Kit Carson at his Home--The Apache Indians become hostile--An
Expedition sent against them--It is not successful--Another
is organized, with which, Kit Carson goes as Guide--Two Indian
Chiefs captured--Other Incidents of the Trip--Colonel Beall
attempts to force the Indians to give up Mexican Captives--Two
thousand Savages on the Arkansas River--The Visit to them--Kit
Carson emigrates and builds a Ranche at Rayado--Description of
the Valley--The Massacre of a Santa Fé Merchant--His Wife is
made Prisoner--The Expedition sent to rescue her--The Indians
overtaken--Bad Counsel and Management--The commanding Officer
wounded--Mrs. White's Body found--Severe Snow Storm on
the Plains--One Man frozen to Death--Kit Carson returns to
Rayado--The occupation of a Farmer resumed--The Apaches steal
from the Settlers nearly all their Animals--Kit Carson with
thirteen others in the Pursuit--The Surprise--A running
Fight--The Animals recovered--A gallant Sergeant and his
Fate--Kit Carson and Goodel go on a Trading Expedition to meet
California Emigrants at Fort Laramie--Humorous Adventures--The
Dangers that beset the Road to New Mexico--Hair-breadth
Escape--Arrival at Taos.
Being comfortably housed in his own pleasant home at Taos, Kit Carson
made up his mind to treat himself to a more lengthy stay there than he
had for some time enjoyed. While he was quietly enjoying the pleasures
of home, active operations were transpiring about him, for the
neighboring Indians had dug up the tomahawk and buried the calumet,
and were holding in defiance the United States forces, which had been
stationed in New Mexico to protect its inhabitants. Colonel Beall was
at that time commanding officer of the district, and had established
his head-quarters at Taos. The colonel, soon after assuming the
command, being a resolute man, saw that there was but one way to deal
with these Indians, and that was to bring them to a strict account,
and make them amenable for their many crimes. This tribe of Apaches
has given the government of the United States almost as much trouble
as have the Seminoles in Florida, and I hesitate not in saying, that
before they are exterminated, which is the only sure plan of making
a peace with them, they will have surpassed their red brethren of the
swamps of the South in the number and enormity of their crimes. Before
New Mexico came under the jurisdiction of the United States, the
Apaches, for many years, had committed all kinds of heinous offences
against the Mexicans; and, for a period of ten years after that event,
these same savages were continually on the war path, notwithstanding
military expeditions, one after another, were organized and sent out
against them. Their mountain retreats are almost inaccessible to white
men, while the Indians, apparently, play about in them like rabbits.
The amount of physical endurance and the length of the journeys these
red men can make, appear very astonishing to one not accustomed to
them. The Apaches, as an Indian race, are not wanting in bravery, the
best evidence of which statement is, that nearly all their warriors
_die in battle_. Their country is the healthiest in America.
Besides waging war against the whites and Mexicans, they have their
differences to settle with their neighboring tribes, with whom they
are punctilious in vindicating their national honor. Colonel Beall
commenced his operations against these Indians by dispatching a junior
officer, backed by a strong force, with orders to pursue, overtake,
and chastise them. This expedition started; but, on coming to the
mountains, the guides reported that there was too much snow on them
for the command to pass through in safety; so the undertaking was
given up, and the men were marched back to Taos.
The most famous war chief of the Apaches, during these troubles,
was called by the Mexicans _Chico Velasques_, and his name, for many
years, was a terror to the surrounding country. His savage brutality
knew no bounds, and he was truly in his element, only when he was
tearing the bloody scalp from his half-lifeless victim. He was the
sworn enemy of the Americans and Mexicans, and his hunting-knife was
rarely clean of human blood, until his cruel life, by the wise decrees
of an all-seeing Providence, was suddenly cut short. He fought against
his disease (small pox) with that rashness that had been his ruling
spirit through life, and thus ingloriously terminated his days. The
pride of this man was to strut through the Mexican towns and gloat
over his many crimes. To the gazing crowd, he would point out the
trophies of his murders, which he never failed to have about him. To
his fringed leggins were attached the phalanges (or finger bones) of
those victims whom he had killed with his own hands. On the one side,
he proclaimed to his auditors, were the fingers of the Mexicans, while
on the other, were the same tokens from the Americans; and it gave him
great delight, ironically, to dwell upon the latter name. With whip
in hand, he struck out right and left when anything displeased him.
He met one day more than his match in the person of the famous Mexican
hunter, Armador Sanchez, of whom we have previously spoken. The
circumstances of this rencounter were as follows: The bold Indian,
with but few followers, was on a visit of pleasure to the Mexican
town of Culebro. He had agreed to a temporary peace, to suit his
convenience and ends; and, taking advantage of it, he made his
appearance in the settlements, to lord it over the peaceable
inhabitants. After indulging in a little fire-water, his wicked
propensities could be controlled no longer, and broke forth in minor
cruelties. At last he found himself in the house belonging to Sanchez,
who was quietly conversing with his aged father, for whom he had great
veneration, and also with his son. The Indian peremptorily demanded
that some whisky should be given him. He was informed by Sanchez that
he did not keep the article. A second demand was now made, with the
threat that if it was not forthcoming immediately, he would whip the
person who refused him. This had the effect of bringing Sanchez to
his feet, when the following colloquy, in Spanish, between him and the
Indian transpired: "Chico Velasques, you have long been accustomed to
treat our people almost as you please. You have robbed and murdered us
at your will, notwithstanding we have given you no cause thus to act.
Had you asked for bread, I would have given it to you, for the door of
my house is always open to the friendly red man; but, as for whisky,
you can have none from my hands. Raise that whip but once to strike
me, and I will dash your brains out with this mass of lead." Suiting
his actions to his words, Sanchez drew forth from the pocket of his
hunting-shirt a slung shot that weighed nearly four ounces, which
he always carried to dispatch his game with when it was in the last
agonies of death. With uplifted hand, the Indian hesitated; for, he
knew the character of the man who stood before him, as they had hunted
together during many moons gone by, on the same mountains and on the
same trail. At last, using his own savage dialect, in order that his
words could not be understood by others about him, the savage answered
the Mexican hunter by saying, "that by chance they might some day meet
again;" a threat which fell harmless at the feet of Sanchez. As he
took his departure, the chief added, in Spanish, "I will tell these
things to my father,[20] Kit Carson," as if further attempting to
intimidate the hunter; but Sanchez knew that his own and Carson's
opinions were the same in regard to this man; therefore, he smiled
at the rascal's knavery. _Chico Velasques_ was followed in his
chieftainship by _Blanco_, who did his utmost to walk in the footsteps
of his illustrious predecessor; but, he was not so cunning, and was
less successful in his encounters with the Americans and Mexicans,
and therefore had not that influence with his tribe which the former
possessed. Still, he performed his quantum of mischief, and yet lives
to play his part in the great drama of Indian life. An Apache Indian
is rather small in stature, but everything about him denotes symmetry
and strength. His limbs are almost straight, and their muscles are
as hard as iron. The elasticity of his movements, when in the least
excited, shows a high degree of physical training. His coal-black eye
exhibits an amount of treachery rarely seen elsewhere, proving the
truth of the Chinese adage, that "the tongue may deceive, but the eye
can never play the rogue."
