BRIDGER AND WEST GIVE CHRISTMAS A HIGH OLD WELCOME IN SACRAMENTO.
--CALIFORNIA GULCH.--MEETING WITH BUFFALO BILL.--THIRTY-THREE
SCALPS WITH ONE KNIFE.
On our arrival at Johnnie West's ranch we found that he had quite
a comfortable house, considering that it had been built by an old
trapper. He had five acres under cultivation, and had raised a
promiscuous lot of very desirable produce, especially in the way
of vegetable truck.
We remained with West two months, putting in our time hunting,
fishing and loafing. It being near Christmas now, the question
arose as to what we would do to celebrate that festive season. Jim
was for going to San Francisco and Johnnie wanted to go to
Sacramento. I told them it was immaterial to me where I went. But
all this time I was afraid that if John West got to town in
company with Jim Bridger that West would break his oft-repeated
resolutions and there would be a big run on the reddest kind of
paint. I told Jim my fears and proposed that we remain at home and
take our Christmas there. But Jim couldn't see it in that light,
and said one little spree wouldn't hurt Johnnie, so the day before
Christmas we pulled out for Sacramento. That same evening Jim and
Johnnie both got loads that they ought to have gone after about
nine times, if they just had to pack them, and the result was that
it was my busy day keeping them out of the calaboose. I promised
the police I would put them to bed and make them stay there until
morning.
Next morning, the first thing after we had dressed, Jim said:
"Well boys, let's go and have a Christmas drink." I said: "Boys, I
will take one drink with you and then quit. Now if you fellows
want to make brutes of yourselves and get into the lock-up, just
go ahead, but I am going to go home as soon as I get my
breakfast." So we went down the street and into the first saloon
we came to and called for egg-nogg. I remained with them until
they were drinking their fifth drink. I could not do anything with
them, so I told them I was going to breakfast, and they could do
as they pleased. This was the first time in my life that I had
ever been placed in a position where I was actually ashamed of my
associates. I was so disgusted when I left them that morning to go
to my breakfast that I thought I would go home and leave them. But
after eating my breakfast, being, perhaps, in a better humor, I
started out to hunt for them. I do not wish to try for a moment to
lead the reader to believe that I do not like the taste of liquor,
for I am confident at that time I really liked it better than
either of my associates, but I always despise the effect, and that
seemed to be what they, like thousands of other, drink it for. It
always seemed to me that when a man is drunk he is more disposed
to show the brute that is in him than to act a gentleman.
After looking around some little time I found Jim Bridger in a
saloon so drunk that he could scarcely walk. I asked him where
Johnny West was, and the bar-keeper told me that the police had
taken him to the station-house. I asked what for, and he said for
trying to shoot some one.
I watched for an opportunity and took both of Jim's pistols and
knife away from him and gave them to the clerk at the hotel.
Afterwards I walked to the station-house to see what the charge
was against Johnny West. The man told me the charge was drunk and
disorderly and shooting a pistol inside of a house. I asked him if
he would let Johnny out if I would pay the fine. He said: "Yes. As
soon as he is sober to-morrow morning, you can come around. The
charges will be twenty dollars."
If the reader ever had any experience with a drunken man, which to
me is the most disgusting thing on earth, he can realize something
of the time I had with those two men, for it took me all the next
day to get Johnny West home and get him reconciled.
He was determined to return to Sacramento, and it took me two more
days hard work and coaxing to get Jim Bridger home. I have it by
good authority that this was the last drunken spree that Johnnie
West ever took. He remained on his ranch some six years longer and
having accumulated considerable wealth, sold out for a good price
and returned home to his relations in Texas, and there died a
short time afterwards;
Jim Bridger and myself stayed at Johnny's until about the middle
of January. This now being 1861, we started for New Mexico, via
Los Angeles, with the intention of laying over in Los Angeles
until we could cross the Rocky Mountains. There was a good wagon
road from Sacramento to San Jose, and from San Jose to Los
Angeles.
At this time the Indians were all peaceable through California,
the only trouble with them was their begging. At that I think,
beyond any doubt, that they could beat any class of people it has
ever been my misfortune to meet.
