtless, more were killed but were carried away by
their companions.

The only harm the Indians did our party was to wound two of
Fremont's men, slightly.

This was the last trouble we had with the Utes on the trip.

The second day from this little brush we struck a village of
Goshoot Indians, and there Uncle Kit bought enough furs to make
out his cargo.

We went into camp here for the night, but Uncle Kit and I did not
sleep much, as we were up very late as we did not expect to meet
again until the next spring, and he had a great deal to tell me
before we parted.

The following morning Johnnie West, Juan and I loaded up and
started for Santa Fe, and Uncle Kit went on to Los Angeles with
Col. Fremont, as guide.

Before I left camp that morning, Col. Fremont, unbeknown to Uncle
Kit, came to me and said:

"Willie, in about a year from now I will be on my way back to St.
Louis, and I will take you home with me if you would like to go. I
will send you to school and make a man of you. You are too good a
boy to spend your life here, in this wild country."

But I told him I was perfectly satisfied to remain with Kit
Carson.

Had Uncle Kit known of that conversation I think he would have
been very much displeased, and it might have caused serious
trouble. Therefore I kept my own counsel and did not mention the
matter to Carson.

Us boys were four weeks making the return trip to Santa Fe, and we
did not see a hostile Indian on the way. I wondered much at that,
but a year or two afterward Uncle Kit told me that the Apaches saw
us every day and were protecting us, for he had seen Tawson on his
return and the chief told him that we had gone through safe.

We arrived at Santa Fe about the first of October, and there I met
Jim Hughes, who was waiting our arrival, and I was very glad to
see him. I gave him a letter that Uncle Kit had sent him
concerning our trapping for the coming winter.

Mr. Hughes said that he was glad that we had got back so early,
for it was time we were getting into the mountains for our winter
work.

I asked him if we would trap in the same place as the winter
before, and he said we would not, as he had brought all the traps
out to Taos, and we would go the next winter up to North Park, as
he had just returned from there and knew we could put in a good
winter's work, as it was new trapping ground that had not been
worked, and it was a fine country, too.

Soon as we had got rid of our furs, which Mr. Hughes had sold
before our arrival, we pulled out for Taos and begun operations
for going to North Park.

All being in readiness in a few days thereafter, Mr. Hughes, Johnnie
West and I had started for the new trapping ground, taking Juan
along, again, to fetch our horses home. We had to travel over some
rough country on the way, but found the North Park a fine region,
with scattering pine timber on the hills and quaking-asp and
willows along the streams. I have been told that this park is now
owned by sheep men, and it is an excellent region for their
business.

After looking around over our trapping field Mr. Hughes selected a
suitable place for our winter cabin, and we fell to work building
it. This time we built entirely above ground with pine logs, an
unusual thing for trappers to do.

As soon as our cabin was built, Juan returned to Taos with the
horses and we set into our winter's employment.

In those days hunters never wore boots or shoes, but moccasins
from the tanned hides of elk. This winter we made enough gloves
and moccasins to last us for two years, and each made himself a
buckskin suit, out and out.

Game was very plentiful in that country, such as moose, elk and
deer, and early in the winter a few mountain buffalo.

We were successful this winter, our beaver catch being nearly
eight hundred. The winter was also an unusually long one, lasting
until far into April.

After the snow had gone off so that we could travel, Jim Hughes,
who had been our foreman, in the absence of Carson, asked me if I
thought I could find the way back to Taos, which I said I could.
He said that one of us would have to go and get our horses to pack
the furs in on.

It was now the spring of 1849 and I was seventeen years old, but
it looked to me to be a big undertaking for a boy of my age, a
trip of three hundred miles, a foot and alone, with my rifle and
blankets; but some one had to go, and I agreed to tackle the trip.

This was on Saturday, and as we never worked on Sundays, except to
tend the traps, Mr. Hughes and Johnnie West talked the matter over
and decided that before I started away we had better cache the
furs and such traps as they would not use in my absence. This was
done, so that in the event of their being killed by the Indians, I
could find the furs on my return. It was a wise conclusion, as
will be seen later on.

It was the custom of the Utes to cross over the mountains in small
squads every spring and kill all the trappers they could find and
take their traps and furs.

On Monday morning we all set about to cache the furs and traps
that would not be used, and it took two days hard work to
accomplish the task. Then I made preparations to start on my
journey to Taos.

Mr. Hughes thought that as it would be a long and tedious trip, I
had better rest up a day or two before starting, but I thought
that as I had to make the trip I might as well begin first as
last, so Wednesday morning was set as the time for my start.




CHAPTER IV.

A WINTER IN NORTH PARK--RUNNING FIGHT WITH A BAND OF UTES FOR MOKE
THAN A HUNDRED MILES, ENDING HAND TO HAND--VICTORY.


On the day set for my departure, having had our breakfast, Mr.
Hughes stepped outside of the cabin, and I was just rolling up try
blankets and a piece of dried venison, and Johnnie West was
sympathizing with me over the long and lonesome trip that was
before me, when all of a sudden Mr. Hughes came bounding into the
cabin and exclaimed.

"Get your guns and knives, boys. The Indians are upon us and we
must run for our lives."

Each man sprang for his gun, and by this time the Indians were in
sight of the cabin and had raised the war-whoop, which, again,
raised the hair on the head of your humble servant.

We made for the top of the hill, which was about one hundred and
fifty yards from the cabin, and slopped The Indians were by this
time at the cabin. Johnnie West counted them and said there were
twenty-seven all told.

We each fired a shot among them, but could not tell whether we
killed any of them or not. We then started on the run, loading our
guns as we ran, the Indians in hot pursuit of us.

After running about two miles, Johnnie West proposed that we make a
stand. We stopped on a little ridge, and did not have to wait long
until the Indians were in gun-shot of us.

"Now, Willie," said Mr. Hughes, "don't get excited and shoot too
quick, but take good aim and be sure that you get your Indian."

As they came up, each of us selected our Indian, fired and each
got his man. In a moment the smoke from our guns had cleared away,
and the whole band being in sight, Mr. Hughes said:

"Let's run for our lives. There are too many of them for us." And
run we did, loading as we flew.

We ran about five miles and made another stand, but not with the
same success as before, for we only got one Indian.

We had a running fight all that day and made three or four stands,
but could not tell how many Indians we killed, for we would fire
at them and then load our guns on the run. They having nothing but
loose arrows and tomahawks, we could easily keep out of danger.
But they figured on running us down.

That evening near sundown, Mr. Hughes asked me, as I was a little
faster on foot than the rest, to drop back far enough to count
them, which I did, and found there were eleven of them still in
pursuit of us.

When they saw me behind the other two they started the war-whoop
and did their best to overtake me, no doubt thinking I was tired
out and that the other two had left me. But they were disappointed
when I ran on and overtook my friends.

We were now in sight of a large body of timber, and Mr. Hughes
thought that if we could reach that by dark we might be able to
dodge the Indians and get away from them.

We reached the timber just at dark and tried very hard to dodge
our pursuers, but it seemed as though they could scent us like
blood-hounds, for we would no more than get stopped and lie down
to rest, when they would be upon us.

A number of times during the night we would build up a fire and
then go a hundred yards or so from it and lie down to rest, but
the redskinned devils kept close to us, and, consequently, we got
but little rest during the night.

The following morning we left the timber and took to the prairie.
After running some four miles we looked back and saw four Indians
very near to us and gaining at every step. Johnnie West proposed
that we stop and accommodate them, saying that he felt hungry and
tired enough to fight any two Indians in the band. So each man
selected his Indian and fired, and we succeeded in killing two of
them; the remaining two hid behind some big rocks until the others
came up and, again we were compelled to flee.

We ran for about two hours, when we stopped and made another fight
and killed two more Indians. This was kept up until late in the
afternoon, which made two days and one night that we had been
chased by these savages, with not a bite to eat during the whole
time, and we were getting so tired that we could scarcely raise
the trot.

We were now running down a long slope, when I looked at Mr. Hughes
and could see a change in his countenance. There was an expression
different from that which I had ever seen on his face before. Just
about a half mile ahead of on down a little flat, was a wash-out,
and Mr. Hughes said:

"Right down there by that little bunch of willows, at that wash-
out, is where I intend to make my last fight. Now you boys can do
as you please, but I am exhausted and can go no further."

Before we got to the wash-out, Johnnie West told Mr. Hughes to run
straight for the patch of willows, also telling me to turn to the
right, while he took to the left, and as soon as we were in the
wash-out for me to run to where Mr. Hughes was. This was to be
done to cause the Indians to scatter so they would not all be on
us at once, there now being seven of them in the gang.

Johnnie West told me to take a bandy-shanked-fellow on the left
and he would take one who had two feathers in his hair.

"All right," said Mr. Hughes, "and I'll take the leader."

We all took good aim and each of us brought down his Indian, but
we did not have time to load before the others were upon us, and
it ended in a hand-to-hand fight, besides it got to where each man
had to look out for himself.

One of the Indians came straight for me and dealt me a desperate
blow with his tomahawk, but I threw up my left hand and received a
severe cut in my wrist--the mark of which I carry to this day--at
the same time I struck him with my knife and almost cut him in two
As he was falling he threw his tomahawk at me with all the
vengeance in him, but missed my head and struck a rock just behind
me. I sprang at once and picked it up.

Mr. Hughes was fighting one of the Indians; the other two had
attacked Johnnie West, who was on his back with his head against
the bank of the wash-out, and they were trying to get a chance to
deal him a blow, but he was kicking at them with both feet and was
striking so fast with his knife that they had not yet been able to
get a lick in on him.

They were so busily engaged with Johnnie that I sprang at once,
unseen by them, and buried the tomahawk so deep in the head of one
of them that I was unable, for the moment, to recover it. As soon
as my Indian was out of the way, Johnnie was on his feet, quick as
the twinkling of an eye, and stabbed the remaining one through the
heart with his hunting-knife.

In the meantime Mr. Hughes was having a hard fight with his
Indian. He succeeded in killing the red fiend but got badly used
up. He had a severe wound in the shoulder, also one in the thigh.
I received a cut in the wrist, and Johnnie West did not get a
severe wound, in fact but little more than a scratch.

The fight and flight being now ended, we went a few rods to a
little clump of pine trees, where Mr. Hughes dropped down and
said: "Boys, there's no use of talking, I can't go any further; I
think I have done my last trappin' and Injun fightin'."

I gathered some limbs and chunks and started a fire, while Johnnie
pulled Mr. Hughes' moccasins off and bathed his feet and legs with
cold water. They were swollen almost to twice their usual size.

The fire being started, Johnnie proposed that we lie down and take
a nap and a rest before starting out to hunt for meat, saying it
was impossible for him to stand on his feet any longer. "My legs,"
said he, "are swollen clear to my body." I was too hungry to
sleep, so I proposed that Johnnie stay and care for Mr. Hughes and
I would take my gun and go out and kill some game, which was
plentiful in this part of the country. I had not gone more than a
quarter of a mile when I looked up the ridge and saw a small deer
coming down almost in the direction of where I stood, and never
before in my life had I cast my eyes on a living animal that
pleased me so much as did that one I waited until he was in
gunshot and fired. It ran about one hundred yards in the direction
of camp and fell dead I dressed it, cut off its head and carried
it to camp, and it was all I could do to get along with it in my
half-famished condition.

I found Hughes and West both sound asleep by the fire It was not
long before I had some of the venison cooked, and I had it
fashionably rare, at that. After I had wakened my companions and
we had broiled and eaten venison for a time, Johnnie and I rolled
some logs together and gathered pine knots and made a good fire.
Then we broiled more venison and ate again, until we got sleepy
and fell over by the side of the fire, lost to ourselves and
Indians. During the night we all woke up again, cooked and ate as
long as we could keep our eyes open, and by sun-up next morning
there was not enough of that little deer left to feed a cat.

We found ourselves very sore and stiff from the effects of our
run, but Mr. Hughes thought we were about one hundred miles nearer
Taos than when we started, as we had been running most of the time
in that direction, and this was some consolation.

We remained here and rested two days, and as game was plentiful we
did not have to go far from the camp to get all the meat we
wanted.

On the morning of the third day we started for Taos, which was
about two hundred miles away, but all being so badly worn out and
Mr. Hughes having such severe wounds, we had to travel slowly, it
taking us about two weeks to make the trip. But we had no more
trouble with the Indians.