[Footnote 20: This expression of "father," with these Indians, means
their agent.]
But to return to the narrative. The commanding officer of the party
sent out against these Indians, on arriving again at Taos, reported to
Col. Beall that the reason he had returned was because, at the present
time, it was impracticable to cross the mountains. That brave
and experienced officer replied, "that there was no such word as
impracticable in the soldier's vocabulary, and that nothing ought
to be impossible for the 1st regiment of United States dragoons to
accomplish." Suiting his actions to his words, Col. Beall reorganized
the command, took charge of it himself, and employed Kit Carson as his
guide. When everything was in proper trim, this expedition set
out, and after surmounting many obstacles and privations, finally
accomplished the feat of crossing the snow-clad mountains, and after
a long and fruitless search for the Indians, the men were obliged to
turn about, because their stock of provisions was running low. As
the command emerged through the "_Sangre de Christo Pass_," on their
return route, they came suddenly into view of a village of Apaches.
As soon as the Indians were discovered the charge was sounded, but the
animals of the dragoons were too much jaded to obey the summons with
the celerity wished for by their riders; the result was that, besides
a considerable amount of plunder, only two persons were taken, but
they, fortunately, proved to be no less than two important chiefs. In
order to impress these Indians with the fairness and liberality which
his government wished to show to the red men, after a long talk,
in which the colonel exacted promises of good behavior, he let the
prisoners go. They departed, to forget as quickly as possible all
their vows and promises; for, seemingly, they will act in no other
way than as their own savage instinct teaches. After this affair, Col.
Beall made a direct march for Taos, where he remained for some time,
attending to the ordinary duties of his garrison.
In the treaty between the United States and New Mexico, entered into
at the close of the Mexican War, a clause was inserted binding the
former to turn over to the latter all the Mexican captives then held
by the Indians who inhabited territory belonging to the first named
government. The carrying out of this provision of the treaty involved
the United States government in a large and constant bill of expense.
This was, undoubtedly, unavoidable, for even had the clause not been
inserted in the treaty, the maintenance of about the same frontier
military forces would have been necessary. It would have proved a
difficult matter to carry out this treaty to the letter.
If it had been so carried out to the letter, the Camanches would have
been great sufferers, for at least one third of the blood that now
runs in their veins is Mexican. During the last half century, and
perhaps longer, they have been accustomed to make annual visits into
the Mexican settlements of Old Mexico. The object of these hostile
incursions has ever been to load themselves with plunder. They steal
all the horses that fall in their way, and also take for captives as
many young children as they can lay hands on. The latter are brought
up in true Indian style, and, having cast off all remembrance of their
former habits and friends, they gradually become the wild men of the
plains. The female captives, on arriving at the suitable age, are
married to the young warriors of the tribe, and thus the true Indian
stock, becoming amalgamated with the Mexico-Spanish blood, is fast
becoming degenerated. The reason, therefore, why the fulfillment of
this treaty would have militated strongly against the Camanche Indians
especially, is clearly apparent.
In the following February, Col. Beall learned that on the Arkansas
River there were congregated a large body of Indians, who had quite
a number of Mexicans in bondage. He felt it to be his duty to visit
these savages and endeavor to have them deliver up all such captives,
using peaceable means to accomplish this result in the first instance;
and, should they fail, he made up his mind to resort to more forcible
and potent arguments. With this determination, and with two companies
of dragoons to back him and Kit Carson as his guide, he set out on
his mission. In due time he reached the Arkansas, and there found
congregated four tribes of Indians who numbered in the vicinity of
two thousand souls. Their object in thus coming together was to have a
grand council and lay out plans for the future, and also to meet their
agent. This agent, who was an experienced mountaineer, informed the
colonel that, considering the present state of ill feeling existing
among these Indians towards the whites, it would be useless to make
the demand for the prisoners; and as to using force, it would almost
certainly prove a failure, when such a large number of well armed
warriors were arrayed against him. It required a great deal of
persuasion to bring the colonel around to this mode of thinking; but,
at last he yielded to the advice of his friends and concluded to make
no demonstration against the Indians at the present time, concluding,
as his anger cooled, that it was the wisest policy to await a more
favorable opportunity, when a treaty could be made with them, in
which there could be an article inserted that would stipulate for the
restoration of the captives.
In parting with these red men without accomplishing the main object
for which they came, both officers and men felt that their labors had
not been entirely thrown away. Their presence must have left lasting
impressions on the minds of the savages, in showing them that they no
longer had poorly clad and poorly armed Mexican soldiers to deal with.
On arriving again in Taos, Kit Carson returned to his home to ruminate
over what was best for him to take up as a business for the future.
He revolved in his thoughts his past career, and, in the end, finished
the mental study by resolving to give up his roaming life, as he
rightly considered that now was the time, if ever, that he should be
making a substantial home for himself and family, before old age crept
upon and disabled him from the undertaking. About the time that he was
in this frame of mind, his old mountaineer friend, Maxwell, was about
going to a pretty little valley called by the Mexicans _Rayado_.
Maxwell proposed to Kit Carson to join him in the enterprise of
building a ranche on the site which he had selected. This offer the
latter gladly accepted. Rayado would have, long before, been settled
by the Mexicans, had they not been deterred by its exposure, and
consequent inviting position for Indian depredations. The valley is
about fifty miles east from Taos; and, for its scenery, cannot be
surpassed by anything of the kind in America. Standing at the head
of it on a blunt bluff, you look down and out on the prairies, and
nothing can be more enchanting than the view that is thus presented.
On each side there are lofty hills, which, when green with grass and
foliage, add a magic beauty to the scene. Through the valley, as if it
had been intended for its dividing line, runs a broad mountain stream,
the banks of which are now metamorphosed into beautiful fields.