We arrived at Los Angeles on the fifth of February. It being one
of the Spanish feast days, they were having a great time. The
Spanish population of this place having now become reconciled, we
were treated with due respect while we remained here, being about
one week, during which time we lived on fruit. For here were
fruits and flowers, world without end. Beyond any doubt, this is
the greatest place for flowers that I have ever seen.
Soon we pulled out for New Mexico, keeping on the north side of
the Colorado river until above the head of the Grand Canyon, this
being pretty well up in the Rocky Mountains, and here near the
head of the Grand Canyon we began to see more or less Indian sign,
but we were undecided as to what tribe of Indians they belonged.
The second day after crossing the Colorado river we ran on to a
band of Indians, but to our satisfaction they were of the Pima
tribe, and the same young Indian whose sister had assisted me in
rescuing the white girl Olive Oatman, was with them.
As soon as he saw me, he ran to meet me and shouted "Kain, igo,"--
meaning "Hello, friend,"--and shook hands with me.
The Pimas were out on their annual hunt for that season, and we
had to remain with them two days. Being acquainted with them all,
and as I have said before, when one is out in a hostile Indian
country, sometimes the company of friendly Indians is quite
acceptable.
After leaving here we would be compelled to pass over a small
portion of the Ute country, and game being plentiful at this time,
we feared they might be out on a hunt, and just at present we were
not hankering after sport of the Indian fighting kind. So I
proposed to Jim Bridger that we hire four of these young Pimas to
accompany us through the Ute country, knowing that the Pimas were
on good terms with all their neighboring tribes. Jim said that we
had nothing to give them, having neither jewelry or beads with us.
I told him that I would spare them a horse if we could get them to
go, I had four horses with me, while Jim only had three. He told
me to go ahead and make any kind of a bargain with them I liked
and he would stand his portion.
That night after supper while we were sitting around the camp
fire, smoking and cracking jokes--for an Indian enjoys a joke as
well as any one--I got up and told them that we would, after
leaving their country, have to travel over a small portion of the
Ute country, and they being hostile towards the white people, we
did not feel safe to try to cross their country alone, I told them
we were very poor, having no beads nor blankets to spare, but if
four of their men would accompany us for three days, I would give
them a good horse.
The young Indian said: "You have been a good friend to me, and me
and my friend will go with you across the Ute country. We don't
want your horse, but when you come back you can bring us some
beads."
This we agreed to do, and the next morning we started early,
accompanied by four young Pima Indians.
During the first two days' travel from the Pima camp we saw not
less than two hundred Indians of the Ute tribe, camping the second
night within a quarter of a mile of a large village of them, but
having those Pimas with us they did not offer to molest us.
When we were approaching a village two of the Pimas would ride
ahead and tell the Utes that we were their friends. They traveled
with us four days, when we concluded we were safe and they
returned to their crowd of hunters, and we proceeded on our
journey, crossing the main divide of the Rocky Mountains at the
head of the Blue river, striking the head of the Arkansas river as
soon as we were across the main divide.
The day we crossed the divide we went into camp as soon as we were
out of the snow on the east side. That night when it was dark we
could see down the Arkansas river a great number of camp fires,
and what this all meant was a mystery to us. We knew that we were
then in the Comanche country, but we could not think that they
were up in that region so early in the season. We were both
somewhat restless that night, sleeping but very little, fearing
that these were camp-fires of the Utes, and if so we were sure to
have trouble with them before we could get out of this part of the
country.
We were not in much of a hurry to start next morning, but I took
my glasses and selecting a high point for a general look, was
agreeably surprised to see that the camp was one of wagons and
tents. That made us feel considerably better. We packed up at once
and went down to see what it all meant.
On arriving we found a company of miners. The gold in California
Gulch had just recently been discovered, and that was attracting
them. As soon as we learned the cause of the excitement, we struck
camp and walked up the canyon to where they were at work. They
were taking out gold in great quantities, but we only remained
until next morning, when we packed up and started for Taos, going
via the place where Colorado City now stands--a deserted
village near the present city of Colorado Springs. We were now in
a country where we were perfectly safe, so far as Indians were
concerned, and we could travel at our ease.
