COL. ELLIOTT KILLS HIS FIRST DEER, AND SECURES A FINE PAIR OF
HORNS AS A PRESENT FOR HIS FATHER.--BECKWITH'S TAVERN.--SOCIETY.
Two weeks after the incidents related in the previous chapter,
Capt. Mills came in with another train of emigrants, not having
seen an Indian on the trip, and from this time on there was no
danger of such trains going from that region through Beckwith
Pass, and as the road was now broken by the other train, these
emigrants could cross the Sierra Nevadas without a guide.
About this time four men with pack animals came along who claimed
to be from Salt Lake. They reported that they had seen Indians one
day traveling east of headquarters. I took two men and started out
and was gone about a week, but did not see an Indian, or a track
or sign of one, and when we returned the Colonel concluded that he
had been misled by the packers.
Col. Elliott now ordered me to take fifty men, with two weeks'
provisions, and go as far as we could with that amount of rations,
or until we should meet some emigrants. We were gone about three
weeks, but did not see either Indians or emigrants. The fact is,
that it was getting so late in the fall that the Indians had all
gone south, and the emigrants were not moving on the desert at
that season.
On our return the Colonel had everything ready and we pulled out
for San Francisco. We camped the first night at Steamboat Springs,
a place that has since grown to be a famous health resort. On the
second day we passed over the country where now stands Carson
City, the capital of Nevada. At that time, this region, like all
of that country then, was a wild, unsettled, sagebrush desert, or
mountain wilderness.
The morning we left Eagle Valley the Colonel rode in advance of
the column with me, and I saw there was something on his mind. In
a little while he said he would like to kill a deer with big
horns, so that he could send it--the horns--to his father in New
York, who had never seen a deer, and he added that notwithstanding
he--the Colonel--had been on the Pacific coast two years, he had
never killed a deer in his life. I told him that I would fix it
for him to get one the very next day, and he was as pleased as a
child.
That night we camped by a big spring at the mouth of a great
canyon, and about the spring stood a number of large pine trees.
Many persons who had passed that way had carved their names in the
bark of the trees, and among the names were two that were quite
familiar to me. One of these was the name of Capt. Molujean--I
wondered how he had done it without stuttering--and the other was
the name of James Beckwith. On the same tree was written with lead
pencil: "Sixty miles to Beckwith's Hotel."
On my favorite horse, Pinto, I rode out with the Colonel for a
deer hunt. While riding along the canyon about two miles from
where the command had camped, I saw a large doe crossing the
canyon and coming down the hill toward us. I signaled the Colonel
to halt and I shot the doe, breaking her neck, while sitting on my
horse. I then told the Colonel to secrete himself behind a tree
and he would soon see the male deer, and he would stand a good
show to get a fine pair of horns. In a few moments two deer came
tracking the one I had shot.
"Be ready, now," said I, "and when he stops let him have it." So
when the deer were within about fifty yards I gave a keen whistle
and they stopped, stock still. The Colonel fired and brought the
big buck to the ground. The other, which was a small one, started
to run, but I sent a bullet after it that made more venison.
We now had plenty of meat, and the Colonel was as proud over
killing that deer as I was over my first pair of boots.
We stopped here until the command came up, dressed the venison and
went on our way rejoicing.
Soon we were ascending the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and about
three o'clock we struck the snow-line.
To one who has never gone from comparative summer in a few hours'
ride, to the depths of winter and a considerable depth of snow,
the sensation is a strange one. Of course, I had often done that
before. But having more leisure to think of it now, and having
more to do with the snow, I thought of its strangeness, and I am
reminded of a little girl whom I have become acquainted with long
since those days, and the effect that the first sight of snow had
upon her. She was born in San Francisco, and had not seen any snow
up to the time when she was three years old. Her parents were
coming east with her on a railroad train, which runs over about
the same ground that we were on at the time I was there with Col.