At Taos we met Uncle Kit Carson, who had been waiting our arrival
for two weeks. After resting up for a few days, Uncle Kit, Johnnie
West and myself started for North Park to pack out the furs. Mr.
Hughes stayed at Taos, as he was too badly wounded to accompany us
on the trip.

On our arrival at North Park we found everything just as we had
left it, except that the traps, which we had not cached with the
furs, had been stolen.

On our return trip we camped one evening in a beautiful little
valley where the grass was knee high, and along the little stream
were green quaking-asp, alder and willows, with scattering pine
trees here and there on the hills and in the valley. About sundown
that evening the horses commenced to show signs of uneasiness and
occasionally they would raise their heads and look in the
direction of a little pine grove near by, and snort. Johnnie West,
being the first to notice it, said: "Kit, what is the matter with
the horses? I believe there are Indians around."

"I don't think so," said Carson, "for I haven't seen any sign of
Injuns today."

Shortly after dark that night Uncle Kit went out about fifty yards
from camp in the direction of the horses, taking with him neither
his gun or his pistol, which was a rare thing for him to do. Just
as he was passing around a pine tree a panther sprang at him from
the tree. On hearing the rustle in the limbs, Carson jumped back
from the tree as far as he could and thus avoided the full force
of the blow from the panther. As he jumped back he drew his knife
and had a hand-to-hand fight with the huge feline and succeeded in
killing it.

Johnnie and I sat at the camp-fire, knowing nothing of the affair
until Uncle Kit came in, covered with blood from head to foot, and
his heavy buckskin shirt, which had no doubt been the means of
saving his life, was torn almost into strings. When he told us he
had been engaged in a fight with some kind of a wild animal,
Johnnie asked why he did not call for help, and his reply was that
he did not have time to call as he had his hands full with the
"varmint."

After we had dressed his wounds as best we could, we took a torch
and went to the foot of the pine tree, and there lay the panther,
dead. He had stabbed it to the heart.

Uncle Kit had a very bad wound in one thigh, also in one arm, so
we did not move camp next day, but the day after we proceeded on
our journey. We took our furs to Santa Fe, where we disposed of
them at a good price, furs being higher that season than usual.

Our furs being disposed of we returned to Taos and rested for
about two weeks.




CHAPTER V.

ON THE CACHE-LA-POUDRE.--VISIT FROM GRAY EAGLE, CHIEF OF THE
ARAPAHOES.--A BEAR-HUNTER IS HUNTED BY THE BEAR.--PHIL, THE
CANNIBAL.


Uncle Kit, having made quite a sum of money, concluded that he
would take a trip over to the headwaters of the Cache-la-Poudre to
look for a new field where he could trap the coming winter on a
large scale, and wanted Johnnie and I to accompany him, which we
did.

Each taking a saddle-horse and one pack animal, we started on the
trip, taking a new route to Uncle Kit, as well as to Johnnie and
myself.

Carson took the lead, for, like a deer, he could find his way
anywhere he wished to go.

We crossed the Arkansas river above Bent's Fort, and from here we
traveled along the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, striking the
Platte at the mouth of Cherry creek, which is now the center of
Denver City, Colo. Here we met Mountain Phil--of whom you will
hear more in this narrative. He was living in a wick-i-up and had
a squaw for a wife. Uncle Kit and I, being acquainted with him,
stopped and had a chat with him while our horses were feeding.
Uncle Kit asked him what he intended to do the coming winter, and
he replied:

"I will trap for you if you like, but you will have to furnish me
with an outfit, for I have none of my own."

"All right, Phil," said Carson, "I will give you a job, but you
will have to stop alone, for none of my men will live with you."

"All right," said Phil, "me and Klooch will be enough to stop in
one cabin, anyway."

These things being understood we rode off, Mountain Phil agreeing
to meet us at Taos about two months from that time.

After we rode away I asked Uncle Kit why no one would live with
Mountain Phil. His reply was, "Phil is a very bad man, and I yet
have to hear the first man speak a good word for him."

Late that afternoon we saw a little band of Indians--ten in
number--coming toward us, and when near them we saw that they were
Arapahoes and Gray Eagle, the chief, was with them. Uncle Kit
being well acquainted, all shook hands, and the chief insisted on
our going to their camp and staying all night with them. Uncle Kit
knowing the nature of the Indians, and knowing that Gray Eagle
would take it as an insult if we should refuse to visit him,
turned about and went home with him. He sent two of his men ahead
to the village, and we were met by about five hundred warriors
with all the women and children of the village. Just at the outer
edge of the village we were honored with what they considered a
great reception.

Gray Eagle took us to his own wick-i-up, his men taking charge of
our horses and packs. I had learned to speak the Arapahoe language
fairly well and could understand anything they said. When supper
time came, Gray Eagle came to Uncle Kit and said: "I have a great
feast for you; my men have killed a very fat dog; supper is ready,
come in and eat."

I remarked to Uncle Kit as we were going to supper, that I was
very glad we came home with Gray Eagle, for it had been a long
time since I had had a good meal of dog.

Supper being over, the chief got his pipe and selected six men
from his tribe and we had a peace-smoke, and he and Uncle Kit
smoked and talked nearly all night. During their conversation that
night he said that Mountain Phil was a very bad man, and that he
would often steal their horses and sell them to the Comanches.

Next morning after breakfast our horses were brought in, saddled
up and we were off on our journey again to Cache-la-Poudre.

It might be of interest to our readers to know how this stream
acquired its name. There was a Frenchman by the name of Virees
Roubidoux camped on the stream spoken of, with a little squad of
men; they were attacked by a band of Indians, and the first word
uttered by Roubidoux was "Cache-la-poudre," which means in
English, "hide the powder," and from that time on the stream has
been so called.

We arrived at our proposed trapping field, and after looking over
the country we found plenty of beaver sign along the streams and
game in abundance, and Uncle Kit decided that there was room
enough for four camps.

We returned by the way of Bent's Fort, as Uncle Kit wished to
employ the best men he could get to trap for him the coming
winter. On our way to the fort, which was four hundred miles from
the proposed trapping ground, Uncle Kit told me that he would have
to leave me in charge the coming winter, as he was going to the
City of Mexico on business, but said that he would come out and
get the camps established and return to Taos with the horses
before going there.

We found plenty of men at Bent's Fort, and, as usual, they were
all broke, having squandered the money earned the winter before
for whiskey and card playing. Uncle Kit experienced no trouble in
getting all the men he wanted, but had to furnish them with traps
and provisions--which took considerable money--he to have half of
the furs caught by each of them. Everything being understood we
returned to Taos, the men agreeing to meet us there two weeks
later. They were all on hand at the appointed time, but there
being a large party to outfit it took some weeks to make
preparations for the trip, there being eleven in the crowd. It was
about the last of October when we arrived at the trapping-ground
ready to begin work.

There was a man in the crowd named Charlie Jones, who was an old
friend of Johnnie West, and they and I lived in the same cabin
that winter. One morning after we had got fixed up comfortably in
our winter quarters and Uncle Kit had returned to Taos with the
horses, Charlie Jones waked us up very early, saying that there
was a light snow and he thought we would be able to get a bear if
we got out early. We rolled out, got breakfast and were off as
soon as it was light enough to see.

There were three small ridges, all pointing to our cabin; Johnnie
West took up the right-hand ridge, Charlie Jones the left and I
the middle one. The ridges were open, with scattering pine trees
here and there, but along the creek was heavy timber and a dense
growth of underbrush. While walking along up the ridge, keeping a
sharp lookout for bear, I came in sight of Johnnie West, who
beckoned me to cross over to where he was, saying that in the
thicket, which covered about an acre of ground, there was a small
bear. I proposed calling Charlie Jones over before entering the
thicket, but Johnnie said no, as it was such a small bear that
Charlie would get mad and would not speak to either of us for a
week if we should call him over for such a little bear, "and if we
cannot kill that bear," he continued, "we had better quit the
mountains."

We both cocked our guns and started into the brush side by side.
When near the center of the thicket I saw the bear raise on its
haunches. The snow was falling from the bushes so thickly that it
was almost impossible to get a bead on him, but I fired, anyway,
and hit too low, thus failing to bring him down.

He made a rush for us, but Johnnie had saved his charge in case I
failed to kill, but the snow was falling from the bushes so fast
and thick that he could not get a shot at the bear as he rushed
for us, so we were both compelled to flee for our lives, Johnnie
to the hillside, while I took down the canyon, jumping the small
logs and falling over the large ones and riding down the brush,
while I could almost feel the bear's breath on my posterior at
every jump, and had it not been that West had saved his charge,
you would now be reading some other book--certainly not this one,
as it would never have been written.

Just as we crossed a little opening, Johnnie fired, the ball
cutting Bear's jugular vein and also his windpipe, but the bear
still seemed to have a "hankering" after me and kept coming for
several yards.

After its windpipe was severed, the bear made a louder noise than
ever, but not knowing the cause, I thought he was nearer me and I
strained every nerve and fibre of my body to widen the distance
between us, as I almost imagined his teeth clashing down on me,
while Johnnie West was yelling: "Run, Willie; run for your life!"

Well I rather think I was running some about that time, for just
then I came to a big log, and I jumped, climbed and fell over it,
in fact, I never knew exactly how I did get over it; however, I
fell on one side of the log, utterly exhausted, and the bear, not
being able to get over, fell on the other side and died.

Of all the hunting and Indian fighting I have ever done, I never
had anything to scare me as did that little, insignificant bear.

Charlie Jones, hearing the two shots and Johnnie yelling for me to
run, came to the scene and had no little fun with me for running
from so small a bear, saying: "If a little bear like that were to
come at me, I would take it by the tail and beat its brains out
against a tree."

By the time the boys got the bear dressed, I had recovered
sufficiently from my run and excitement to help carry the meat to
the cabin, which was only a few rods away, as in our foot-race we
had been running in direction of the camp. The boys had a great
deal of sport at my expense, and many times during the winter I
was reminded of the bear hunt, in which the bear hunted me.

After we had got everything nicely fixed up in our new quarters,
Johnnie West one evening got down his sachel, took out a book and
sat and read till bed time. The following evening when he took the
book up again, I asked him what he was reading, and he said,
"Robinson Crusoe." I asked him why he did not read aloud so the
rest of us could hear, and he did read aloud until bed time. I
told him I would give anything if I could read as he did. So he
said if I would try to learn, he would teach me to read that
winter as good as he could. I assured him there would be nothing
lacking on my part, so the next night I took my first lesson. At
that time I did not know all the letters, but I was determined to
learn to read. In a very short time I had learned all my letters,
and being possessed of a great memory, I learned very fast, and
Johnnie, seeing I was so determined in the matter, spared no pains
in teaching me, and by the next spring I could read Robinson
Crusoe myself. Having a start, I could learn of my own accord, and
to Johnnie West I am greatly indebted for the limited education I
now possess; and were he now living I could not express to him my
gratitude for his labors as my tutor in that lonely wilderness,
hundreds of miles from any white man's habitation. And, although
my education is quite limited, yet what little I do possess has
been of great value to me through life.

We had good success trapping this winter, until about the first of
January, when we had an unusual heavy fall of snow in the
mountains which drove all the game to the lowlands, nothing being
left that was fit for meat except a few mountain sheep, and the
snow made it very inconvenient getting around to attend to the
traps. In the latter part of February I asked Charlie Jones one
day to go down to Mountain Phil's camp and see if there was
anything that he wanted, as we had kept all the extra supplies at
our camp. Mountain Phil and his Klooch--that being the name he
called his squaw, which is also the Arapahoe name for wife--were
staying alone about ten miles further down the country from where
we were located.

On Charlie Jones' return, he said: "It seems that Mountain Phil
has been faring better than any of us, for he has been able to
kill his meat at camp, thereby saving him the trouble of having to
get out and hunt for it."

Johnnie and I did not understand what he meant by this. So, after
hesitating a moment, Jones said: "Boys, if I should tell you what
I know about Mountain Phil, you would not believe it, but as sure
as you live he has killed his squaw and eaten most of her, and he
has left his camp."

We insisted that he must be mistaken, but he declared that he was
not, saying he had seen the bones in the cabin, and further
investigation had developed the fact that he had beyond any doubt
killed and eaten his Indian wife.