We stop here to undeceive the reading public concerning an idea which
has gained currency by the extraordinary imaginative writings of
novelists. These trashy fictions represent the western plains,
or prairies, as flower-beds. In this a great mistake has become
prevalent. A traveler often pursues his way over them for many days
without seeing anything to interrupt the continuity of green grass
except it be the beautiful road over which he is journeying. Near the
slopes of the mountains and on the river banks the remark will
apply. There, fields of wild flowers are often found growing in great
luxuriance.
The settlement was soon after commenced by Kit Carson and Maxwell,
and, as now completed, is really a beautiful spot. It is located about
midway down the valley. Among its several houses, there are two which
are more conspicuous than the rest. In the finest of these two, the
owner of which has taken great pains and spent much valuable time
with its construction, lives Maxwell, whose honest pride is the being
master of a model farm. In the residence next most to be admired in
Rayado, Kit Carson sometimes sojourns.
The mansion which belongs to Maxwell would be an ornament to any
country. At one time, it was used as a garrison for American troops,
and on it, the soldiers made many improvements. It is built one story
high, in the shape of a hollow square, and has the size of an ordinary
block in a city. Around the whole runs a fine veranda. With its lofty
ceilings, large and airy rooms, and its fine yard in the centre of the
square, which is well stored with its fowls, pigeons, and other pet
animals, with appropriate kennels; with antlers of noble buck and elk;
hams of venison, buffalo meat, wild turkeys, etc., and near by a
fine vegetable garden; altogether, it presents a picture of sumptuous
living rarely seen within the pale of civilization. Maxwell counts
his steeds and cattle by hundreds, while his flocks of sheep are
enumerated by thousands. Near by stands Kit Carson's ranche, which,
though more modest, yet, when the hunter occupies it, in dead game and
comfort, it fully rivals its compeer. Around these two hunters live
a handful of Mexican friends, who are either engaged in agricultural
pursuits for themselves, or else in the employ of the "lords of the
manor," Carson and Maxwell.
In this his residence at Rayado, Kit Carson is only kept from spending
his whole time by business for which his tastes are more suited. Soon
after the commencement of the settlement, and while he was engaged
in his vocation as farmer, news reached him that the Apaches had been
committing a most wicked murder, the details of which are horrible
in the extreme. A merchant by the name of White, who was engaged in
business at Santa Fé, had been into the United States for the purpose
of purchasing goods. With his train of wagons and his small escort
of men, traveled his private carriage, in which there were, as
passengers, his accomplished but unfortunate lady and her only child.
On arriving at a point where he anticipated no further danger, Mr.
White started on ahead of his caravan, in order that he might reach
Santa Fé as soon as possible, and thus relieve his family from the
privations of camp life. He had proceeded but a few miles when he was
attacked by some Indians who had concealed themselves in the rocks
on either side of the road. The savages, as the carriage neared their
hiding-place, fired with such accuracy of aim that they killed, by
their first volley, all of the men who were with the carriage before
they were aware of the danger which surrounded them. Mrs. White and
her child were reserved for a worse fate. They were carried off
into captivity. The child proved to be a source of annoyance to the
blood-thirsty savages, and its angel spirit was released from earth by
their cruel ferocity. Before the eyes of its captive mother the fatal
tomahawk was raised, and by one dastard blow its keen edge was made to
mingle with its brains. The horrid work failed not to bring the bitter
woes and anguish of despair to the breast of the unhappy mother. It
was then thrown into Red River, which was the stream nearest to the
scene of the bloody tragedy.
Red River and its great cañon has always been to the Apache Indians a
favorite haunt of refuge, either when pursued, or after the committal
of some terrible crime. There are several streams in the West called
by this name. The one here referred to is the Red River of the plains,
and is one of the upper tributaries of the Arkansas River. In olden
times it went by the name of the Canadian River. Several sharp
conflicts have occurred on this stream between the Apache Indians and
parties of United States troops. It has also formed the stage of many
an Indian tragedy in conflicts between the mountain Indians and the
Indians of the plains. Quite recently, attempts have been made by
whites to use its banks for grazing purposes, but every enterprise
which has been set on foot to establish ranches in its vicinity,
have been warmly contested by the Camanches, who have killed several
persons who have dared to essay such attempts.
The intelligence of this terrible butchery having been carried to New
Mexico, a command was organized in hot haste, which had for its object
the immediate rescue of Mrs. White from her bondage, worse than death.
Two men went with this party as guides, named Leroux and Fisher.
Watkins Leroux is an old and famous trapper and mountaineer, whose
reputation and skill as a guide in the far West, is second only to Kit
Carson's. A few of his warm partisans, who are ever very warm in their
praise of their friend, at one time considered him superior even to
Kit Carson; but, when the skill of the two men came to be tried in
the same cause, the palm was yielded to Kit Carson. Leroux has
guided several parties over new routes with meritorious success. His
knowledge of Indian character is nearly equal to that possessed by Kit
Carson, and he is endowed with a wonderful amount of forethought and
prudence; but, in an Indian fight, or on any great emergency, his
faculties appear to be less active, and his judgment less certain,
than those exhibited by the great Nestor of the Rocky Mountains. It
is a well well-understood maxim, that there are more or less
narrow-minded persons who are ready and eager to pull down any and
every rising man; and, for this purpose, such must choose a champion.
Kit Carson's association with Colonel Fremont had won him so great
renown, as a mountaineer and guide, that an opposition party was
formed to detract from his merits and capabilities. Leroux, owing to
his popularity, was chosen for the leader of this party, and whenever
the name of Kit Carson was mentioned, the friends of Leroux always
saw fit to compare the deeds of the two men together. This strife, of
course, could not be lasting, and now it is almost forgotten. It is
a just tribute of praise due to both of these brave men, to say
that they do not sanction, by word or deed, either party to the
controversy. They could but appreciate each other, and, as friends,
ever felt elated, the one at the success of the other, and _vice
versâ_. They mutually considered that every fresh laurel of glory
added a measure-full of honor and renown to their common brotherhood
of mountaineers, among whom the good reputation of their cloth was as
dear as it was among the knights attached to the orders of chivalry.
Their ranches are located in the same valley, and in the same
town; where, having lived together as fast friends in life, in all
probability they will find their last resting-places in the same
graveyard. Few men can say aught against the character of Watkins
Leroux, but in this estimate of his actions, we are only reviving what
has already been given to the public.
