The night we struck the mines, we camped near the head of Russel's
gulch. The next morning, after we had eaten our breakfast, we started
out to take a look around, and Bridger said, "Where in the name of
common sense do these people come from?" For look in any direction we
would, there was a bunch of men with pick and shovel slung over their
backs, and every little while we came on a bunch of men digging a hold
in the ground.
Later in the forenoon we went to Green Russel's cabin, he being the man
who had discovered the gold in that country. He had never met Uncle Kit
before but had heard a great deal about him. When Carson told him his
name, he invited us into his cabin. After we had talked with him awhile,
he said, "I suppose you all think that I am to blame for all of this
excitement, but if you think so, you are mistaken, so I will clear your
mind and vindicate myself. A year ago last spring my brother, myself,
and five other men came out here to prospect for gold. After we had
prospected all over the country, we discovered this gulch, and we struck
good pay dirt in the first hole we sank. We fixed up a couple of rockers
and went to work, and the first week we took out a hundred dollars to a
rocker. I told the boys that this was good enough for me, so each one of
us staked off a claim, and to prove that each of us had a good claim, we
sank a prospect hole on every claim, and we found that one claim was as
good as another. There was only one of the party who had a family, that
was my brother, the doctor, and as we all thought that we had a good
thing, my brother concluded that he would go home and fix up his affairs
this winter and bring his family out here in the spring, and he agreed
to keep our finding a secret from everyone but his own family, but it
seems that he did not keep his word but spread the news of our luck
broadcast as soon as he struck the first white settlement, and the waste
and destruction which you saw all along the trail from Clear creek to
the gulch are the effects of his folly, although I believe that there
are other mines as good as this in other parts of this country, but
mining for gold is like other kinds of business. Only one man out of a
hundred makes a success out of it."
The next day we were looking around, and we came upon two young men who
said they were brothers, and they were so excited when we came near them
that they could scarcely talk. They had been sinking a prospect hole and
had just struck pay dirt.
We watched them pan out a couple of pans, and they certainly had struck
it rich. After they had staked off their claims, Bridger asked them what
name they would give their new discovery. They said, "There is a
spring at the head of this ravine where we have often drunk and cooled
ourselves, so we shall call our mine 'Spring gulch,'" and I was told by
miners afterwards that these brothers had surely found a rich mine, for
it extended the whole length of the ravine.
I met one of the brothers a number of years after the time I saw them
panning out the gold, and he told me that he and his brother took twenty
thousand dollars apiece out of that mine.
The next day we were knocking around the mining camp, and we ran across
a man whose name was Gregory. He was from Georgia, and he had just
discovered a quartz lead which proved to be very rich in gold.
He showed us some of the quartz that he had taken from it, and we could
see the gold all through the rock. He said that when he sank down a
hundred feet, it would be twice as rich in gold as it was at the top.
There was a town built at this place, and it was called Gregory, and in
two years there were a half a dozen quartz mills built in that vicinity
and quite a number more quartz ledges had been discovered, and they all
paid well.
We had been in this region about two weeks, when I met one of the men
that came with Capt. McKee. We were both surprised to see each other.
I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was mining. He said the
whole company was mining together on a claim they had taken up on south
Clear creek about twelve miles from Russel's gulch, and they had fifty
feet of sluice boxes and were taking out from five to seven dollars a
day to a man, and had ground enough to last them two years.
He insisted on my going back with him to see the mine and said that I
could have an equal interest with the others of the company if I would
join them, and I have always regretted that I did not go and make them a
visit at least for I never saw Capt. McKee again.
I was told afterwards that he made quite a good stake, and then went
back to Texas and married and bought a home and lived and died on it
about seven miles northeast of where Mineral wells is now, and I will
say here that Capt. McKee was like many of his noble statesmen. He was
brave, kindly, honest and true. One of nature's noblemen. He did not
interfere with any man's business and allowed no one to meddle with his
business, and if he professed to be a friend, he was a friend indeed,
one that could be trusted in foul weather as well as fair.