From that time on, Mountain Phil went by the name of the American
Cannibal until his death, which was--if my memory serves me
right--in 1863 or '64, at Virginia City, Mont.

After the snow had settled so that a person could travel on top of
it, I took my gun and stole out one day to see if I could not kill
a mountain sheep. As I clambered up the mountain I looked about
one hundred yards or so ahead of me on a cliff of rock, and saw a
panther, which I supposed was looking out for the same kind of
game that I was. I fired and killed her the first shot and started
to skin her, when I heard the kittens, or young panthers, crying
up in the rocks near where I had shot the old one. My first
thought then was what a nice pet I would have if I could only get
hold of those young panthers. I was afraid to crawl into the cave
for fear the other old panther might come in on me, so I cut a
forked stick and twisted in their fur and in that way managed to
pull them out, all the time keeping a sharp lookout for the other
old one. I took the two young panthers to the cabin and made pets
of them. They grew to be very watchful; nothing could move without
their knowing it. The female grew to be very tame, and a more
affectionate creature I never saw. But it was different with the
male. When he was six months old he got to be very cross, and I
had to keep him tied up. One day I went out to feed them and he
drew back and slapped me, and I shot him on the spot with my
pistol. The female I kept until she was considerably over a year
old, when I sold her for one hundred dollars to an Englishman
named Mace, and had I only known it, that panther was worth five
hundred dollars. I had taught her many tricks.

She could count ten, by putting her paw on the ground ten times,
and would do various other tricks, but when asked by any other
person than her master to perform, she would shake her head and
would not allow any one else to touch her. I always tied her up
when going out for a hunt, and when I would return she would cry
and scream so shrill that it would almost raise the hat on a man's
head until I would untie her. She never was contented until she
could get to lick my face, and I never saw a dog more watchful
than she.

It was in the month of April that Uncle Kit came in with a pack-
train for the furs, the snowfall having been so heavy that he
could not get in earlier. Our catch had been light, as we had more
snow that winter than has ever been known before or since in the
history of that country. Uncle Kit was, however, very well
satisfied with our work, with the exception of Mountain Phil, whom
he had furnished for the winter, and who had not caught a beaver.
We soon had our traps and furs together, loaded up and were on our
way to New Mexico.

The third day about noon we reached the Cache-la-Poudre, where we
again ran on to the American Cannibal. We stopped here to let our
horses feed and to partake of some refreshments ourselves. Uncle
Kit, after giving Mountain Phil a lecture for his past conduct,
said:

"Phil, if ever you and I are out together in the mountains and run
short of provisions, I will shoot you down as I would a wolf,
before you get hungry."

Phil asked him why he would do so, and Carson replied: "Because I
wouldn't take the chances of being killed and eaten up by a
cannibal like you."

It might be well to give a brief description of this cannibal. He
was a large, raw-boned man, who would weigh about two hundred and
fifty pounds, though he was not very fleshy. He always wore his
hair long and never combed it, also wore his beard long and never
sheared or combed that. His hair grew down on his forehead almost
to his eyes. In fact he looked more like an animal than a human
being.

Three days' travel brought us to South Platte, where we crossed
the river and made camp on a little stream called Sand Creek. It
was our custom to stake our saddle horses out at night as near
camp as good grass could be found. The following morning Johnnie
West and myself had been out after the pack animals, and on our
return when within about a quarter of a mile from camp, we heard a
rumbling noise that sounded like a band of buffalo in a stampede.
We looked off to our right and saw a large herd of horses, driven
by seven Ute Indians, who were pushing them at the greatest
possible speed. We urged our horses in the direction of camp as
fast as possible. As soon as we were in sight of camp, we gave the
alarm and every man sprang to his gun, mounted his horse and was
ready to receive them. The Indians did not see us until they had
run the herd of horses almost into our camp. Our saddle horses
being fresh, we succeeded in killing the seven Indians before they
got far away, and captured the herd of horses, which proved to be
a herd they had stolen from the Arapahoe Indians the night
before, and in less than an hour, Gray Eagle, the Arapahoe chief,
came along in pursuit, accompanied by fifty of his select
warriors. When Uncle Kit showed him the dead Utes, he walked up to
one of them, gave him a kick and said: "Lo-mis-mo-cay-o-te," which
means, "All the same as cayote."

Gray Eagle gave us each a horse, thanked us very kindly and
returned to his village with his animals.

We proceeded on our journey to Santa Fe, which took us twelve
days. Here we met our old friend, Joe Favor, who we had sold our
furs to the year before, and who bought them again this season.

Furs being still higher this year, notwithstanding our small
catch, Uncle Kit did fairly well out of his winter's trapping.

After settling up with Uncle Kit, Mr. Favor called me into the
store and presented me with a single-shot, silver-mounted pistol,
also a knife that weighed two and one-fourth pounds, that had been
manufactured in St. Louis. We stopped at Santa Fe and rested two
days, after which time Uncle Kit, Johnnie West, myself and my pet
panther returned home to Taos, which was a distance of ninety
miles from Santa Fe.




CHAPTER VI.

TWO BOYS RIDE TO THE CITY OF MEXICO. ELEVEN HUNDRED MILES OF
TRIAL, DANGER AND DUTY---A GIFT HORSE.--THE WIND RIVER MOUNTAINS.


It was now the spring of 1850. I was eighteen years old and
beginning to think myself a man. Uncle Kit asked me to go to the
City of Mexico, saying that he owed a man there two hundred and
fifty dollars, and wished to pay him. He also told me that he
would have Juan, the Mexican boy, accompany me on the journey, but
cautioned me not to let any one know that I had money. "For," said
he, "them Mexican guerrillas would kill you if they knew you had
money about you."

The reader can fancy two boys at the age of eighteen, starting out
on a trip of eleven hundred miles, over a wild country, with no
settlement except hostile Indians and Mexicans, who are worse than
Indians if they know a person has money about him. At that time
there were no roads across the country in that direction; nothing
but a trail--a part of the way not even that--and the whole
country full of Mexican guerrillas--or, as we would term them,
Mexican robbers--who made it a business to murder people whom they
suspected of having money, and who would even massacre whole trains
of emigrants, take what money they might have, their provisions
and clothing, burn their wagons and drive their stock away. The
fact is that many of the depredations committed in those days, for
which the Indians were blamed, were done by those fiendish
Mexicans.

When the time arrived for starting and we were mounted, Uncle Kit,
Johnnie West and Mr. Hughes came out to bid us good-bye.

Johnnie West said: "Well, I am afraid I shall never see you again,
for those Mexican guerrillas are worse than Indians, especially
when they think a traveler has money about him."

All this helped to put me on my guard, and I didn't even tell Juan
that I had money with me.

We started on our journey with two saddled horses and one pack-
horse each. We met numerous little bands of Navajoe Indians, but
they being on good terms with the whites, gave us no trouble,
whatever. We also met numerous little squads of Mexican
guerrillas, but they not suspecting two boys as young as we were
with having money, did not disturb us. Uncle Kit had sent the
shabbiest looking horses along that he had, in order to deceive
them. Every band of Mexicans that we met on our trip would ask us
where we were from, where we were going and our business. I always
told them that I was from Taos, and was going to the City of
Mexico to see a friend, and they would pass on.

The first river we came to, Juan asked me if I could swim. I told
him that I did not know, as I had never had a trial. We stripped
down, tied our clothing about our shoulders and mounted our horses
again.

I wanted Juan to take the lead and let me drive the horses after
him, but he thought we had best ride side by side and let the
pack-animals follow, so in case of accident we could help each
other. We made it across safe, and from this time on we never
hesitated at a stream.

We were thirty-one days making the trip to the City of Mexico.

I found Mr. Reed at his residence and paid the two hundred and
fifty dollars to him. He was much astonished at Uncle Kit sending
two boys eleven hundred miles to pay so small a debt, and said
that he had not expected to get the money until such time as
Carson might be coming that way on other business, for it was so
far that he would not have gone after it and taken the chances of
crossing the country between the City of Mexico and Taos, as we
had done, for the two hundred and fifty dollars.

But Uncle Kit owed this money and had agreed to pay it at a
certain time, and he, like many other frontiersman, valued his
word more than he did his gold.

We laid over two days at the City of Mexico in order to let our
horses rest. The day before we were to start, Mr. Reed, who had
invited us to his residence to board while in the City, went out
to where our horses were, and seeing that one of the horses had a
sore back, told me that he would make me a present of a horse
that, if I took good care of, would be able to carry me the entire
trip.

I named this horse Mexico, and as will be seen later, he proved to
be a noble saddle-horse, which I kept and rode for seven years.

We made the trip home somewhat quicker than we did on our way out,
being better acquainted with the country, and so could make better
time.

We were just two months making the round trip, arriving at Taos
two weeks sooner than Uncle Kit had expected us. Johnnie West and
Mr. Hughes were glad to see us return, for it was more than they
expected.

By the time my panther had grown to be quite large, and was glad
to see me.

On my return to Taos I learned that Uncle Kit and Jim Bridger had
formed a co-partnership, for the purpose of trapping the coming
winter in the Wind River mountains, which were about seven hundred
miles from Taos, and had employed Johnnie West, Charlie Jones and
Jake Harrington to trap for them, and in a few days after my
return from the City of Mexico we made the start with thirty-two
pack-animals, besides our saddle-horses.

Nothing happening worthy of note on our way out, we arrived at our
proposed trapping ground, and found plenty of beaver and plenty of
fresh Indian sign as well, but the Indians were not apt to give us
any trouble at this season of the year, more than to run our
horses off, as they would prefer to let trappers alone until
spring and then kill them and take their furs.

We established our two camps about four miles apart, and kept our
horses in the valley between the two camps; there was an abundance
of grass, plenty of game and no end to the beaver. In fact, to
take it on the whole, it seemed that this was going to be the
loveliest place to spend the winter that we had ever struck, and
the boys were all highly elated over their new winter quarters. We
had only been in our trapping field about two weeks when Uncle Kit
went out one morning to kill a deer and to look after the horses.
He had not gone far when he looked across the little valley and
saw an Indian driving off our horses. Being in gunshot of the
Indian, he fired at him and brought him to the ground. When
Uncle Kit returned to camp, he said:

"Boys, I am afraid we have made a mistake in coming here to trap
this winter; we must be near the Blackfoot Indians, for I just
killed one that was driving our horses off, and I just happened to
see him in time to catch him with old Blackleg." At that time the
Blackfoot Indians were considered worst tribe in the entire
Northwest.

I went at once to the other camp to notify Jim Bridger and his
crowd that they might be on their guard. Bridger said he had been
expecting it, as he had seen fresh Indian sign out on the ridges
some days before, but thought it was getting so late now that they
would not give us any more trouble this winter, but that we would
have to get out early the next spring.

We stayed here and trapped all winter, with splendid success. Jim
Bridger took twelve beaver from his string of traps every twenty-
four hours for seven successive days, being the greatest catch I
ever knew from one string of traps.

About the last of March we commenced making preparations to leave
the mountains, for fear the Indians might come and clean us out.

The day before we were to start there came a heavy fall of snow,
and we were not able to move until the first of April, when we
made another start for Santa Fe, going via Sweetwater, and we had
enough furs to load our entire train.

The second day after leaving camp we were attacked, about noon, by
twenty Indians of the Blackfoot tribe, who entertained us for
about an hour.

We huddled our horses and used them for breast-works, and killed
seven Indians without one of our men being wounded, but we lost
two horses.

It might be well to describe the manner in which trappers traveled
those days while passing through a country where there were
hostile Indians.

Each man would take the number of horses he was to lead and
string them out and fasten them together by tying each horse to
the tail of the horse ahead of him and the head horse of the
string he would tie to the tail of his saddle-horse. This had to
be done to prevent a stampede when attacked, and the horses, too,
were a great protection to the men, for when they were attacked by
Indians the men would ride to the center and use the horses for
breastworks in time of battle.