With Leroux and Fisher employed as guides, the expedition for the
rescue of Mrs. White set out on its route, and, on its journey, passed
by Rayado. Kit Carson immediately proffered his services for the
expedition. They were accepted, but, much to the surprise of many of
the party, instead of being at once placed in the position which his
great experience demanded, he was assigned to an inferior position
under the command of Leroux. Kit Carson, however, was too good a
soldier to exhibit the conduct which the little buzzing talkers so
anxiously looked for from their supposed kindling of his jealousy,
and quietly took the post assigned him, eager to lend a helping hand,
which might even thus be instrumental in saving a valuable life. It
is proper, however, that we should add, that this slight upon his
reputation and experience wounded his feelings. But, especially, as
the life in jeopardy belonged to a woman, he would not, and did not,
think of allowing his actions to partake of his feelings. We have
reason to believe that this slight, at least on the part of the
commanding officer of the expedition, was not intentional. That
gentleman was an honorable man, and would not have committed an act
which he considered would have resulted otherwise than for the best;
and, in appointing Leroux his chief counsellor, he had selected a good
man, but, one whom he afterwards learned, to his sorrow, was every way
the subordinate of Kit Carson in managing Indian affairs.
A few years subsequent to the transpiring of this murder and the
skirmish which succeeded it, we traveled near to the spot under the
same officer who had the command of the above expedition. He reverted
to the affair with much feeling, and from his actions and remarks, we
could plainly see that his sympathies had been, perhaps, too greatly
enlisted in behalf of his unfortunate countrywoman, and that his
better judgment had been overcome by giving way to the urgent advice
of others. If it had been a battle where either scientific attainments
or manly courage could have succeeded, he would, doubtless, have been
himself, and carried everything through with success. This is no mere
assertion, for his long and well tried military career warrants us
in this belief. We have the greatest respect for this gentleman, and
consider him a very able man; but, as a biographer, we are called
upon to narrate the facts as they come to us. If he had succeeded,
everything would have been considered as well done; but he failed, and
the cause of his failure is plain.
The party being thus constituted, and no delay having been occasioned
by any unforeseen accident, the party arrived in good season at the
place where the cold-blooded murder had been consummated. Around the
spot, there was strewn, in great confusion, boxes, trunks, pieces of
harness, and many other things, which had belonged to the unfortunate
party, and which the villains did not fancy and carry away with them.
The path taken by these Indians was soon found, and on it, the command
traveled in full chase for twelve days, without seeing the outline of
a savage. Carson describes this as being the most difficult trail to
follow he remembers ever to have undertaken, for the rascally Apaches,
on breaking up their camps, would divide into parties of two and
three, and then scatter over the vast expanse of the prairies to meet
again at some preconcerted place, where they knew water could be had.
In several of these camps the pursuers found remnants of dress and
other articles, that were known to have belonged to Mrs. White. By
these signs, they were led to believe that she still lived. Although
these things would be trifles on ordinary occasions, yet, at the
present time, they were the cause of stimulating the white men to
their utmost exertions; and, as they grew fresher, the excitement
among the party increased. At last, the camp, and even the persons
of the savages, became visible to the foremost of the pursuers; and,
among the first to get a glimpse of them was Kit Carson. At the time
the discovery was made, Kit Carson was considerably in advance of most
of the men. Turning to those near him, he shouted to have the command
come on as fast as possible, for he saw at once that there was no
time to be lost in consultation as to the best mode of assaulting the
Indians. They, already, were in commotion, and were making hurried
preparations to decamp. Riding on at full speed for some distance, Kit
Carson again turned his head and saw, to his dismay, that he was
not followed; but instead, the command had halted. The cause of this
curious order being given, at such a precarious moment, was, as he
afterwards learned, brought about by the advice of the chief guide,
who told the commanding officer that the Indians wished to have a
parley. On seeing what was transpiring behind him, Kit Carson had no
alternative but to rein up his horse also; for, to ride on alone into
the midst of the savages, would have been unjustifiable rashness, and
might, perhaps, have destroyed the plans his superior officers were
concocting. So, he stood paralyzed and confounded at the inactivity of
his companions. Just about this time, a bullet, fired from the Indian
camp, struck the commanding officer in the breast, and bent him
forward. Those around him, for a little while, supposed that he had
received a mortal wound. Still, he retained his seat in the saddle,
but could not speak. Thus again was precious time lost, as the party,
during this time, were virtually without a leader, and did not seem to
be inclined to make one. Fortunately for this officer, just before he
received the shot, he had taken off his thick buckskin gauntlets and
crowded them into a breast pocket. The ball had struck this bundle;
and, as its force was somewhat expended by the distance it had come,
it was unable to more than penetrate the mass and contuse the soft
parts of the chest.
This accident assisted in preventing this well known military man from
inflicting such a blow on these savages, that they would have been
long in recovering from it. He had undoubtedly seen, soon after he had
halted, that Kit Carson was right in recommending a charge; for,
as quick as he recovered sufficiently from his injury to be able
to speak, he commanded the men to make the attack, and leave him to
himself. Unfortunately, the time had passed to accomplish the desired
effect when this order was given, for, on arriving among the lodges,
the men found only one warrior. He, as a matter of course, was slain.
The body of Mrs. White was also found in the camp. Life was extinct,
though her soul had but just flown to heaven. There was still warmth
in the corpse when the men first discovered it. An arrow had pierced
her breast. Evidently she had been conscious that friends were near,
and was trying to make her escape when the missile of death produced
the fatal wound.
Much has been written and said about this sad affair, and much unjust
calumny has been heaped upon the head of the leader of the expedition;
therefore, the opinion of Kit Carson in reference to the matter may
not be out of place; hence, we give it word for word. "I am certain"
says Kit Carson, "that if the Indians had been charged immediately on
our arrival, Mrs. White would have been saved. At first, the savages
were much confused at our approach, and I do not hesitate to say that
she saw us as quick as any one of the redskins did, for it undoubtedly
was the all absorbing topic of her mind that her rescue would be
attempted by her friends and countrymen. On seeing us coming, she
had attempted to run towards us, when she was shot down. Had she been
liberated, she could not have long survived the brutality, hardships
and vicissitudes she had experienced. Words cannot describe the bitter
cup that she had been obliged to drink during her captivity. It was
the will of Providence that, having suffered like a martyr on earth,
she should be taken to himself before we arrived to where her remains
lay; upon coming upon which, we shed tears at thus being defeated in
what had been our cherished hopes even had it cost some of us our own
lives."