Elliott. Awakening in the morning in a sleeping-car on top of the
Sierras, the little one looked out, and seeing the vast fields of
whiteness, she exclaimed: "Do look, mamma; the world is covered
with sugar."
As we ascended the mountains the snow became so deep in a little
while that we were forced to camp. The next morning the herders
were directed to take the stock ahead in order to tramp down the
snow to make a trail, but in four miles it became so deep that it
was impossible to proceed further in that manner, and then the
Colonel detailed fifty men to shovel snow, but having only a few
shovels, wooden ones were made that answered the purpose, and
while we were shoveling, the horses were also frequently driven
back and forth over the trail, and in three days we had a passable
road for the wagons.
At the end of the three days we reached the edge of the snow on
the opposite side of the mountains, and there being a beautiful
camping ground and the first night out of the snow for some time,
the luxury of it was fully appreciated by all hands.
On a pine tree here I again saw signs of my old friend, Jim
Beckwith, for there was written: "Twenty miles to Beckwith's
Hotel." So you see that even in that faraway country, and at that
early day, even the pioneer had learned the uses of out-door
advertising.
The next morning we took an early start and traveled hard all day,
anticipating with much pleasure that at night we should enjoy all
the luxuries of the season at Beckwith's Hotel. And we did, to the
extent that this region and the markets of San Francisco could
afford.
We reached [Transcriber's note: unreadable text] about sunset that
evening, and the command went into camp and I went to Jim's new
log house. He had built one and had started in to build the second,
having two carpenters at work finishing them up.
After supper Col. Elliott and all his officers, both commissioned
and non-commissioned, came to Jim's house, where, after a social
chat and having cracked a few jokes, which latter was really a
part of the business connected with this life, Col. Elliott pulled
off his overcoat, laid it and his hat on a bed, stepped up near
the table and said:
"Mr. Beckwith, I wish to say a few words to your friend, Mr.
Drannan, in behalf of myself and the other officers present." Jim
told him to go ahead, which he did, telling how faithful I had
been and what valuable services I had rendered both to him and the
emigrants. He went on and made quite a lengthy speech, in
conclusion of which he said: "Mr. Drannan, as a slight token of
our appreciation of your services while with us, I now present to
you this pair of glasses," whereupon he handed me a fine pair of
field glasses which he took from his overcoat pocket, "and here
are two navy revolvers that Capt. Mills and Lieut. Harding wish to
present to you as a token of their friendship."
This took me wholly by surprise, as I had not expected anything of
the kind, and I was so dumbfounded that all I could say was to
thank them for the presents, the thought never having entered my
head that my services had been so highly appreciated by the
officers of those four companies.
Col. Elliott said that in case he should go out on the plains the
following summer, which in all probability he would, he wanted me
to go with him without fail. I promised him that I would, provided
I was in the country when he started out.
After Col. Elliott had closed his remarks and taken his seat, Jim
Beckwith arose and made quite a speech in his plain, rude
language, addressing his remarks principally to Col. Elliott, in
which he said: "Colonel, I would not have recommended this boy to
you so highly if I had not been with him long enough to know that
when he starts in to do a thing he goes at it for all there is in
him, and, as I told you, he has been with Kit Carson ever since he
was a boy, and I knowed that if he didn't have the everlasting
grit in him, Kit Carson wouldn't have kept him around so long. I
am very glad indeed, Colonel, that he has filled the bill, and now
the Injun fightin' is all over for this season and 'twill be some
time before we all meet again, if we ever do. I have nothing of
value to present to you, but such as I have is as free as the
water in the brook."
At this he produced a gallon jug of whiskey, set it on the table,
gave us some glasses and told us all to help ourselves. This wound
up the evening's exercises, and after each had tipped the glass
about three times we broke up the lodge and each went on his way
rejoicing.