After the fight was over the boys all felt jubilant over their
victory. We had no more trouble with Indians for four days, when
we reached Rock Creek, a beautiful little mountain stream that
pays tribute to the North Platte river. Here was a nice place to
camp; plenty of wood and an abundance of grass, and the finest
water in the land. Here was a lovely valley, and just off to the
northwest was a little hill or ridge, only a short distance from
which we made our camp. Some of the men went to getting wood and
building a fire, while others were unpacking, not thinking of
Indians, and just as the packs were off we were aroused by the
war-whoop of a little squad of Indians who were coming over the
ridge spoken of. We had a hot little fight, but it only lasted a
few minutes, when the Indians withdrew, and Uncle Kit gave orders
to follow them, which we did, and had a running fight for about
five miles. We captured five horses from the redskins, and in the
affair did not lose a man, nor even a horse.

This ended our trouble with the Indians for this trip.

On arriving at Santa Fe, Uncle Kit and Jim Bridger sold their furs
to Joe Favor and Mr. Roubidoux for a good price.

Here we met an Englishman, who lived in London, England, and had
come that spring from St. Louis, in company with Mr. Roubidoux and
Joe Favor.

I had my pet panther with me, and the Englishman took a fancy to
her and asked my price for her. I told him that she was not for
sale. He offered me a hundred dollars for her. I hated to part
with her, but a hundred dollars was more money than I had ever had
before at one time, and looked like a big lot to me, so I accepted
his offer, and in less than twenty-four hours I was very sorry,
for during the time I stayed in Santa Fe, every time that I would
pass in sight of her she would cry as pitifully as any child ever
heard. Five hundred dollars would not have bought her from Mr.
Mace, as he had purchased her with the intention of taking her to
England.

Mr. Roubidoux and Joe Favor employed Uncle Kit to go out and trade
for buffalo robes with the Comanche and Kiowa Indians. I
accompanied him on this trip, and we were out two months, during
which time we did not see a white man.

This was the first shipment of buffalo robes that had ever been
made from this region, consequently we were able to get them
almost at our own price.

As soon as Uncle Kit got out there with his little stock of goods
that had been furnished him to trade on, and which consisted of
beads and rings and a very few blankets, and the Indians had
learned that he would trade for robes, the squaws all fell to
dressing them. Among the Indians it was considered disgraceful for
men to do such work.

In a very short time there were plenty of dressed buffalo robes,
and some very nice ones, and I have seen Uncle Kit trade a string
of beads a foot and a half long for a first-class robe, and for a
red blanket he could get almost as many robes as he had a mind to
ask.

As fast as the robes were bought they were baled, and by the time
Uncle Kit pretty well bought up all that were for sale, the wagon-
train came and hauled them away.

There were twenty wagon loads of robes and the goods Uncle Kit
traded for them would not have cost to exceed seventy-five
dollars.

Our work being done, we started for Taos, for it was now almost
time to start out for the winter's trapping. On our arrival at
Taos we found Johnnie West, who had been loafing around for two
months, and who was anxious to get at work again. Uncle Kit hired
him to go with us to South Park to trap the coming winter, that
being the place he had decided upon for the season's work.




CHAPTER VII.

BATTLING THREE DAYS' BATTLE BETWEEN THE COMANCHES AND THE UTES FOR
THE POSSESSION OF A "HUNTER'S PARADISE."--AN UNSEASONABLE BATH.


All being ready, Uncle Kit, Johnnie West and myself pulled out for
South Park. We passed over a high range of mountains, struck the
Park on the east side, and a more beautiful sight I never saw than
the region was at that time. Coming in from the direction
mentioned, one could overlook the entire park, which was almost
surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and the valley, several miles
below, which was about eighty miles long and from ten to twenty
miles wide, was as green as a wheatfield in June. When we were
near the valley we could see elk in bands of a hundred or more,
with small herds of bison scattered here and there in the valley,
and antelope by the hundred.

I had often heard of a hunter's paradise, and when I got sight of
this lovely valley, with its thousands of wild animals of almost
every description known to the continent, I made up my mind that
if there ever was such a place as a hunter's paradise, I had
surely found it. The high mountains with scattering pine trees on
the sides; the snowy white peaks above the timber line, and the
many little mountain streams and rills that paid tribute to the
main stream that coursed this beautiful valley, all combined to
form a scene of magnificent grandeur. The quaking-asp, balm and
various other kinds of small timber that grew along the streams
all helped to add to the beauty of the scene.

We crossed over to the west side to a cove that ran back some
twelve miles from the main valley; here, we decided, was the best
place to establish our winter quarters. Every little mountain
stream in the valley was alive with beaver, and Uncle Kit thought
it so late that we would not be bothered by the Indians that fall,
but, that we would have to get out early the following spring.
Feeling perfectly safe, we built our cabin this winter entirely on
top of the ground, consequently we were not long in getting our
winter quarters completed and were soon ready to start in
trapping. We had excellent success this winter; very little snow
to contend with, making it much better getting around than usual
and an easier task to look after strings of traps.

In those cases each man had his string of traps, and it was his
business to go to each trap every day, take the beaver out, skin
them, set the traps, carry the skins home and stretch them.
Sometimes we would trap as far as seven miles from camp, that
being the outside limit. After we had trapped here about three
weeks there came a light fall of snow which drove most of the game
to the valley, and we experienced no trouble in getting all the
meat we wanted close to camp, in fact we could often kill deer and
antelope from our cabin door.

The second morning after the snowfall, Uncle Kit, Johnnie West and
myself all started down the valley to took after our traps. We
went about a mile together, I left the other two, my traps being
the farthest away, some three miles down the valley. After leaving
the other two I struck out down the valley on a turkey trot, that
being my usual gait when alone. I had not gone far when I heard
two gun shots. Thinking that Uncle Kit and Johnnie had been
attacked by the Indians, I turned in the direction that I heard
the shooting, and ran back much faster than I had come, but had
not gone far when I saw ahead of me, up the narrow valley, a band
of about twenty bison coming direct for me. I thought by shooting
the leader it might check their speed and perhaps cause them to
change their course. So I brought my gun to my face and dropped
the leader, but it neither caused the others to halt or change
their course, and they were making a bee line for me, and there
was not a tree in reach large enough for me to climb nor a place
of any kind that I could hide.

Now I was not long in making up my mind that I had a first-class
foot-race on my hands--as an Irishman might say--and after running
some distance I looked back and saw the bison were on me at every
jump. Had I only known the nature of bison, which I learned
afterward were not so vicious as buffalo, I could have turned to
the right or left and they would have passed on; but thinking that
they were after me, I got out like a quarter-horse, putting in my
best licks to try to reach a wash-out that I knew of ahead of me.
Thinking that if I only could reach that ditch I might have some
possible show for my life, I lost no time in getting there, but
got right down to business and did the prettiest running I have
ever done in my life. Every time I looked back I saw that the
rushing herd was closer upon me, until they were within a few
feet, and by the time I reached the ditch I fancied that I could
feel the breath from the nostrils of a half dozen bison on the
rear base of my buckskin trousers. Then into the ditch I went,
head-long and into about four feet of water. It seemed to me that
those buffalo were half an hour crossing that ditch, but I stood
perfectly quiet in the water up to my waist until they had all
passed over.

The ditch being deep and the banks perpendicular, I had to wade
the water for some distance up the ditch before I could find a
place where I could climb out. I had just scrambled up the bank
and shaken myself, when up came Uncle Kit and Johnnie, who had
heard the report of my gun and had come to see whether or not I
had killed anything.

"Rather cold to go bathing," said Uncle Kit. "When I go bathin' I
allus pull off my buckskin suit."

But I told them I considered myself lucky to be able to find a
suitable place to go swimming just at that time, and congratulated
myself on being all there.

Aside from my race with the bison, I put in a very pleasant
winter, and Uncle Kit said he had never spent as pleasant a time
in the mountains as he did that winter in South Park. "In fact,"
said he, "it was more like a pleasure trip than anything else."

Our camp at this time was near where the town of Tarryall has
since been built, and we ranged our horses in the extreme south
end of the park, where they had the best kind of grazing the
entire winter.

It was in the latter part of March--this now being the spring of
1852--when Uncle Kit made a trip to the south end of the park to
get our horses, thinking we had stayed there about as long as it
was safe.

During his absence Johnnie West and I were busily engaged in
making preparations to start for Bent's Fort, as soon as Carson
should get back with the horses. On his return he informed us that
he would not leave the park until about the first of May, which
was a surprise and disappointment to us both, as we had made all
calculations on getting started the following day. We asked what
was up that we were to be detained so long.

"On my trip for the horses," said Carson, "I saw some Injuns of
the Comanche tribe, and they told me that them and the Utes war
goin' to have a battle as soon as the Utes can cross the
mountains, and the place for the battle decided on is in the south
end of the park." He also said that with all the Indian fighting
he had been mixed up in he had never before had an opportunity to
see two tribes come together, and that he would not miss seeing it
for any consideration.

In those days each tribe of Indians had their own scope of hunting
and trapping ground, and if one tribe was caught intruding upon
the rights of another tribe it was apt to cause trouble.

As I have said before, South Park was a hunter's paradise in the
winter, and added to this, in the summer almost the entire valley
was covered with wild strawberries. Along the many little mountain
streams were abundance of wild gooseberries, blackberries and wild
currants, while on the hillsides were acres of wild raspberries.
In fact almost every variety of berries that there grew west of
the Missouri river could be found in South Park; while the streams
were full of the finest quality of mountain trout as well as many
other kinds of fish.

The two tribes of Indians mentioned had been in dispute for a
number of years as to their boundary line, each claiming South
Park, and this battle had been arranged the fall before by the
chiefs, also the place decided upon for the battle, which was to
be on a little stream in the extreme south end of the park, that
has since gone by the name of Battle Creek.

Battle Creek heads in the Pike's Peak range of mountains, and runs
almost due west. The particular spot selected for this battle was
on this creek, about two miles from where it empties into the
stream that runs through the park.

No better place could have been selected for the fight. There were
scattering pines here and there, with not a bush of any kind to
interfere with their wild charges, and a gentle slope from each
side to the stream which we might call the dead line.

The Comanches were to occupy the south side, while the Utes were
on the north.

As this battle was to settle for all time the long-disputed right
of these two powerful tribes, it was likely to be no tame affair.

This was what might be called a civil war between two tribes of
Indians. They had quarreled so long over this portion of the
country that the two chiefs had met and decided to have it settled
for, and the conditions of the battle were as follows: In the
event of the Comanches being victorious they were to have South
Park; the summit of the Rocky Mountains to be the boundary line.
And in the event of the Utes being victorious, the boundary line
was to be at the foot of the Rocky Mountains on the eastern slope,
the country in dispute comprising all of the territory between the
Arkansas river and South Platte, including South Park.

About two weeks before the time set for the battle, the Comanche
warriors began to arrive. Some brought their families while others
did not.

Uncle Kit, being well acquainted with the Comanche chief, as well
as the most of his warriors, loaded up all his furs and we moved
over near the Comanches' quarters a few days before the battle was
to take place.

As the Comanches came in they would pitch their wick-i-ups back on
the hill about a quarter of a mile south of the little stream,
which was to be their line of battle. They were all on hand before
any of the Utes came across the mountains.

About two days from the time the last of the Comanches came to the
ground, there was a little squad of Utes came in and pitched their
camp about the same distance from the little stream as the
Comanches, only on the opposite side.

This little squad of Indians came on ahead to ascertain whether
they would be able to cross the mountains, and if they did not
return in so many days the others would take it for granted that
all was clear and would follow, which they did, and a few days
later the entire Ute nation was there.

The battle did not begin for two or three days after all the Utes
were on the ground, thereby giving both sides ample time to kill
plenty of game to last them through the war.

During the time they were preparing for battle, neither tribe
seemed to make any attempt to molest their enemy in any way
whatever, but apparently looked upon it as a matter of business
and proposed to fight it out on the square.

During the time we were awaiting the battle, Kiwatchee, chief of
the Comanches, who was a very intelligent Indian in his way, and
could speak French fairly well, and who was also an intimate
friend of Kit Carson, came to Uncle Kit and said:

"I know you are a great chief and I want to hire you and your men
to help me whip the Utes.

"If you help me fight the Utes I will give you five ponies each."

Kit Carson declined by telling Kiwatchee that he did not come to
fight, but as he had never witnessed a war between two tribes of
Indians, he had come merely to look on, and as the war was for the
purpose of settling a dispute between the two tribes, he did not
think it would be right for him to interfere. Kiwatchee insisted
on our entering into the battle and asked how many horses we would
take to help him fight the Utes. But Uncle Kit told him he would
take no hand in the affair.