Carson, Bridger, and I remained at Russel's gulch about three weeks, and
we visited many claims and heard the shouts of the successful and the
groans of those who failed, and we all three decided that we had got
enough of mining by looking on without trying our hand at it, so we left
the mining camp and pulled out for Denver, and from Russel's gulch to
the foot of the mountain.
We were never out of sight of teams of every description, and nearly
every person we met asked us how far it was to Russel's gulch.
We were about ten miles on the trail towards Denver when a man asked us
this question, and Jim Bridger answered that if we were anywhere else in
the United States it would be ten miles to Russel's gulch, but by that
trail he reckoned it was about fifty.
The man said, "Doesn't the road get any better?"
Jim said, "I don't call this path a road, but if you do I will tell you
that it gets worse all the way up."
When we reached the foot of the mountains at the crossing at Clear
creek, we found more campers there than when we had left three weeks
before. As we were riding along, Bridger said, "Where, do you suppose
all these people came from?" Kit Carson answered, "Oh, they have come
from all over the east. This excitement has spread like wild fire all
over the country."
Up to this time we had seen but very few families in the crowds of gold
seekers, but when we got to Denver on our return from the mines, we saw
that a great many of the emigrants had their whole families with them,
and it was surprising to see the number of cabins that had been built in
so short a time, and we saw a number of teams hauling logs from the foot
of the mountains to build more cabins, and there had been several little
buildings built and furnished with groceries and dry goods since we had
left there.
The evening we got to Denver we went a little ways up the Platte river
to find a place to camp, and whom should we meet but our old friend Jim
Beckwith. As Carson shook his hand, he said, "Why, Beckwith, I thought
you had more sense than to be caught in a scrape like this."
Beckwith laughed and answered, "Well, Kit, I see I am not the only
durned fool in the country. You seem to be caught in the same scrape
with me," and for the next half hour it was amusing to hear the jokes
these three old friends tossed at each other, for, of course, Bridger
joined in.
After they had their fun with each other, Carson asked Beckwith what he
was doing there. Beckwith answered, "I have staked off a claim here,
Kit. It is not a claim either. It is a farm," and he pointed to a little
bunch of timber a short distance from our camp. "I intended to build a
cabin in that grove of timber," which he afterwards did, and he lived
there about thirty years and died there about fourteen years ago as I
was informed a year ago, when I was in Denver for the first time since
Carson, Bridger and I camped on his claim.
When Jim Beckwith told us that he had taken up land and was going to
build on it and make himself a home there, I wondered what he would do
to make a living. The land seemed to be fertile enough, but I did not
see any chance to sell what he might raise if he tried farming, but I
was told that he cultivated the land for awhile and then it was too
valuable. So he cut it up into lots and sold it, and now it is covered
with business houses and residences, and all this change has taken place
in forty-nine years.
As I stood and looked at the streets and blocks of houses, I found
myself almost doubting that that was the spot where we had camped
forty-nine years ago. When memory called back to my mind what a barren,
desolate country it was at that time, it almost seemed incredible that
such a large city could be built and such a vast change be made in less
than fifty years, and not only in this particular spot but for miles and
miles all through the surrounding country.
While we were in camp, I was down on the banks of Cherry Creek one day,
and there were fifteen or twenty Indians sitting on the bank, and among
them was a squaw who had a pistol in her hand. She seemed to be
playing with it when several white men came along, and one of them was
intoxicated. This one went up to the squaw and, taking hold of the
pistol, tried to wrench it from her hand, and in the struggle the
pistol was discharged and the man dropped dead. Some of his companions
threatened to take vengeance on the Indians, but there were so many
other white men standing around that had witnessed the whole affair and
knew the Indians had done nothing to be molested for, they would not
allow the Indians to be troubled. So the men took the body away, and
that was the end of the affair.