Before the Colonel left that night he told me that we would divide
the captured horses the next morning. I told him that all I wanted
was the five horses that I had captured from the five Indian
scouts when I first started in to scout for him, but the next
morning [Transcriber's note: unreadable text] out when the horses
were brought in and made the division. There were sixty-three of
them, and he left fifteen to my share.
I stayed at Jim Beckwith's for about two weeks, and his carpenters
having the houses completed, we saddled up four horses and took
them to Hangtown. It was a distance of twenty miles to Hangtown,
which at that time was one of the loveliest mining towns in
California. There were between four and five thousand inhabitants
in and around the place. During the day it appeared dead, as there
was scarcely a person to be seen on the streets; but at night it
would be full of miners, who, it seemed, came to town for no other
purpose than to spend the money they had earned during the day.
This winter passed off, apparently, very slowly, being the most
lonesome winter I had put in since I struck the mountains.
Along about the middle of February our groceries were running
short and Jim went to Hangtown for supplies. On his return he
brought me a letter from Col. Elliott, asking me to come to San
Francisco at once.
I asked him what he thought of it, and he told me by all means to
go.
I told him I would have to stop in San Francisco and buy me a suit
of clothes before going out to the fort to see Col. Elliott. He
thought this was useless, saying: "Your buckskin suit that Kit
Carson gave you is just what you want for a trip like that."
I thought that if I wore such a suit in civilization the people
would make light of me, and I hated the idea of being the laughing
stock for other people.
Jim said: "It is Col. Elliott you are going to see, and he would
rather have you come that way than any other."
I took my suit down and looked at it, and it was a fine one of the
kind. I had never worn it since Uncle Kit's wedding, so it was
practically new. I decided to wear it, and the next morning I
started for San Francisco, Jim accompanying me to Hangtown to take
the horses back to his ranche.
At Hangtown I took the stage for Sacramento, which, by the way,
was the first time I had ever ridden in a stage-coach.
We started from Hangtown at five o'clock in the morning and at
twelve o'clock that night the driver drew rein at the American
Exchange Hotel in Sacramento. The coach was loaded down to its
utmost capacity, there being nine passengers aboard. The roads
were very rough at this season of the year--being the latter part
of February--and I would rather have ridden on the hurricane deck
of the worst bucking mustang in California than in that coach.
This hotel was kept at that time by a man named Lamb.
That night when the proprietor assigned the passengers to their
respective rooms he asked us if we wished to take the boat for San
Francisco the next morning. I told him that I did, whereupon he
asked me if I wanted my breakfast. I told him that I did, saying
that I didn't want to go from there to San Francisco without
anything to eat. This caused quite a laugh among the bystanders;
but I did not see the point, for at that time I did not know that
one could get a meal on a steamboat, for I had never been near
one.
Just as I stepped on the boat next morning, a man rushed up to me
with a "Hello there! how are you?" as he grasped me by the hand.
Seeing that I did not recognize him, he said: "I don't believe you
know me." I told him that he had one the best of me. He said: "You
are the boy scout that was with Capt. Mill last summer, and you
rode in my wagon." Then I recognized him. His name was Healey, and
at the time was running a restaurant in San Francisco, and he
insisted on my going to his place when I got to the city, which
invitation I accepted. His establishment was known as the Miners'
Restaurant.
Mrs. Healey and her little daughter, eleven years old, knew me as
soon as I entered the door, and were apparently as glad to see me
as though I had been a relative of the family.
The next morning when I offered to settle my bill they would not
take a cent, but requested me while in the city to make my home
with them.
That day I went out to the Fort, which was three miles from the
city, and on arriving there the first man I met was Lieut.
Harding, who at once conducted me to Col. Elliott's quarters.
That afternoon we made the rounds of the Fort, and Col. Elliott,
when introducing me, would say: "This is the 'boy scout,' who was
out with us last summer, and whom you have heard me speak of so
often."
I made my home with Col. Elliott and his wife during my stay at
the Fort, which was two weeks.