We were camped on the hill near the Comanches, where we could
overlook the entire battle-ground, as well as the Ute camp. We
dared not go near the Utes, for they were not at all friendly
toward the pale-faces, and in case the Utes were victorious we
would have to flee with the Comanches.

The day before the battle was to take place, Kiwatchee came and
said to us:

"To-morrow we will fight."

We asked him how long he thought the battle would last. Kiwatchee
said he thought he could whip the Utes in one day.

The following morning about sunrise, just as we were eating
breakfast, the two chiefs commenced beating their war-drums, which
was a signal to call their men together. The war-drum, or what the
Comanches call a "tum-tum," was made of a piece of hollow log
about eight inches long, with a piece of untanned deerskin
stretched over one end. This the war chief would take under one
arm and beat on it with a stick. When the tum-tums sounded the
first morning there was great commotion among the Indians. At the
first tap the war-whoop could be heard, and in a few moments both
tribes of Indians were down at the little stream, each formed in
line on his own side.

On arriving at the stream the tum-tums ceased and were not heard
again till the Indians were formed in line of battle and each war-
chief passed down in front of his men, after which they again
commenced beating on the tum-tums, and at that the arrows began
flying.

Now the fun had commenced in earnest, and of all the war-whoops I
ever heard they were there, and the more noise the Indians made
the harder they would fight.

After they had fought for about two hours they seemed to get more
cautious than at the start, and would look for some advantage to
take of the enemy.

They fought hard all day; sometimes the Comanches would cross over
to the same side with the Utes, and I saw many hand-to-hand fights
with tomahawks and knives. At other times the Utes would cross
over on the Comanche side of the stream, but would soon retreat
again, and each side would resume their old position for a time.
About sunset both tribes withdrew, apparently by mutual agreement,
each side returning to camp for supper.

I did not learn how many Comanches were killed that day, but there
were some twenty odd wounded, and some of them fatally. The night
was made hideous by the shrieks and cries of the squaws and
children of the warriors who had been killed or wounded during the
day.

Neither tribe put out picket guards during the night.

The next morning about sunrise the war-chiefs were out beating on
the tum-tums. The warriors did not hasten around so briskly as the
morning before, however, they were soon at the spot and ready for
battle.

After going through the same manoeuvres as the morning before, the
war-woops rang out loud and shrill, and again the arrows began to
fly. The contestants fought hard all day again, without ceasing.
About the middle of the afternoon the Comanches made a desperate
charge on the Utes, crossing the creek and fighting them at close
quarters. Among the Comanches was one Indian in particular that I
was acquainted with, that I saw engaged in a number of hand-to-
hand fights, and always came out victorious, but he got badly used
up during the day. This Indian went by the name of White Bird, and
he was beyond doubt the worst disfigured piece of humanity I ever
saw, but he fought on, and he seemed to say by his actions:

"I am slightly disfigured, but still in the ring."

About sundown the two armies again withdrew for refreshments and
repairs.

That evening after eating my supper! went over to White Bird's
wick-i-up and found him sitting there, bloody from head to foot,
with a huge cut on one cheek, another on one side of the head, and
numerous other wounds, making him the most horrible specimen of
humanity that I had ever seen living. He had not even washed the
blood from his face or hands, but was sitting there telling his
squaw and children how many Utes he had killed during the day,
apparently as cool and unconcerned as though nothing had happened
him. But he was not able for duty the next day, and died about ten
o'clock.

We never learned where the Indians buried their dead, for they
took them away during the night and disposed of them in some
manner.

There were more Indians killed and wounded the second day than the
first, and that night the Comanches had a big war-dance over the
scalps they had taken.

The morning of the third day each tribe marched down at about the
usual hour and resumed their positions in the line of battle, and
that morning they fought more cautiously than before, until about
ten o'clock, when the Utes made their first big charge on the
Comanches, and they had a hard fight, which resulted in the death
of many Indians, and the Utes retreated with considerably the
worst of it.

In this charge we counted over forty Utes that were killed and
scalped.

After the Comanches had driven the Utes back, Johnnie West and I
went down within about fifty yards and sat there until the war was
ended. About the middle of the afternoon of the third day, the old
war-chief of the Comanches rushed up and commenced to shout, "Co-
chah! Co-chah!" which meant to go ahead, or, in other words, to
charge. Johnnie West, who understood the language, turned to me
and said:

"The Comanches are going to make another charge."

Sure enough, they did; crossing the creek and made a desperate
rush for the Utes, but the Utes could not stand the pressure and
retreated, the Comanches following them to the top of the hill
where the Utes were camped, it being understood between the two
chiefs that, when either army or tribe was driven back to the top
of the hill, they had lost the battle.

The Comanches now returned, singing and shouting at the top of
their voices, and in a short time a little squad of Comanches came
in with about one hundred head of Ute horses. We never learned
whether they had captured the horses or whether they had won them
in the battle.

That night the Comanches had another big war-dance, and while the
unfortunate squaws and children were weeping over the loss of
their fathers and husbands, the victorious warriors were dancing,
singing and shouting, and while dancing, each warrior would try to
show as near as he could the manner in which he killed and
scalped his enemy, and of all the silly maneuvers a white man ever
witnessed, it was there at that war-dance.

The next morning there was not a Ute to be seen, all having left
during the night.

The day following, the Comanches broke camp and started back for
their main village on the Arkansas river. We broke camp and
started out ahead of them, and in four days reached Bent's Fort,
where Uncle Kit sold his furs to Colonel Bent and Mr. Roubidoux.

These two kept a boarding-house at the Fort, and this being the
general loafing place during the summer season for most of the
trappers in this part of the country, they also kept whiskey, and
after the trappers had sold their furs, many of them would stop
around the Fort and pay board for about three or four months
during each summer, and by the time they were ready to start
trapping again, Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux would have all of
their money back for grub and whiskey, and, in fact, many of them
would be in debt to them.

There being so much stock around the Fort the game was driven back
so far that it became necessary to go considerable distance to get
any. Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux proposed to hire Johnnie West and
I to hunt for them for two months, saying that they had not had
fresh meat half of the time the past spring. We agreed to work for
them for two months, they being willing to pay us fifty dollars
each per month, with the understanding that in case we kept them
in meat all summer they would pay us extra wages. They now having
some thirty odd boarders, it took a great deal of meat, and having
to go some distance for game we had to pack it on pack-horses. We
hunted for them two months, and at the end of that time we had
kept them in meat and had enough ahead to last them one month
longer.

It now being time to start out to look for trapping ground for the
coming winter, we went to Col. Bent for a settlement, and after he
had counted out our hundred dollars each he asked us how much
extra wages we thought we should have. I told him I was perfectly
willing to leave it to Mr. Roubidoux, and Johnnie being willing to
do that also, Mr. Roubidoux told the Colonel to pay us twenty
dollars each, extra, all of which was agreeable to us, and they
engaged us to hunt for them the next summer at seventy-five
dollars per month.

We returned now to Taos to prepare for the winter's trapping.




CHAPTER VIII.

KIT CARSON KILLS A HUDSON BAY COMPANY'S TRAPPER, WHO WAS SPOILING
FOR A FIGHT.--SOCIAL GOOD TIME WITH A TRAIN OF EMIGRANTS.


Arriving at Taos I learned that Uncle Kit had his trapping company
already organized for the coming winter, consisting of himself,
Jim Bridger, Jim Beckwith, Jake Harrington, Johnnie West and
myself, six in all.

Early in the fall of 1852 we pulled out for the head of Green
river, which was a long and tedious journey, being more than eight
hundred miles from Taos and over a rough country. We took the
trail along the foot of the Rocky Mountains, running north until
after crossing North Platte. Here we struck across the Bad Lands,
and I thought that if there ever was a place rightly named, it
surely was this section of country. We were three days crossing
this God-forsaken country; and we would often travel a half day
without seeing a living thing of any description. From there we
struck across the main divide of the Rocky Mountains, and were
three days crossing over to the headwaters of Green river, and
were somewhat disappointed when we learned that Green river had
been trapped over by the Hudson Bay Company the year before.
However, we were there, and it was too late to look up another
trapping-ground, so we occupied some of the old cabins that had
been erected by the Hudson Bay Company and went to trapping.

Notwithstanding the country had all been trapped over, we had fair
success, or, at least, much better than we expected. We stayed
there and trapped until some time in February, when we pulled up
and moved down Green river nearly twenty miles and there we
trapped for two weeks, but not with as good success as we had had
at the old camp.

We again moved camp down to what was known as Hell's Hole. There
we found about forty French Canadians trapping for the Hudson Bay
Company, who, by the way, had plenty of bad whiskey. They were not
very friendly toward the new arrivals.

Among the party was a big fellow by the name of Shewman, that
seemed to think himself a very bad man; he did not appear to have
any love or respect for any American trapper, which was the case
with the general run of those French Canadians who were in the
employ of the Hudson Bay Company.

This man Shewman seemed to have a great antipathy toward Kit
Carson.

If the reader will pardon me, I would like to say just here, that
while Kit Carson was the last man to offer an insult, yet, at the
same time, if challenged, he would fight any man living rather
than be called a coward, and in those days the character of men
concerning whom this work is written quarreled but very little. If
a man insulted another, ten chances to one he would be challenged
to fight a duel; and in such a case he would either have to fight
or be branded as a coward, and the sooner he left the crowd the
better it would be for him, for he could see no peace while
remaining with them.

The third day we arrived at the place spoken of, this man Shewman
got pretty well ginned up and started out to look for Uncle Kit,
saying that he had heard a great deal of Kit Carson and of his
fighting proclivities, and that he would lick him on sight. One of
Shewman's friends, knowing Kit Carson by reputation, tried to
induce him to let Kit alone and have nothing to do with him, but
the more they said to him the madder he got, until finally he was
raging with anger.

It happened that while he was in his rage, Uncle Kit, Jake
Harrington and I, knowing nothing of Shewman's mad fit, started
out to look after our horses and had to pass near their camp. Just
as we were passing by their cabin, Shewman said:

"There goes the d--d white-faced American now. Look at him, he
looks just like a coward, and he is a d--d cowardly cur, just like
all the rest of the Americans."

Uncle Kit stopped and addressed him in the following manner:

"I am an American and I feel proud of the name, but I would have
you understand that I am no coward. I will fight you any way that
you wish."

Shewman said: "If you want me to kill you, get your horse and I
will get mine, and we will get one hundred yards apart and start
at the word. After we start, each fire when we please."

This Uncle Kit agreed to, saying: "There is my horse, I will be
ready in three minutes. Get ready as soon as you please; as you
seem to want to fight, I will accommodate you."

I had been with Uncle Kit now since 1847, and this was the first
time I had ever seen him in any serious trouble, and I was
surprised at the cool and unexcited manner in which he talked to
Shewman. He was apparently as cool as though he was just in the
act of starting out buffalo hunting. There was a smile on his
countenance when he was talking to Shewman about the fight that
was to take place, in which one of them was to lose his life.

I had been with Kit Carson long enough to know better than to say
anything to him, but Jake Harrington followed him out to where his
horse was, and started in to try to talk him out of the notion by
telling him that Shewman was drinking. He turned to Harrington and
said: "Jake, I thought you were an American, and would fight for
the name." Harrington, seeing that Uncle Kit was determined in the
matter, said no more.

Carson went out to where his saddle-horse was feeding, caught him
and took a half-hitch around his nose with the riatta, jumped on
him without any saddle, and by this time Shewman was on his horse
also, with his rifle in hand.

Up to this time I had not said a word to Uncle Kit, but as I came
up I asked him if he was not going to get his gun.

"No," said he, "this is all the gun I want;" and he took out his
pistol and rode away a few rods, so that Jake Harrington and I
would not be in range of the bullets from Shewman's gun, and
stopped to wait for Shewman to give the word. A number of
Shewman's friends tried to persuade him not to start, but their
talk only seemed to add to his rage. After they had exhausted all
their persuasive powers, and seeing that he was so determined in
the matter, they let him go.

He cried out in French that he was ready, and at that moment they
both started their horses at full speed toward each other. When
within thirty yards, Shewman fired, and at the crack of his gun,
Jake Harrington clapped his hands and shouted: "Good! good! Uncle
Kit is safe."

