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.