By this language it can be readily seen that Kit Carson regretted the
failure of this attempt made to rescue Mrs. White as deeply as any
one, either in the expedition, or among her friends at the home from
which she had so recently, in health and happiness, been torn. "Yet I
cannot," says Kit Carson, "blame the commanding officer, or the other
guide, for the action they took in the affair. They evidently did as
they thought best, but I have no doubt that they now can see, that
if my advice had been taken, the life of Mrs. White might have been
spared for at least a short period." This expedition was far from
being a failure, for the Indians lost all their provisions, camp
equipage and a few animals. Many of these savages ran away leaving
behind them everything they possessed in the world, except the scanty
amount of clothing they had on.
For six miles they were pursued over the level prairies when another
brave was killed, several wounded and three children taken prisoners.
The horses belonging to the Expedition broke down, one by one, until
at last, the chase had to be given over, after which the Indians made
short work in getting out of sight. Among the trinkets and baggage
found in the captured camp, there was a novel which described Kit
Carson as a great hero who was able to slay Indians by scores. This
book was shown to Kit and was the first of the kind he had ever seen.
After glancing at it he made the remark, "that perhaps Mrs. White,
to whom it belonged, knowing he lived not very far off, had prayed to
have him make his appearance and assist in freeing her. He wished that
it might have been so, but consoled himself by thinking that he had
performed his duty." While on their route back to Taos, the command
was overtaken by a terrible snow storm which was accompanied by a high
wind; as there were no hills to break its force, it amounted almost
to a tornado. The snow was driven with such force into the men's faces
that they became nearly blind, and were bewildered as to the course
they should travel. During its continuance, they wandered about on the
prairies. Finally they were so fortunate that at last they reached a
clump of timber in the neighborhood of _Las Vegas_ in New Mexico; but,
during the tramp, one man had been frozen to death and others had come
near to perishing.
After arriving in the settlements; the party learned from some
friendly Indians, that the Apaches had suffered severely by being
exposed to this same storm, and the report was that many of them had
since died in consequence thereof. From this, it would appear as if
an all seeing power had protected the whites, while it had dealt out
a fearful judgment upon these wicked savages, who have more than vague
ideas of the sin of murdering, in cold blood, innocent people, sages
and philanthropists far distant and safe in great cities to the
contrary notwithstanding. There are no set of men in the world who can
draw the line between right and wrong based on its first principle,
and taught to them by the great lessons of nature, as can many tribes
of Indians. Among themselves, and especially among their individual
bands, in regard to all crimes, the Indian has his moral code of laws
which, in many respects, is not surpassed by those of his pale-faced
brother. They have their civil chief who is responsible for the peace
and good order of the camp; and, before him, are tried, by the lawyers
of the tribe, all cases worthy of notice. If the parties are found
guilty, the offender or offenders are summarily dealt with--therefore,
"with his untutored mind," in his intercourse with white men, the
Indian is not altogether excusable in committing crime.
There are many people who believe that the Indians, as a race, have
been greatly sinned against, and to sustain their views, have called
in the assistance of flowery-written romances and the high-sounding
language of prose and poetry. Much of this novelty and interest
rubs off by coming in contact with the savage as he really exists.
Admiration often changes, in this case, into distrust and even enmity.
It is natural that this should be so, for mere book-education biases
the mind always, either for or against, and therefore, it is not
strange that in the far West, we should often meet with men who
unhesitatingly declare that the red man, if capable, is unwilling
to entertain in his character even one redeeming trait; but, on
investigating their individual case, we find that they are but
superficial observers who are prone to find fault with everything that
does not exactly suit their tastes. It is necessary to spend a whole
life with Indians, in order to judge them without prejudice. The Great
Spirit has endowed his red children with reason, the same in quality
as possessed by any other race, but their habits, mode of life and
experience is of such a kind, that, when taken, as a whole, they are
truly original. Looking upon this class of people, either in the light
of an enthusiast or as a detractor, cannot be otherwise than wrong;
for, as is usually the case, the truth lies between the extremes.
To be caught in one of these winter storms on the plains is a very
serious affair; and one only needs to have been through a fearful gale
on the seas to render him dubious of which to choose. To the faint
heart, death seems inevitable in either case; and, to such a one, a
choice between a watery grave or a bed of snow, when hunger and cold
are his attendants while life is gradually ebbing out, is a question
in which the contrast appears small. During many of the winter months,
a life on the prairies becomes a necessity to the frontiersman and not
a pleasure. The force and power of the winds on the level earth of the
far West, are beyond human imagination. The snow storms there, at
the proper period of the year, are terrific in their grandeur. The
quantity of the snow that falls is not so much a matter of notice as
the force with which it comes, being almost blinding in its effects
and requiring all the physical powers of both man and beast to meet
and contend against it. It but seldom happens, during one of these
seasons, that the roads are so blocked up by snow that human ingenuity
cannot overcome the obstacle; for the wind drifts the snow, rendering
the path clear at intervals which vary in their area. The poor mail
parties are the ones who experience this undesirable life; and, in
their attempts to make their journeys, they are often driven near to
death's door, although every precaution is taken to make the transit
safe. The mules of these parties are well protected with india rubber
coverings which are lined with blankets, and, so snugly are they
made to fit every available part of the animal, that it seems almost
impossible for cold to touch them. Corn and fodder, to a limited
extent, is transported; but, even with these precautions, the mules
now and then succumb to cold. The man covers his body with warm
clothing and carries with him furs and robes enough to be seemingly
able to defy the storms. He can provide himself only with a scanty
amount of fuel, for his means of conveyance are very contracted. When
overtaken by the storms, which may last several days, he is rendered
almost powerless, and is at the tender mercies of the gale; for he
cannot make fires,--and without them he may perish. This is not true
of every trip made across the plains during the winter, for, like
on the ocean, the passage may be frequently gone through with the
encountering of but little real suffering. One thing in favor of
making the journey in this season of the year is, the probability
of not seeing an Indian. They, usually, during the cold months,
stow themselves away in their, comparatively speaking, warm mountain
retreats. In crossing the plains, small parties find the item of
meeting Indians to be of considerable importance, as, even in the
time of peace, they are very exacting and troublesome, demanding that
provisions should be given them, by way of toll. To refuse is apt
to bring down their ire, when they will usually help themselves to
whatever suits their fancy. They are very partial to sugar, which,
when they cannot say the word in English, they call "Shoog." If not
understood, they make their wants known by the Indian sign of touching
with the index finger the tip of the tongue, thereby indicating the
sweetness of the article. Many of them come armed with a piece of
paper, which testimonial of good behavior they have obtained from
their agent or forced from some traveler. As they cannot read, it
makes but little difference what is the sense of the writing so long
as it is _bonâ fide_ penmanship. I once saw one of these documents
which the owner prized very highly, but, had he known the purport of
his paper, he would have sighed for the scalp of his _kind friend_
who wrote it. The language was as follows: "Crossing of the Arkansas,"
etc. "The bearer, _Young Antelope_, is a good Indian and will not take
anything out of his reach. This is to warn traders and travelers
to beware of his race, breed, seed, and generation." It was signed
evidently with a fictitious name, and answered the purpose for which
it was intended, which was, to get rid of an ugly customer and to put
strangers on their guard against the man who carried it.