We could not see any sign of his being hit, and when a few yards
nearer each other, Uncle Kit fired, and Shewman fell to the ground
mortally wounded, the bullet passing through his body just above
the heart.

Shewman lived until Uncle Kit got to him, then he acknowledged
that it was all his own fault, and that it was good enough for
him.

As soon as the fight was ended, Jake Harrington and I ran into
camp to notify the rest of our crowd, thinking that we would have
to fight the entire Canadian outfit of trappers, but we found it
quite different, for after the fight they were more friendly
toward us than before. We stayed two days and helped to bury
Shewman.

This was the first white man that I had ever seen buried in the
Rocky Mountains.

We rolled him up in a blanket, laid him in the grave and covered
him with dirt. The funeral being over, our party started for
Bent's Fort.

The third day's travel brought us to Sweetwater, where we came to
the top of a hill, from which we could overlook the entire valley,
which was covered with wagons and tents. This was a large train of
emigrants from various portions of the East who had started the
year before and had wintered on Platte river, the edge of
settlement, and when spring opened they had resumed their journey.

After supper that evening, Uncle Kit suggested that we visit the
emigrant camp and see the ladies, which did not altogether meet
with my approval, but rather than be called bashful, I went along
with the crowd. I was now twenty-one years of age, and this was
the first time I had got sight of a white woman since I was
fifteen, this now being the year of 1853.

I had been out in the mountains a long time, and had not had my
hair cut during that time, but took excellent care of it. I always
kept it rolled up in a piece of buckskin, and when unrolled it
would hang down to my waist.

There was a number of young ladies in the train, and they were not
long in learning that I was the most bashful person in the crowd,
and they commenced trying to interest me in conversation. At that
time I only owned two horses, and would have given them both, as
free as the water that runs in the brook, if I could only have
been away from there at that moment. Seeing that I had long hair,
each of them wanted a lock. By this time I had managed to muster
courage enough to begin to talk to them.

I told them that if they would sing a song, they might have a lock
of my hair.

A little, fat Missouri girl, spoke up and said: "Will you let any
one that sings have a lock of your hair?"

I assured her that I would.

"And each of us that sing?" interrupted another young lady.

I said each one that would sing could have a lock, provided there
was enough to go around.

I now had the ice broken, and could begin to talk to the ladies
and crack a few jokes with them.

The little, fat, chubby young lady, that first started the
conversation, sang a song entitled "The Californian's Lament,"
which was as follows:

  Now pay attention unto me,
  All you that remain at home,
  And think upon your friends
  Who have to California gone;
  And while in meditation
  It fills our hearts with pain,
  That many so near and dear to us
  We ne'er shall see again.

  While in this bad condition,
  With sore and troubled minds,
  Thinking of our many friends
  And those we left behind,
  With our hearts sunk low in trouble
  Our feelings we cannot tell,
  Although so far away from you,
  Again we say, farewell.

  With patience we submitted
  Our trials to endure,
  And on our weary journey
  The mountains to explore.
  But the fame of California
  Has begun to lose its hue--
  When the soul and body is parting
  What good can money do?

  The fame of California
  Has passed away and gone;
  And many a poor miner
  Will never see his home.
  They are falling in the mountains high,
  And in the valleys, too;
  They are sinking in the briny deep,
  No more to rise to view.

This I thought the prettiest song I had ever heard in my life.
Environment so colors things. In other words, "circumstances alter
cases."

The lady at once demanded a lock of my hair as compensation for
services rendered, and I removed the buckskin wrap and told her to
take a lock, but cautioned her not to take too large a bunch, for
fear there might not be enough to go around. The young lady,
seeing that I was very bashful, had considerable trouble in
finding a lock that suited her. A number of the young ladies sang
together, after which several of them took the scissors and cut a
lock of hair from the head of the young trapper.

I wondered at the time why it was that all the young ladies had a
pick at me, for there was Johnnie West, a fine looking young man,
who was continually trying to engage some of them in conversation,
but they did not want to talk to any one but me, and it amused
Uncle Kit not a little to see the sport the young ladies were
having at my expense.

Before leaving, I told the young lady who sang the first song that
I thought it was the prettiest song I had ever heard, and
requested her to sing it again. She replied that she would if I
wished, and she did.

The next day about ten o'clock as we rode along, feeling drowsy
from the warm sun, Jake Harrington turned around in his saddle,
yawned and said: "Well, Will, can't you sing the song for us that
you learned from those little Missouri gals last night?"

I told him I thought I could, and commenced clearing up my throat,
at which the entire crowd smiled above a whisper; but I surprised
the crowd by starting in and singing the song just as I heard the
young lady sing it the evening before. Every man in the crowd took
off his hat, and they gave me three cheers.

On arriving at Bent's Fort we learned that furs were high, and
notwithstanding our catch was light, Uncle Kit did fairly well.

He sold his furs again to Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux.

After Uncle Kit had settled up with all the other boys, he called
me into the tent and said:

"Willie, I have settled with all the men now but you; how much am
I owing you?"

Up to this time I had never received any wages from Uncle Kit, nor
had I expected any, for I did not think that I had done enough for
him to pay for my raising. I had always felt under obligations to
him for picking me up when I was without a home and almost
penniless, and had, as I considered made a man of me.

Uncle Kit told me that I was old enough now to do a man's work,
and that I was able to fill a man's place in every respect. He
took his purse from his pocket, counted me out one hundred and
fifty dollars in gold; and not until then had I known that he had
ordered me a fifty dollar suit of buckskin made at Taos, the fall
before; and not until then had he told me that he was to be
married on the tenth of July, and wanted Johnnie West and I to be
there without fail. I asked him who he was going to be married to.
He said her name was Rosita Cavirovious. She was a Mexican girl
who lived in Taos. I did not know the lady but was acquainted with
some of her brothers. I told Uncle Kit that I would surely be
there.

Uncle Kit and Jim Beckwith now started for Taos, and Johnnie West
and I began making preparations to start in hunting for Col. Bent
and Mr. Roubidoux, as per contract nearly one year before.

Col. Bent said that he was very glad that we were ready to start
in hunting, as they had been out of fresh meat at least half of
the time that spring.

In that country bacon was high, being worth from twenty-five to
thirty cents per pound, and early in the spring higher even than
that.

This spring, as usual, there were some thirty trappers congregated
at Bent's Fort, apparently to eat and drink up what money they had
earned during the winter.




CHAPTER IX.

MARRIAGE OF KIT CARSON.--THE WEDDING FEAST.--PROVIDING BUFFALO
MEAT, IN THE ORIGINAL PACKAGE, FOR THE BOARDING-HOUSE AT BENT'S
FORT.


Johnnie West and I started with a saddle-horse each and four pack-
mules for a buffalo hunt; I still riding Croppy, the pony Uncle
Kit had given me at St. Louis, but he was getting old and somewhat
stiffened up in his shoulders.

We traveled up the Arkansas river to the mouth of the Purgatoire--
pronounced in that country Picket Wire--which was about thirty
miles from Bent's Fort. Seeing a small band of buffalo some
distance away, we took the pack-saddles off of the mules and
turned them out to graze, mounted our saddle-horses and were off
for the herd; but the wily beasts got wind of us and started off
before we got within gunshot of them. After running them about a
mile we overhauled them, both fired and each killed a yearling
calf while on the run. I fastened my rifle to the pommel of the
saddle, drew my pistol, and there being a very fine heifer that
had dropped back to the rear, I spurred up by the side of her and
was just in the act of firing, when old Croppy stepped into a
prairie-dog hole and fell with me.

Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine
three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying
there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first
thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side
slapping me in the face with his hand.

I was badly bruised but no bones were broken, and as soon as I
recovered sufficiently to know for a certainty that I was not
dead, an examination of old Croppy developed the fact that his
left shoulder was badly broken. I being too chicken-hearted to
shoot him, got Johnnie West to put him out of his misery, and now
I was left afoot and thirty miles from home. Johnnie West went
back and got our pack-mules. We dressed our buffalo and had plenty
of meat to load all of our mules, and some to leave there for the
hungry cayotes. That night while we were cooking some of the meat
for supper, the cayotes raised a howl and it seemed as though they
would take possession of our camp in spite of us; but by firing a
shot among them once in a while, we were able to keep them at bay.

In those days hunters never took along anything to eat, for a man
that could not kill what he could eat was considered worthless.

The following morning we loaded our meat on the mules, lashed my
saddle on top of one of the packs and started for Bent's Fort. I
being bruised and crippled up from the effects of my fall, Johnnie
let me ride his horse and he walked almost the entire way home.

Mr. Roubidoux on learning that I had left old Croppy dead on the
prairie, said: "I have got the best buffalo horse on the plains,
and I will make you a present of him;" and turning to his herder,
he said, "go and bring Pinto in."

When the spotted horse was brought in, Mr. Roubidoux said: "Now,
Will, I am going to make you a present of this horse, and I want
you to keep him to remember me by."

I thought this the prettiest horse I had ever laid eyes on, and he
proved to be as good a buffalo horse as Mr. Roubidoux had
represented him to be.

On the third day of July, Johnnie West and I having enough meat
ahead to last several days, we pulled out for Taos to attend the
wedding of Kit Carson. Arriving there, Uncle Kit took us to his
house.

He brought my new buckskin suit, and I know it was the handsomest
of the kind I had ever seen. On the front of the trousers was the
finest of bead work, representing horses, Indians, buffalo, deer
and various other animals; and on the coat the same, except they
were worked with beads and porcupine quills.

I was now twenty-one years old, and had never attended a wedding.
The ladies present all being of Catholic faith, Uncle Kit and his
bride were married in the Catholic church by the priest.

There were at that time about five hundred inhabitants in Taos,
and every man, woman and child attended the wedding of Kit Carson.

After the ceremony was over all marched down about three blocks to
where there had been a whole bullock roasted, also three sheep.
The tables used were made of rude boards split out with a froe.
There were no table-cloths, no tea or coffee, but plenty of wine
and an abundance of meat, that all might "eat, drink and be
merry."

While we were at the supper table Uncle Kit happened to get sight
of Johnnie West and I, and, taking each of us by the hand, he led
us over and gave us an introduction to his wife, and this was the
first time I had ever been introduced to a lady. Uncle Kit
introduced me as his Willie. Mrs. Carson turned to me and said:

"Ge-lem-a mo cass-a la-mis-mo ta-casso tades vases;
meaning, Willie, my house shall be your home at any and all
times."

As I do not write Spanish, I simply give the sound of her words as
she spoke them-or as I would.

I was highly pleased with the manner in which Mrs. Carson
addressed me, for no lady had ever spoken so kindly to me before,
and I had supposed that after Uncle Kit was married I would have
to hunt another home.

Supper being over, all repaired to the dance hall and enjoyed
themselves dancing until sunrise the next morning, when they
returned to the tables for breakfast. This time they had coffee
and tea, but during the entire feast they did not have a bite of
bread on the table.

Here I met Jim Beckwith, of whom there will be much more said at
intervals later on.

Jim wanted me to accompany him to California the following spring,
saying that he knew of a pass through the Sierra Nevada Mountains,
which, if we could manage to get the tide of emigration turned
that way, we could establish a toll road and make a fortune out of
it. I said I would not promise him now, but would give him an
answer later on.

The wedding being over, Johnnie West and I, after bidding Uncle
Kit and his wife good-bye, started for Bent's Fort. Col. Bent and
Mr. Roubidoux wanted to employ us to hunt for them the coming
winter. Johnnie thought he could do better trapping, but I hired
to them to hunt until the following spring.

Col. Bent always had from six to twenty boarders, having six men
of his own, and I kept them in meat all winter, alone.

About the first of April--this being in 1854--I settled up with
the Colonel, and having written Jim Beckwith the fall before that
I would be on hand to go with him to California, I now pulled out
for Taos.

I visited with Uncle Kit and his wife while at Taos, and found
that what Mrs. Carson had said at the feast was true, for I was as
welcome at their home as though I was one of the family.