On our first day's travel, after leaving the mining we passed
through the country where I did my first trapping in company with
Uncle Kit Carson and Mr. Hughes, and as we were riding along I
pointed out to Jim the place where I took my first Indian scalp.
This was the first time I had ever mentioned it to him and he said
that Uncle Kit had told him all about it a long time ago.
On our arrival at Taos we found Uncle Kit suffering severely from
the effects of the arrow wound that has twice before been
mentioned in this history. He and his wife were glad to see us,
and Uncle Kit insisted on my remaining with him and taking charge
of his stock. He now had several bands of sheep and some four
hundred head of cattle, and not being able to ride and look after
the camps, he wanted me to ride from one camp to the other and
look after the business in general, for which he offered to pay me
well. I agreed to work for him at least two or three months and
perhaps longer, provided I liked the business.
After I had been one month at work a wholesale butcher came over
from Denver to buy cattle and sheep. I went out and showed him
Uncle Kit's, after which we returned to Taos and he closed a trade
with Uncle Kit, agreeing to take one hundred head of cattle and
one thousand head of sheep. The price to be paid for them I never
knew, but he paid a certain portion down and the balance was to be
paid the coming October, in Denver City.
I remained with Uncle Kit until the first of October, looking
after things in general, when he asked me to accompany him to
Denver City, which was one hundred and eighty miles from Taos.
About the middle of the afternoon of the sixth day we rode into
Denver, from the southwest. When near where Cherry creek runs
through the city we saw an immense crowd of people in the streets,
so we pushed on to see what the excitement was.
When near the crowd we met three or four men on horseback riding
up the street. We asked what was causing the excitement. One of
them replied: "Oh, nothing, only they are going to hang a man down
there in a few minutes."
This being the first opportunity I had ever had to see a man hung,
we stayed and saw it through. We rode up to the edge of the crowd,
which was about forty yards from the scaffold where the hanging
was to take place, and had been there but a few moments when we
saw the sheriff coming with the prisoner, having a very strong
guard of some two hundred men all well armed. As soon as the
prisoner stepped on to the platform some one handed him a chair to
sit down in.
The sheriff turned to the prisoner and said: "Mr. Gordon if you
have anything to say, now you have the opportunity. I will give
you all the time necessary to say what you wish."
The prisoner rose to his feet and brushed his hair back,
apparently cool, but the moment he commenced to talk I could see
the tears begin to trickle down his cheeks.
I thought it a most pitiful sight. He did not talk long, but
briefly thanked his friends for their kindness towards him during
his confinement, and said: "Gentlemen, I think you did very wrong
in holding out the idea to me that I would come clear, when you
knew very well that there was no show whatever for me," and took
his seat.
A gospel minister then stepped upon the platform and engaged in
prayer. When he rose from praying the prisoner was weeping
bitterly. The sheriff then stepped up to him and said: "Come, Mr.
Gordon, your time is up," and he took him by one arm and another
man by the other, and when he raised to his feet they tied his
hands behind him, tied a cloth over his face, led him on to the
trap and the sheriff placed the rope around his neck and started
down the steps to spring the trap, when the prisoner sang out:
"Come back, Meadows, come back!"
The sheriff turned and walked up to where the prisoner was, and he
said:
"Meadows, fix the rope good so it will break my neck, for I want
to die quick."
After the sheriff had fixed the rope he stepped down and sprung
the trap, and from where I was I could not see that Gordon made
the least struggle after he dropped.
Just as we were ready to leave here who should step up but our old
friend Mr. Joe Favor, whom we had not seen for a long time. He
insisted on us going to his store, telling us where to put our
horses. So, after putting our horses up, we went around with him.
On arriving at Favor's place we found that he had a number of his
St. Louis friends with him, who had only arrived a few days
previous to this. After introducing us all around, he said: "I
want you two men to come over and take supper with me. I have just
ordered supper at the Jefferson House."
Uncle Kit tried to excuse himself on the grounds that we were not
dressed well enough to go into company, we having on our buckskin
suits. But his answer was:
"I would not have you dressed otherwise if I could, so be sure and
come with your side arms on" having reference to our revolvers and
knives. He then addressed his conversation to me for a few moments
by asking what I would take to tell him the honest truth as to how
many Indians I had scalped with the knife that he gave me, seeing
that I still carried it.
