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.