On arriving at Taos, Kit Carson left this party and proceeded
to Rayado, where he was, soon after, actively engaged in farming
pursuits.
During the subsequent winter, a detachment of ten dragoons under the
command of sergeant Holbrook was stationed at Rayado to protect the
little settlement. In order that their animals might have the benefit
of the good grass which was to be found in the mountains at a place
where but little snow fell, the settlers established there a herder's
ranche, posting two men there to look after and guard the property.
The cold months were passed in peace and quiet, but, in the spring the
marauding Apaches came, and, after wounding both of the herders, stole
all the gentle animals, including both horses and mules. One of the
wounded men made his way to Rayado, notwithstanding his injuries, and
gave information of what had happened to himself and companion.
On learning these facts, Kit Carson, the dragoons and three of the
settlers, immediately proceeded to the ranche. They arrived there just
as the shades of night began to fall. Nothing could be attempted until
the dawn of another day, consequently, a camp was ordered and duly
arranged. As the first faint beam of light gilded anew the mountain
tops, the party were up and moving. They soon found the trail made
by the thieves and commenced a sharp pursuit. The pace at which they
traveled became so rapid, that, at the distance of only twenty-five
miles from the spot where they first struck the trail, the Indians
were discovered moving on the prairie a long way in advance. There
remained nothing but an open chase.
Orders were issued to accelerate even the hitherto rapid march. Each
man resumed his exertions to put his horse to his best speed.
The chase was growing intensely exciting when four of the animals
belonging to the pursuers gave out, completely ridden down. Their
riders were the most unhappy of any of the party at this circumstance,
for it precluded even the chances of engaging in the expected affray.
Leaving the four men behind, the remainder of the party pushed on in
the pursuit, and every bound made by their horses brought them nearer
to their foes. After several hours of this hard riding, they came near
enough to the warriors to count their numbers. Their force consisted
of twenty well armed and equipped Indians. They showed no fear of
the party pursuing them, but clung to their stolen property with such
pertinacity that they allowed themselves to be overtaken. A running
fight was immediately commenced which became most exciting, as well
as dangerous, to the participants; but, all the more exciting because
thus dangerous. The Indians were all skillful horsemen and fought
with great dexterity. Their animals being comparatively fresh, in
this respect they had the advantage. Notwithstanding this fact, the
pursuing party administered to them a severe lesson. Five of the
rascally Indians were killed and several wounded, while all of
the stolen animals, with the exception of four, were overtaken and
recaptured. The whole of this pursuit and the running fight which
terminated so successfully was accomplished under the advice of Kit
Carson. Each man in the pursuing party felt that the simple fact that
Kit Carson's eagle eye and experienced hand watched and guided their
movements was a guaranty of certain and ample success. Hence, the
labor of the long chase and the demands upon their personal skill,
activity and courage made by the necessities of the fight, were all
met with that kind of readiness and determination which seldom fails
to make the soldier invincible. Every man in that party knew well
that an Indian chase with Kit Carson for a leader, meant fight and win
success or die.
In referring to this adventure Kit Carson, when speaking of the
gallant men who accompanied him, said, "They all proved themselves to
be men of the very best material."
Unfortunately, two of this gallant party have since fallen by the
hands of these same Apache warriors. One of these was Sergeant
Holbrook, a brave man, a skillful soldier and a noble friend. He was
one who adorned his profession of arms and who was an honor to the
country whose uniform he wore. He was killed at the well known battle
of Ceneguilla while bravely fighting against overwhelming odds. This
battle was fought in New Mexico in the year 1854. In it, a company
of United States dragoons were worsted and cut to pieces by a greatly
superior force of these Indians who succeeded in drawing them into an
ambuscade.
The other person referred to as having been since killed by this tribe
of Apaches was a brave and experienced trapper, well known throughout
the range of Indian depredations as a fearless and dangerous
adversary. His name was William New. He was literally murdered at
Rayado by these Apaches. This occurred only a few months after he had
formed one of the party to pursue and recover the animals stolen from
their ranche. When he was attacked, New was engaged tilling the soil
on his own farm. The rascally Indians surrounded him before he became
aware of their presence. Having an empty rifle with him, he succeeded,
for some time, in keeping his assailants at bay, by pretending that
the piece was loaded and pointing it at the foremost warrior as if
he intended to fire it. The savages, however, finally discovered the
truth and immediately made a rush upon him. A most desperate fight
ensued, for William New, even thus defenceless, was not one who
would yield up his life without a struggle. He made almost superhuman
efforts to effect his escape, using the rifle as a club; wound after
wound was given him in rapid succession in return for the desperate
blows which he dealt with the rifle. His efforts, however, proved
futile. Gradually the red blood was gathered from his body and drank
up by the soil to which he looked for the sustenance of himself and
family, until finally, he sank upon the ground fainting from its loss,
literally covered from head to foot with frightful wounds. Thus died
one more of the sparse race of original mountaineers, now fast passing
away, bravely meeting the fate that has hitherto usually awaited this
band of fearless men.
We again turn to the adventures of Kit Carson. On the fifth day of
May, 1850, accompanied by an old mountaineer named Timothy Goodel,
he started with fifty head of mules and horses for Fort Laramie. This
fort is distant from Rayado, over five hundred miles. The object which
the two men had in view was to trade their animals with the emigrants
who were, at that time, thronging the overland route to California.
The journey was safely accomplished, Kit Carson and Goodel arriving
at the fort, with their animals all in good condition, sometime in the
following June. They remained here about one month disposing of their
animals at good bargains.