I said: "Mr. Favor, I could tell you just the number, but it would
be out of place for me to do so." He asked why, and I said: "Mr.
Favor, up to this time I don't think I have ever given you any
reason to doubt my word, but if I should tell you the honest truth
as to the number of Indians I have scalped with that knife I fear
you would doubt me."
By this time a number of his St. Louis friends had flocked around
me, and it seemed as if they would look through me. Mr. Favor
assured me that he would not doubt my word for a moment, but I
told him his friends would. They assured me that they would not,
saying from what they had heard of me from Mr. Favor before seeing
me, they felt satisfied that I would tell them the truth.
I said: "Gentlemen, if I had gotten one more scalp I would just
have even thirty-four, but as it is I have just taken thirty-three
scalps with this knife. I mean from Indians that I killed myself.
I have taken a number that were killed by others, but I did not
count them."
The crowd then turned their attention to Uncle Kit Carson, and
while at the supper table those St. Louis parties asked him what
he would take to sit down and give them a true history of his life
and let them write it up and have it published. To this he would
not hear. They then came at him in a different manner by asking
what per cent, of the net proceeds he would take. To this he said:
"Gentlemen, if there is anything on earth that I do dislike it
surely is this thing called notoriety," and he continued by
saying, "There is a part of my life that I hate to think of
myself, and a book written without the whole of my life would not
amount to anything."
After supper we returned to the store and those men talked with
Uncle Kit until near midnight about this matter. By this time he
had become impatient and said: "Gentlemen, there is no use
talking, for I will not submit to a thing of this kind, and you
will oblige me very much by not mentioning it any more." So that
ended the conversation concerning the matter, for the time being,
and Uncle Kit and I retired for the night.
The morning following I walked down to the store and Mr. Favor
told me there had been some parties looking for me, and left word
for me to meet them at the store at ten o'clock.
I sat down and waited until they came at the hour appointed. A
gentleman in the crowd named Green Campbell seemed to be their
spokesman. And, by the way, this same Mr. Campbell has since grown
to be very wealthy and now resides in Salt Lake City, and a few
years ago was nominated on the Gentile ticket for Governor, but
was defeated.
Mr. Campbell said to me: "There are five of us that have been
mining here this summer and have done very well, but we are not
satisfied. We want to go on to the waters of the Gila river and
prospect this winter, and have been trying for several days to
find some one that could guide us to that country, and Mr. Favor
having recommended you to us very highly, we wish to make some
kind of a bargain with you if we can, to guide us to that part of
the country. Is it safe for a small party to go in there?"
I said: "Mr. Campbell, it depends altogether in what part of the
country you want to go. I could take you on the waters of the Gila
river where you would be perfectly safe, but whether it would be
where you want to go or not is the question." I drew a diagram of
that part of the country as best I could, showing the different
tributaries to the river, pointing out the region where they would
be safe and also that which they would not dare enter on account
of the hostile Apache Indians.
Mr. Campbell asked me if I would remain with them until spring. I
told him I would, and they made me a proposition, which I
accepted. They were to furnish all the pack animals necessary for
the outfit and to board me, I to furnish my own saddle-horses. I
advised them to go to Taos with a wagon and team, and buy their
pack animals there as they would be able to get them much cheaper
than in Denver. They proposed that I go to Taos and buy the pack
animals and have everything ready by the time they would arrive,
as they had business which would necessarily detain them for at
least two weeks. This I agreed to do.
That afternoon I was walking down the street near the Planters
House when I met a policeman in great haste, making his way for
the hotel mentioned. As he approached me he said: "I deputize you
to assist me in making the arrest of those stage drivers in the
Planters' House." This was a crowd of men who were driving stage
at that time for the notorious Slade, of whom more will be said
later on.
I had left my side arms at Mr. Favor's store, not thinking I would
have any occasion to use them, but at the request of the
policeman, I entered the hotel and found a general row proceeding.