Jim Beckwith had everything in readiness for our trip across the
Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The day before starting, Uncle Kit asked us what route we would
take. Jim said that we would go around by the headwaters of the
Gila river, this being a tributary to the Colorado. On this trip
we would cross that part of the country which is now Arizona.
Uncle Kit said this was a good route, and that he had gone over it
twice in company with Col. Fremont. He drew a diagram of the
country, showing the route by streams, mountains and valleys;
telling us also what tribes of Indians inhabited each section of
the country that we would pass through. Among the different tribes
spoken of was the Pimas, whom he said were friendly toward the
whites, and insisted on our calling on that tribe, provided we
went that way.

He had been at their village in 1845, and at that time they had
told him he was the third white man they had ever seen.

The reader will understand that all the Indians in that section of
the country at that time could speak Spanish, having learned it
from the Aztecs, a tribe that lived in Old Mexico and were of
Montezuma's race. They often came out into that country to trade
with the other Indians.

All being ready we bade Uncle Kit and his wife good-bye, and were
off for California. We crossed the Rocky Mountains up the Arkansas
river and took the trail made by Col. Fremont in 1848 to the
summit of the Rocky Mountains. We then crossed over the mountains
onto the headwaters of the south fork of Grand river, and from
here we headed almost south, passing through a country that had
all been burned over. We could look ahead for miles and see
nothing but burnt hills. Game was so scarce that we could barely
kill enough to supply us with food, until we struck the north fork
of Gila river. Here we found plenty of game. We traveled down the
Gila three days, which brought us to the Pima--or as was sometimes
then called Peone--village. This village was situated in a lovely
valley about twenty miles long and ten wide. The soil was very
fertile. The surrounding mountains were very high and covered with
fine timber, while the foothills were luxuriant in the finest
quality of bunchgrass, and along the little mountain streams were
cottonwood and willows.

The Indians here were fairly well civilized, a fact worthy of
note, as they had never had a missionary or priest among them.
They also had a different mode of worship from the tribes of the
Northwest. Their place of worship was what might be called a large
shed constructed by setting posts in the ground and covered with
poles, brush and the leaves of the century plant, these leaves
being from three to five feet long and from six to ten inches
wide. Their houses were also covered with these leaves.

I never saw but two of these plants in bloom. One was about fifty
miles north of Sacramento and the other in Golden Gate Park, near
San Francisco. It was said they held their flowers four months.
These flowers are very beautiful, being four inches across and
look as though they were made of wax.

But to return to my story. These Indians had three days of
worship, also three days of feasting. On assembling at their place
of worship, the chief chose four men from the audience, whom we
would term preachers, but which they called abblers. They never
pray, but the abblers stand up and talk to the audience, during
which time the Indians preserve the very best order. The abblers
tell them what they must do and what they must not do. When ready
to break up, all join in singing, but never sing before preaching.
Just how they learned this mode of worship was a mystery to me,
and is yet, for that matter. We attended service while in the
village and after preaching was over many of them invited us home
with them.

There were about five hundred men in this tribe, all of whom were
apparently very industrious, raising corn, melons, red pepper and
other vegetables in abundance. They raised some very large melons,
which were not excellent in flavor, however.

The Pimas were very kind to us while we were with them, often
taking us out to their truck patches and pulling nice, large
melons for us. I asked a very aged Indian where they got their
seed corn, but he did not know, saying they had raised it ever
since he could remember. They did their plowing with wooden plows,
which they made themselves, being pulled by oxen that were hitched
to the plows by a strong stick in front of their horns. For
harrows they used brush, and they had shovels made of wood to dig
with.

Notwithstanding they were in one sense uncivilized, they showed us
more hospitality during the time we were with them than most white
people would have shown to strangers.

These Indians keep their age by taking a piece of horn, pressing
it out flat and punching a hole in the center. When a child is a
certain age he has one of these tied about his neck, and every
year the child is supposed to cut a notch in the piece of horn. I
did not learn how old they had to be before they were supposed to
keep their own age.

We found the chief of the tribe to be very obliging. He told us
the Apaches were bad Indians, and that they had killed many white
people--men, women and children.

When we were ready to leave the village, the chief came out and
bade us good-bye, and gave us a cordial invitation to call on him
when passing through the country.

We crossed the Gila river near where Colville now stands. Here was
a tribe of very indolent Indians, that during this season of the
year did not wear a stitch of clothing of any kind whatever. They
were known as the Yumas.

We both emptied our rifles before crossing the river, knowing that
they would get wet in crossing. I fired at a bird across the river
and it fell to the ground.

At the crack of my rifle the Indians ran a few paces from me,
dropped down and stuck their fingers in their ears. They told us
in Spanish that they had never seen a wah-hootus before, meaning a
gun with a loud report.

When Jim Beckwith went to fire his gun off, the squaws all ran
away, but the bucks, being more brave, stayed, but held their
hands over their ears. This tribe lived principally on fish.

The reader will remember that I had traveled over this same
country in the year 1849 in company with Kit Carson and Col.
Fremont, when on our trip to California.

After traveling about five miles we crossed a little sage-brush
valley that was almost covered with jack-rabbits, and they were
dying by the thousand. We could see twenty at one time lying dead
in the sage-brush.

That night we camped on what has since been known as Beaver creek,
and here we had to strike across the San Antonio desert, and
having been across the desert I knew it would be eighty miles to
water. Having two parafleshes with us for such emergencies, we
filled them with water to use in crossing this desert.

A paraflesh is made of rawhide expressly to carry water in, and
are frequently used to peddle milk by the Mexicans.

The second day from Beaver creek we reached a little stream near
the Goshoot village, this being the place where Uncle Kit finished
buying furs to load his pack-train in 1848.

The next morning we reached the village. I had not seen any of
these Indians for five years. Then I was a mere boy and now a
grown man, but every one of the Goshoots knew me and were glad to
meet me. We stopped that day and visited with them, and bought
some venison and frigoles, or beans.

The next morning we resumed our journey to Los Angeles, crossing
the extreme northeast part of Death Valley. From here on the
country was all new to me, and had it not been for the kindness of
the Goshoot Indians, we would have perished for the want of water.

When I told a good Indian in that village where we were going, he
sat down and with his finger marked a diagram in the dust, showing
the lay of the country that we must pass ever, every little blind
spring near the trail, the different mountains and valleys, and
made it so plain that we could scarcely have made a mistake on the
trip.

On arriving at Los Angeles we found only one white man in the
place, and he was the only person in the whole town that could
speak the English language. He had arrived there some years
before, married a Mexican woman and had got to be very wealthy. He
tried to induce us to go farther up the coast, telling us if we
started for San Francisco the country was full of Mexicans, and
that they despised all Americans and would be sure to murder us on
our way; but as we had started for San Francisco, we were
determined to see that city if possible. After laying over one day
with the old American we resumed our journey.

The next place we struck was Monterey, where is now the famous
Hotel del Monte, about two hundred miles from Los Angeles. Here we
did not find a man who could speak a word of English, and we found
the Mexicans still more selfish than in Los Angeles.

We began to think that the old white man had told the truth, for
we would not have been surprised at any time to have been attacked
by a band of Mexicans.

While here I saw two persons that I thought to be curiosities.
They were of Indian parentage, light complexion and had eyes of a
pink color. One was a boy about twenty years old and the other a
girl of sixteen, and were brother and sister. It was claimed that
they could see well after night, but could not see their way on a
bright, sunny day.

These Indians were said to be of the Mojave tribe, that inhabited
a portion of the country some six hundred miles east of Monterey,
near the Mojave desert. I have since learned that such freaks are
called albinos.

The reader will no doubt wonder why we came this round-about away
to get to San Francisco. The reason is that in coming a more
direct course we would have passed through a country that was
infested with wild tribes of Indians; that is, tribes hostile to
the whites. There being only two of us the chances were it would
have proved a very unhealthy trip for us at that time.




CHAPTER X.

ROBBER GAMBLERS OF SAN FRANCISCO.--ENGAGED BY COL. ELLIOTT AS
INDIAN SCOUT.--KILLS AND SCALPS FIVE INDIANS.--PROMOTED TO CHIEF
SCOUT.


Arriving at San Francisco we found things very lively, this being
about the time of the greatest gold excitement in California. Here
was the first city of note that I had been in since leaving St.
Louis; here also was the first time I had seen gambling going on
on a large scale. There were all kinds of games and all kinds of
traps to catch the honest miner and rob him of his money that he
had labored hard to dig out of the ground.

That night Jim Beckwith and I took in the sights of the city. We
went to the different gambling houses and had just finished our
tour and were on our way back to the What Cheer house--that being
the hotel at which we put up--the leading hotel in the city then.
We were just passing one of the gambling dens, when we saw two men
coming out of the door leading a man between them who was crying
like a child, and exclaiming: "I am ruined! I am ruined!"

We learned from the two men that he had come to the city that day
with eight hundred dollars in gold, had bought a ticket for New
York, and it was his intention to sail for that city the following
morning. But he had gone out that night to have a farewell spree
with his friends, got too much booze, started in gambling,
thinking he might double his money by morning; but like thousands
of other miners in those days, he "played out of luck," as they
termed it, and had lost every cent he had. We walked on down to
the hotel, and in a few minutes the three came into the hotel
also, the one still crying like a baby. The proprietor only
laughed and said it was a common occurrence for men to come to the
city with even twenty thousand dollars, gamble it off in less than
a week and then return to the mines to make another stake. But he
said he had never seen a man before that took it as hard as this
one did.

It was all new to me, and a little of it went a long ways.

That night after Jim Beckwith and I had retired, I told him that I
had seen all of San Francisco that I cared to, and was ready to
leave. However, we stayed two days longer, after which we pulled
out for the Sierra Nevadas, by the way of Hangtown, a little
mining camp situated at the American Fork. Here we crossed over a
pass that Jim had told me of more than a year previous, which led
us to the headwaters of the Carson river.

I proposed we give it the name of Beckwith Pass; and from that day
to this it has been known by that name, and since has been made a
splendid stage road.

After traveling down the Carson river some distance, we met a
party of miners who informed us that a few days previous a band of
Indians down on the Humboldt had made an attack on an emigrant
train, cut off a portion of the train, stampeded the teams, killed
all the people of that part of the train and burned the wagons.

They also informed us that Col. Elliott was down on what was known
as Truckee Meadows with a company of soldiers, but, so far, was
having very poor success killing Indians.

Col. Elliott had been sent out there with four companies of
cavalry to protect the emigrants against the Pah-Ute or Piute
Indians, which were very numerous down on the Humboldt, and around
the sink of the Carson and as far up the mountains as Lake Tahoe.

Jim being very well acquainted with Col. Elliott, proposed we go
around that way, thinking that the Colonel might be able to assist
materially in turning the tide of emigration through his pass, his
object being to get as much travel that way this fall as possible,
and the following spring he would establish a toll road through
that pass.

Col. Elliott was pleased at meeting Jim, and in the conversation
said: "Beckwith, I am very glad, indeed, to see you. You are just
the man I have been wanting this long time, for I haven't a scout
in my entire command that is worth a cent to scout for Indians. I
don't believe there is one of them that would dare to leave
headquarters fifteen miles alone, and I want to employ you as
chief of scouts."

Jim thanked the Colonel kindly for the honor, but told him he
could not accept the offer as he had another matter he wished to
attend to, and told him of the scheme he had on hand. But, he
said, he had a young man with him that he could recommend highly
for that position, and he gave me a great send off as a scout.

The Colonel insisted on our going with him to his private quarters
for supper, which we did, and after having a pleasant visit with
him, we returned to our own camp for the night.

When we were ready to take our departure for the evening, Col.
Elliott said: "Mr. Drannan, can I see you privately to-morrow
morning at nine o'clock?"

I told him that I would call at his quarters at that hour.

After Jim and I had reached our camp I asked him why he had
misrepresented me to Col. Elliott in the way he had, when he knew
I had never scouted a day in my life, knew nothing of scouting and
had done very little Indian fighting.

Jim said: "You are a young man and have been among the Indians long
enough to be pretty well acquainted with their habits. There is
not a single fellow in Elliott's outfit knows as much about
scouting as my black horse, and if you ever intend starting in,
now is your chance. That is the reason I gave you such a send off
to the Colonel."

After thinking the matter over, I concluded that Jim was right in
regard to it, and now was a good time to make a start.

After breakfast the next morning I met Col. Elliott at his
quarters at the time appointed. He invited me in and set out a
bottle of whiskey and a glass. I thanked him, but declined to
drink.