A few rather amusing anecdotes have had their rise connected with
this visit which Kit Carson made to Fort Laramie. Among several other
incidents the following is somewhat laughable and seems to us worth
relating. Among the line of emigrants then on the road, the report was
circulated for some distance back that the famous Kit Carson was at
the fort. The result was that every man, woman and child, as fast as
they arrived at the fort, were eager to gratify their curiosity by a
sight of the man whose name and exploits had already been the theme of
many a conversation among them. If ever Yankee, or American, (which
is the more appropriate term, we will not attempt to decide)
inquisitiveness was exhibited, it certainly could be then seen at Fort
Laramie. The large majority of those who were thus anxious to see the
famous guide, were led astray by the descriptions which they had heard
and read, and picked out some powerfully built trader who chanced to
present himself, especially if the man was tastefully dressed in a
hunting shirt, with buck-skin leggins, and whose appearance indicated
ferocity. Of this kind of personages there were quite a number present
at the fort. Usually they would accost the man whom they had thus
selected. Sometimes, if their address was appropriate and the humor
of the person accosted so inclined, they would get put right, but more
frequently they were left to enjoy and cherish their mistake, or were
made the subject of a joke. Among the rest there came along quite a
rough looking individual fresh from the cane-brakes of Arkansas. He,
also, was seeking to place his eyes upon Kit Carson. Accidentally, or
intentionally, it matters not for the story, he was directed to the
place where the _bonâ fide_ Kit Carson stood. His powerful frame and
determined looks, as he put his inquiries, made those inquired of,
apparently, cautious how they perpetrated a joke upon the Arkansas
man. At last, standing face to face with Kit Carson, he thus
interrogated him. "I say, stranger, are you Kit Carson?" Being
modestly answered in the affirmative, he stood a moment, apparently
quite taken aback at beholding the short, compact and mild-looking
man that stood before him. Evidently his beau ideal of the great
mountaineer did not compare with the man whom he thus faced. This
momentary hesitation resulted in the conviction that he was being
deceived. The conviction, at last, took form in words. Rolling an
immense quid of his beloved Indian weed from one cheek to its brother
he said, "Look 'ere _stranger_, you can't come that over me any how.
You ain't the kind of Kit Carson I am looking for."
This was too much for Kit Carson to hear without treating the person
addressed to his _beau ideal_ of Kit Carson, so suppressing a laugh,
and assuming a very meek expression of countenance, as if he was
afraid to impose upon the Arkansas man, he quietly pointed to a
powerfully built trader, who chanced to be passing near by, dressed
in true prairie style. The Arkansas emigrant followed around after the
trader until, seemingly, he was perfectly satisfied, that he had, at
last, found the famous person of whom he had heard so many wonderful
stories narrated. After gazing at the man for some time, he departed,
no doubt with one more perfect description of what sort of personage
Kit Carson was.
From the time Kit Carson's name began to be heralded throughout the
world up to the present date, impostors have presented themselves in
various cities; and, acting on the credulity of the people, they have
palmed themselves off as the individual of whom we write; but, from
the perusal of this work, it can be seen how seldom the real Kit
Carson has enjoyed the luxuries of civilized life. It is in this way,
many persons have gathered wrong impressions concerning Kit Carson.
Within the past few years, a stranger one day presented himself in
the quiet town of Taos, and, being a fellow of words, he soon let
everybody there know his business, both past and present. In one of
the principal stores of the town, there happened to be congregated a
small party of friends, among whom was Kit Carson. They were talking
of the important affairs of their section of country, when this
strange individual entered. His familiarity with all things soon gave
him an introduction; and, after a short conversation, a wag present
was tempted, by the fellow's boasting, to quiz him. Addressing the
traveler he asked, "What part of the world, pray sir, do you come
from?"
The answer was prompt.
"I kum from the Cheyenne Nation. I've been living with them Injins fur
several years. Indeed, I consider myself more of an Injin than a white
man."
The conversation then turned upon other matters. The fellow made
some remarks which led the party to believe that he was entirely
unacquainted with the Cheyenne Indians, or any other Indians. When he
was apparently off of his guard, the wag resumed his questioning.
"I presume, stranger, you accompany the Cheyennes when they go out on
war parties, as you say that you have turned warrior."
The reply was:
"When they go out 'gainst t'other Injins, I do; but when they hunt
white men's hair, I am allowed to stay behind. This was one of the
stip'lations when I took a squaw and jined the tribe."
"Oh ho! that is the way you manage!" exclaimed the wag.
"Yes! and I've bin the means of saving some scalps for my race too,
fur the Injins believe in me, they do," continued the fellow.
The wag resumed--
"Perhaps, stranger, you have heard of Kit Carson. It is said he is on
the prairies somewhere, either dead or alive."
The fellow answered:
"You've got me! Know Kit Carson! I reckon I do. It is strange that you
should ask me that, when Kit was the very last man I laid eyes on as I
left our tribe."
Here the fellow lowered his voice and said, as if exemplifying
sympathy.
"Poor Kit was in a very bad way one hour before we parted. The fact
is, you know, he'd bin playin' the papers (meaning gambling) and had
lost everything. However, I made him happy by giving him my gun and
powder-horn. With them, you know, he will git along anywhere!"
All hands, except Kit Carson, joined in the laugh at the fellow's
impudence. Kit Carson's patience was exhausted in listening to the
barefaced falsehoods which the man was uttering; so, with some excuse,
he left the party. The fellow was unapprised of the farce which he had
been acting; and, shortly after, left the town, believing that he had
acquitted himself as became a hero.
By way of episode, and while story-telling keeps its hold on our pen,
we may as well relate a short anecdote, which, though it does not
form any close connection with this part of the narrative, seems to
illustrate the practical jokes which are sometimes played off by the
western men upon those who have yet to undergo their novitiate.
A German accidentally wandered out to and located himself in company
with others on or near the Greenhorn River, which is one of the
tributaries of the Arkansas. Their business was trading with the
Mormons, many of whom at that time traveled to Salt Lake, by what is
known as the Arkansas River route. In so doing, they came near
the vicinity of the site selected for trading purposes. In the
commencement, the German was very inexperienced in matters that
pertained to trading with these emigrants, and, as a matter of
course, in an Indian country, met with many singular adventures. It
so happened that this man was exceedingly afraid of rattlesnakes,
and those he was associated with, by way of amusement, delighted in
augmenting his fears by telling him wonderful stories of what feats
the reptile had been known to perform. On the first trip which he made
to the camp of some Mormons located about nine miles off, his ride
took him through a perfect hot-bed of these snakes. Behind his saddle,
on the horse's back which he rode, he had tied a bag of rice which he
had intended to barter. The German, not being used to riding, was a
poor horseman, while unfortunately, his steed was a spirited animal,
and at once, on his mounting, started off on a trot. The string of the
bag of rice became loosened by the severe jolting, and its contents
came tumbling on the ground in great quantities, but afterwards as the
stock on hand decreased, this was lessened. The German, who had his
hands full to keep his seat in the saddle, heard the rattling noise
behind him, but dared not look around, for fear of being thrown off
from his horse. He supposed he was chased by a ferocious snake, and,
at once, thought only of escape; therefore, seizing the mane of the
horse, he gave him the spurs. He was soon going at a flying gait;
still, the rattling noise pursued him as the increased speed sent the
little grains of rice out of the sack in greater quantities. At last
the sound died away, as the cause of the trouble was expended. The
frightened rider now considered himself safe, and began to rein in his
horse. After a while, he brought him to a stand-still, and turned to
look for his retreating enemy, but instead, found the origin and cause
of the mischief. His loss was irrecoverable, and he could only laugh
at the ridiculous figure he must have cut. This adventure gave his
friends much merriment, and served to open his eyes in reference to
the much vaunted capabilities of this snake. He has since often told
this story of himself, and considers it a capital joke.