As soon as we entered the door two or three of the crowd made for
me, I backed off and defended myself the best that I could, until
I had backed to the end of the hall. The door at the end of the
hall being shut, I could back no farther. Here I sparred with them
for some time, when one of them struck at me with all vengeance
and just grazed the side of my face. As I threw my head and
shoulders back to dodge the blow I knocked the whole upper portion
of the glass door out. Just at that instant Wm. F. Cody, better
known as Buffalo Bill, seeing the predicament I was in, and seeing
that I was unarmed, caught me by the shoulders and jerked me
through that window much quicker than I could tell it. He handed
me one of his pistols and said: "Come on pard, and we will take
them fellows or know the reason why."
When we entered the door they had the policeman and bar-keeper
both cornered behind the bar, but seeing that we were prepared for
them, strange to say, not one of them drew his pistol, but all
surrendered at once, and the entire crowd, six in number, were
escorted to the cooler.
The name of this policeman was William Deecy, and he is now living
in Boulder, Montana. I saw him less than one year ago, and we
enjoyed a good laugh as we rehearsed the affair of the Planters'
House.
That afternoon after having his business attended to, Uncle Kit
went to Mr. Favor and said: "Joe, I want you and your friends from
St. Louis to come and take supper with me this evening at the same
hotel where we had supper last evening."
When Uncle Kit spoke in this manner Mr. Favor felt sure that he
had changed his mind in regard to having his life written up, and
before going to supper, in the absence of Uncle Kit, Mr. Favor
asked me about it. I told him he had not. Whereupon he proposed
betting me a new hat that those parties would write up his, Kit
Carson's, life. I said; "Not by his consent." "Yes," said he, "by
his own consent."
This bet I accepted, and that night Mr. Favor and all of his St.
Louis friends accompanied us from the store down to the hotel for
supper. There was one gentleman in the crowd who was a splendid
talker, and apparently an intelligent man, and when at the supper
table that night, he mentioned the matter to Uncle Kit again of
having his life published. On turning his eyes to the refined
gentleman, he said: "I would have you understand that when I say
anything I mean it. I told you in plain English last evening that
I would not submit to anything of that kind, and now don't compel
me to talk too harsh, but please drop the subject at once."
Mr. Favor, who had been watching very close all this time, could
see at once there was no use in talking any more about the subject
and turned the conversation as quickly as possible and there was
no more said about it.
That night while in a conversation with Buffalo Bill he told Uncle
Kit and I that he would be going out to Bent's Fort in a few days
and proposed that we join him there and have a buffalo hunt before
I went away. We promised that we would meet him.
The next morning Uncle Kit and I mounted our horses to start on
our return trip to Taos, and when we rode up in front of the
store, Mr. Favor told me to come in and get my hat. I told him no,
that I would not take it now, but let it go until next spring when
I returned. He said to call and get it any time, saying: "You won
it fair."
After we had ridden but a short distance I told Uncle Kit how I
came to win the hat, and he said: "I think them St. Louis men are
gentlemen, but I don't propose to have any one write up my life. I
have got plenty to keep me as long as I live and I do not like
notoriety." And just here I would say, that to a man that roughed
it out on the plains in those days as we old frontiersmen had to
do, they did not feel that a history of their lives would be fit
to go before the public, for as Uncle Kit said: "A man on the
frontier had to undergo many hardships, that if written up true,
just as they occurred, people in the civilized countries would not
believe them when they read it."
On my arrival at Taos I bought ten Mexican jacks or burros to use
for pack animals on the trip that we were about to start upon.
After that we started for Bent's Fort where we joined Buffalo Bill
and Col. Bent and struck out for the "Picket Wire"--Purgatoire--on
a buffalo hunt.
Here we found buffalo plenty and enjoyed two days successful
hunting, and I must say that a more jolly crowd I was never out
with than those three men were on a trip of this kind. Buffalo
Bill, who was as good-natured a man as a person would wish to
meet, was able to furnish amusement for the entire crowd. Col.
Bent himself was no mean Nimrod, and Uncle Kit did not take a back
seat on such occasions.
This was the last hunting expedition that it was ever my pleasure
to go upon in company with Mr. Cody, and it was not my pleasure to
meet him again for a number of years afterwards.
From here Uncle Kit and I returned to Taos, and I commenced making
preparations for the trip to the waters of the Gila.