"Where were you raised," said the Colonel, "that you do not drink
whiskey? I thought you grew up in the Rocky Mountains."

I told him that I did, but was not raised to drink whiskey. I also
told him that I had been brought up, since a boy fifteen years
old, by Kit Carson.

The Colonel asked me many questions about Indians, their habits,
my idea of fighting them and so on, after which he asked me if I
would like a position as scout. I told him I would, provided there
was enough in it to justify me.

The Colonel made me a proposition of one hundred dollars a month
and rations, I to furnish my own horses. I could also turn my
extra horses in with the Government horses and it would cost me
nothing to have them herded. I accepted his proposition, agreeing
to start in on the following morning. I also had an agreement with
him that when I did not suit him, he was to pay me off and I would
quit. Also, when he did not suit me, I was to have the privilege
of quitting at any time, all of which was satisfactory to him, and
I started in on the following morning as per agreement.

That evening about sunset three of Col. Elliott's scouts came in,
and he gave me an introduction to them, telling them that I was
going to be a brother scout. After supper I had a long talk with
one of them, in which he posted me somewhat as to the different
watering places, grass, etc.

From him I learned that they had not seen an Indian for three
days, but had seen any amount of sign, every day, which was
evidence that there were plenty of Indians in the country.

The following morning when I went for my orders I was much
surprised at the Colonel saying: "Oh, damn it! I don't care. Go
any way you please and as far as you please. The other boys say
there is not an Indian in fifty miles of here, and if you find any
you will do better than any man I have sent out, so far."

When I went to order my lunch, and told the negro cook to put up
enough to last me until the next night, he looked at me and said:
"Whar you going, boss?" Jim told him I was going out to get some
cayote scalps. I now mounted Mexico--the horse that Mr. Reed had
given me at the City of Mexico--and started off on my first
scouting trip, taking an easterly direction until I had struck the
old emigrant road.

After I had left camp the other scouts were talking among
themselves, and none of them thought I would ever return. One of
the scouts told Jim that I was the biggest fool that he had ever
seen, to start out scouting in a strange region and not ask
anything about the country, grass, water, Indians, or anything
else.

"Don't be alarmed about that boy," said Jim, "he'll take care of
himself in any man's country."

I had been taught by Uncle Kit that when I attempted to do a thing
to carry it out at all hazards, if it was in my power to do so.

After I had ridden about twelve miles or so, and was just entering
the mouth of a little ravine, on looking up the same ravine I saw
three Indians who had just hove in sight over the hill. I dropped
back from their view as quick as I could, which only took about
two or three jumps of my horse.

The Indians having their backs toward me, I was confident they had
not seen me. They were heading for the emigrant trail, that being
what we called the wagon road across the plains in those days.

I rode around the point of a hill and tied my horse in a washout
where he would be hid from view, climbed up the top of the hill
and saw five warriors, riding direct for the trail. After watching
them for a short time I hurried back to my horse, mounted him and
rode as fast as Mexico could conveniently carry me over this
sagebrush country--about a quarter of a mile in an opposite
direction to which the Indians were traveling. Riding up to the
head of a little ravine, where I could tie my horse in a place
where he would not be discovered by the redskins, I dismounted,
tied my horse and crawled up through the sagebrush to the top of
the hill, where I could watch the movements of the Indians.

This was a rolling country, low hills covered with a heavy growth
of sagebrush, and not a tree of any description to be seen
anywhere.

I had discovered my game, but how to capture it was what puzzled
me.

The reader can have a faint idea of the situation of a young man
in a strange country and a sandy, sagebrush plain, who did not
know where to find either water or grass. If I returned to
headquarters they would escape me, and this being my first time
out in the scouting business, I could not afford to let them get
away. So, after holding a private council with myself, I decided
these Indians were spies, who were scouting for a large party of
Indians that were somewhere in this part of the country, and that
they were looking for emigrants, and in case they did not see any
such that day, they would no doubt go to water that night.

I laid there on the hill watching their movements and trying to
devise some plan by which I could capture them then.

Could I only have had Jim with me, how easy it would have been to
follow them to their camp that night, kill and scalp them and
capture their horses.

In those days an independent scout was entitled to all the stock
captured of the enemy by him.

I watched the Indians until they got to the emigrant trail, where
they stopped and held a council, apparently in doubt as to which
way they should go. After parleying for some five minutes they
struck out on the trail. I watched them for about two miles, then
they passed over a low range of hills and were out of sight.

I now mounted Mexico and rode as fast as I could, not directly
after them, but as near as I could to keep out of their sight; and
at the same time I felt confident that should they discover me,
that there was not an Indian pony in that whole country that could
catch Mexico, either in a short or long distance.

After riding some five miles or so, I dismounted and tied my horse
to a sagebrush, and climbed to the top of the highest hill between
me and where I supposed them to be. I discovered them about a mile
away, and they were just leaving the trail, riding up a ravine
that led to the north. They dismounted and put their ponies out to
grass. There also appeared to be a little meadow where they
stopped, and I concluded there must be water there, too. I took in
the situation at a glance and could see that I would have to ride
a long distance to get near them. Just immediately beyond them was
a little hill that sloped off down to the meadow on which they
were camped, but in any other direction a person could not ride
without being discovered.

I went back to my horse, mounted and took a circuit of about ten
miles, having to travel that distance in order to keep out of
their sight. Coming in from the north, I rode almost to the top of
the hill; here I dismounted, tied my horse, crawled to the top of
the hill, and on looking down could see them almost under me, the
hill was so small and steep. They were busily engaged in skinning
a jack-rabbit, and about that time I felt as though I could eat a
hind quarter of it myself if it had been cooked; for I had been
too busily engaged that day to stop and eat a lunch.

Here I lay in the sagebrush trying to devise some plan by which I
could do away with them and capture their horses.

It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and this being
about twenty miles from headquarters, I would not have time to
ride there and return with soldiers before they wold break camp in
the morning.

For me to attack them alone looked like a big undertaking.

There being a little grass for their horses, I now concluded they
would remain until morning. So I crept back to where my horse was
tied, took out my lunch and sat down and ate it, at the same time
debating in my mind the best course to pursue.

I remembered what Col. Elliott had told Jim, that he did not have
a scout that dared go fifteen miles from camp and now if I should
return to camp and report what I had seen, he would start soldiers
out, and by the time they could reach the ground the Indians would
be gone, and there would be nothing accomplished, consequently I
would, no doubt, be classed with the balance of the scouts in the
opinion of the Colonel. While on the other hand, should I be
successful in laying a plan by which I could do away with the
Indians and take their scalps to headquarters as evidence of my
work, it would give me a reputation as a scout.

I was confident they had not seen me that day, and knowing, too,
the Pah-Utes had not been disturbed by Col. Elliott's scouts, they
would no doubt lie down when night came, and I might steal a march
on them and amid their slumbers accomplish the desired deed.

Having been brought up by one of the bravest frontiersmen that
traversed the plains at that time, and who always taught me to
respect a brave man and hate a coward, I made up my mind to make
the attack alone, provided the Indians did not put out guards that
night.

After I had finished my lunch I examined both my single-shot
pistols--I still having the one presented to me by my old friend
Joe Favor, three years before at Bent's Fort, also the knife,
which the reader will remember weighed two and one-fourth pounds--
and creeping back to the top of the hill I watched them cook and
eat the jack-rabbit. As it grew dark I drew nearer, and when it
was about as dark as it was likely to be that night, I crept up to
within a few yards of them. They had a little fire made of
sagebrush and did not lie down until very late.

I was so near that I could hear them talking, but I could not
understand their language, as I had never been among them, but I
was confident they were Pah-Utes, because I was in their country.

After they had smoked and talked matters over, which I supposed
was in regard to the next day's scouting, they commenced to make
preparations to sleep. In the crowd, apparently, were three
middle-aged warriors and two young ones, not yet grown. The three
older ones laid down together, while the two young ones made their
beds about fifteen feet away from the other three.

After they had become quiet I commenced crawling closer, as there
was some fire yet and I wanted to get their exact location before
I made the attack.

I felt confident that I could kill one of them the first blow with
my knife, and then I could kill the other two with my pistols. But
this would still leave two to one and I with nothing but a knife;
however, after going this far I was determined to make the attack
at all hazards.

When I had crawled up within a few feet of their bed, one turned
over and muttered something in his own tongue, which I could not
understand. I made sure I was not detected, and after lying still
for some time I concluded they were all asleep, and I soon made up
my mind that I had better make the attack at once and have the
matter settled one way or the other. After taking in the entire
situation I decided to make the attack with my knife. I took the
pistol from my right holster in my left hand, thereby giving me a
better chance after emptying the one pistol to easily grasp the
other one with my left hand.

I knew that if I could get a fair lick at one of them with my big
knife, which I always kept as sharp as a razor, that he would make
little, if any, noise. My plan of attack being completed, I
crawled up near their heads, and all appeared to be sound asleep.

I decided to take the one on my right first, so that in case the
other two should attempt to arise I would be in a position to
shoot the one on my left and at the same time cut the other one
down with my heavy knife. But it was my intention to kill all
three of them with my knife, if possible, in order to save both
pistols for the two young ones, as I expected a hard fight with
them, for I felt sure they would be on to me by the time I got
through with the other three, at the very best I could do.

I now raised up on to my feet and aimed to strike the one on my
right about the middle of the neck. I came down with all my might
and killed him almost instantly. I served the second one the same
way, but by this time the third one had raised to a sitting
position, and I struck him in the shoulder and had to make a
second lick to kill him. By this time the other two had been
aroused, and, as near as I could tell in the darkness, one of them
was crawling in the opposite direction on his hands and knees,
while the other one was coming at me on all fours. I shot him with
the pistol that I held in my left hand, and I then thought I was
almost safe. Just at that moment the other young buck was on his
feet, with bow in hand but no arrows. He dealt me a blow on the
side of the head, which staggered me but did not knock me down,
and before I had time to recover, he dealt me a second blow, but
it did not stagger me so much as the first, but it brought the
blood quite freely from my nose, at the same time I made a side
stroke at him, but struck too low. I then drew my other pistol
from the holster and fired, shooting him through the chest, and
though he fell mortally wounded, he again raised to his feet and
dealt me another blow, which was a great surprise to me, but just
one stroke of my big knife severed his jugular and he yielded up
the ghost.

Now my task was done. At the risk of my life I had accomplished
the desired end, and my reputation as a scout would be
established.

I knew the other scouts were having some sport at my expense while
I was away, for I had overheard two of them in a conversation that
morning make some remarks about Col. Elliott's tenderfoot scout.

I had said nothing to them, but this made me all the more
determined in the undertaking, and now I had turned the joke on
them, and, as the old saying goes, "he who laughs last laughs
best."

I could see by the light in the east that the moon would be up in
a short time, so I went and got my saddle-horse from where I had
tied him, and who, by this time was very thirsty and hungry, as he
had had nothing to eat and no water since morning. I watered him,
then picketed him out for about two hours on the little meadow, by
which time the moon had risen.

I then scalped the five Indians and tied their scalps to my belt.
They would be good evidence of my day's work when I should meet
the Colonel at his quarters. This being done, I tied the five
Indian horses together and started for headquarters, arriving
there about noon the next day.

Just as I had put the horses in the corral and before I had time
to dismount, Col. Elliott's orderly came on the dead run, saying:
"Col. Elliott wishes to see you at his quarters at once."

I turned about and rode over to the Colonel's tent, and when I had
saluted him, he said: "Sir, whose horses are those you just turned
into that corral?"

I said: "Sir, those are my horses, as I understand that any stock
captured from the Indians by an independent scout, he is entitled
to."

"Mr. Drannan, do you tell me that you captured those horses from
an Indian?"

I said: "Col. Elliott, yes, sir; and here is something more I
captured with them." At that I threw down the five scalps at his
feet.

He looked amazed as he gazed at the scalps, but said nothing for a
few moments.

About this time the orderly announced Jim Beckwith at the door.
The Colonel said let him come in, and just as he entered the door,
Col. Elliott said:

"Beckwith, where do you suppose this scout got those scalps?"

Jim picked up the scalps, examined them thoroughly, and said:
"I'll bet my black horse that he took them from the heads of five
Pah-Ute I

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