The labor of settling up their business at Fort Laramie was soon over,
when Kit Carson and Goodel took their departure. Goodel started
for California, while Kit Carson commenced his tramp homeward. As a
traveling companion, he took with him a Mexican. They pursued their
journey quite pleasantly and safely enough, but, on their arrival
at the Greenhorn River, the scene of the German's adventure with a
rattle-snake, they were obliged to be very wary in their progress, for
Kit had learned that the Apache Indians were out on the warpath, and
were waylaying the road which, he intended to pursue with the avowed
purpose of attacking, plundering and murdering whoever chanced to fall
in their savage clutches. Kit Carson, therefore, halted for six days
on the banks of the Greenhorn, and spent the time recruiting his
animals. While here and thus engaged, a party of white men, whom he
found encamped on the same river, formed the subject of his earnest
attention. They had come thus far on their route to New Mexico, but,
on learning the news of the hostile attitude of the Apache nation,
their courage had entirely deserted them. They did not dare venture
into New Mexico, and counselled the retracing of their steps. Kit
Carson set himself to work, but found he had a difficult task to talk
courage into these men. By dint of much argument, he succeeded in
persuading one of them to accompany him. On the seventh day, with this
one companion--for the Mexican had left him--he broke up his little
camp on the Greenhorn, and set out upon his dangerous journey.
By taking a zigzag course, avoiding, in the mountains, all the usually
traveled trails, he advanced on his route forty miles without seeing
any very fresh Indian signs. As often as the moon was unclouded, the
two men embraced the assistance of its pale light to make progress
through the dangers that beset them; and, on the days which succeeded
this night-work, they would conceal themselves and animals in some
out of the way place, where they were not to be easily discovered. Kit
Carson had not sufficient confidence in the quickness of perception
of his companion to trust him as a sentinel, therefore, he had to
take upon himself all of that important duty. While on the lookout, he
usually posted himself in the top limbs of a tree and always took
care to select one that commanded a good prospect of the surrounding
country. After several days passed without having proper rest, Kit,
in the monotony of his position as sentinel, would feel sleep stealing
over him, until it was difficult to keep longer awake. He would close
his eyes and commence to nod, but on these occasions he was sure to
be quickly aroused on almost losing his balance, by which, however, he
endangered his neck. One day, while thus employed, he was perched in
the highest branches of a lofty old cotton-wood on the banks of the
River Timchera and not far off from the "Spanish Peaks." Nearly
ten hours had passed without anything special having attracted his
attention, when, all at once, a band of straggling Apaches came into
view not over one half mile distant. A single look was sufficient to
convince him that, as yet, neither himself nor his companion had been
discovered. No time was to be lost, so Kit, as quickly as possible,
descended and ran to where his friend was, and informed him of their
danger. The animals were soon saddled, and the two men mounting them,
struck out in a direction just the opposite to that in which the
Indians were traveling. Fortune favored them, as, soon after they had
emerged from the timber into the open prairies, night set in, thus
shutting them out from the view of the savages. Profiting by the
darkness and the level country which lay before them, they reached, by
the rising of the next morning's sun, the Mexican town of Red River,
which was sixty-five miles distant from the place they had last
started from. All dangers having been now surmounted, they made a
sufficient stay at Red River to rest themselves and animals.
On resuming their journey, they jogged along over the now rough trail
and, after a ride of thirty miles, came to Taos, where they were once
more safe from the perils that had so recently surrounded them, and
where they were well provided for by kind friends.
Rio Colorado, or Red River settlement, is, next to Taos, the oldest
town in northern New Mexico. It is located on a small stream of the
same name, which flows into the Rio Grande. The town itself contains
some two or three hundred inhabitants, and occupies rather a pretty
site, being built on a high bank, while between it and the river
there is a large strip of bottom land, which is under cultivation.
The scenery about is picturesque, embracing lofty and bold mountains,
beautiful wood-land and open prairies. The external appearance of the
village is that of abject poverty; and, on entering it, one readily
sees that his eyesight has not deceived him, but that his first
impressions are fully realized. It was here that Fremont and his men
found a haven of safety after meeting their trying reverses on the
fourth exploring expedition. To them, the sight of this town must have
been hailed with delight. In Red River there live two old trappers,
who have long since been weaned from the habits and manners of
civilization. These two men are Canadians, one of them notorious for
the "yarns" he can spin; but as they are many of them past belief,
they are listened to by the traveler as a help to pass the time while
he is obliged to tarry in the place. A young English nobleman who was
on a visit of pleasure to the western country, once fell into this
man's clutches, and, from the trapper's after boasting, we infer that
he (the trapper) more than surpassed himself in story-telling. Among
other things, he informed this nobleman that he had once mastered
a grizzly bear in a hand-to-hand fight by cramming a stick that was
sharpened at both ends into the bear's mouth in such a way that the
monster could not close his jaws, because it fastened and kept them
open. Being asked by the nobleman how large were the _hare_ in that
vicinity of country, his answer was, that he had seen them of such
a magnitude that one would be a load for a man, and that when strung
across the hunter's shoulder, one part was sure to be dragging on the
ground. He then boasted that he had killed a grasshopper that, with
his head cut off, weighed _six ounces_. Notwithstanding his love of
talk, this old man had once been a brave and famous hunter; but no
confidence could be placed in him, owing to his habituated want of
regard for truth and honor; hence, he has long since been excluded
from the companionship of the mountaineers. The English gentleman
above spoken of was an experienced traveler, and therefore undoubtedly
knew how to weigh the truth of his astonishing information.