That evening a band of Kiawah Indians came into the town and camped
where the statehouse now stands. I happened to meet some of them, and
being acquainted with them I stopped and talked with them, and they told
me that they were going to have a peace smoke and a dance next day, and
they wanted me to join them, which, knowing it would not be wise to
decline, I promised to do.
When I went back to camp, I told Uncle Kit and the others of the
invitation I had received and accepted. Uncle Kit said, "I guess we are
too old to take a part in the dance, but we can go and look on and watch
the fun." We did not go to the Indian camp until near noon the next
day; and I think there were two or three hundred white men, women and
children standing around the camp when we got there, and the majority of
them had never seen an Indian before.
As Uncle Kit and Bridger and Beckwith did not wish to take a part in the
performance, they kept out of sight of the Indians, and I went into the
camp, and as soon as I arrived the Indians commenced to form the circle
for the peace smoke.
We had all just taken our seats, and the head chief was in the act of
lighting the pipe when he sang out, "O Wah," at the top of his voice,
and in an instant every Indian sprang to his feet and started to run. I
could not think what was the matter until I looked around and saw a man
a short distance from us with a camera in the act of taking a photo of
us, but he never got the picture, for not an Indian stopped running
until his wigwam hid him from view.
The man with the camera looked the disappointment he felt as he came to
me and asked if I were acquainted with those Indians.
He said, "What in creation was the matter with them? What made them get
up and run? I would rather have given fifty dollars than miss taking
that picture."
I could scarcely answer him I was so choked with laughter. But I managed
to tell him that I reckoned the Indians thought that he had some
infernal machine pointed at them that would blow them all to the happy
hunting grounds.
He asked me if I would go and tell the chief that the camera would not
hurt them and try to make them understand what he was doing with it. He
said, "If you can persuade them to let me take a photo of them, I will
pay you well for your trouble."
I told him I would try, but I was doubtful of his getting the picture.
So I went to the chief's wigwam and tried to explain to him and to
persuade him to have him and all the band sit for their pictures to be
taken.
The chief shook his head and said, "Hae-Lo-Hae-Lo white man heap devil,"
which meant "I will not that the white man would do them some evil," and
then he said he was afraid that the white man with the big gun wanted
to kill all his warriors, and all that I could say would not change his
mind.
Carson, Bridger and I staid at Denver three weeks, and then we went back
to Bent's Fort, and when we left Denver, the town and the country in
every direction was covered with wagons belonging to emigrants that
the excitement about gold having been discovered in the mountains had
brought to Denver and the surrounding country.
We reached Bent's Fort late in the afternoon and had not been there over
an hour when three men and a boy came in on foot and brought the news
that the Indians had attacked a train of emigrants and killed them all.
The emigrants were on their way back east, from Cherry Creek, where they
had been led to believe that gold had been discovered.
The men that brought the news of the massacre were so excited that they
could not tell how many people had been killed or how many wagons were
in the train. They said that the train had just broke camp and started
on their way when they heard the report of guns at the head of the
train, and in a moment more the Indians came pouring down upon them,
shooting everyone they met with their bows and arrows. "And," continued
they, "when we saw them shooting and yelling, we broke and run before
they got to us, and we did not stop until we got here." They said all
this in a frightened, breathless way, that showed how excited they were.
Col. Bent sent the men and boy into the dining room to get something
to eat, and Uncle Kit followed them, to try to get some more definite
information regarding the massacre. After awhile Uncle Kit came back,
and Col. Bent asked him what he thought of the news the men had brought.
Carson answered that the men in the dining room did not know anything,
and that he thought they were a party of emigrants who were disappointed
and angry at their luck, and they had tried to vent their spite on some
Indians they had met by firing on them, and had got the worst of the
fight.
"You know, Colonel, that the Comanches have not troubled any white
people in a number of years without they were aggravated to do so."
Col. Bent said, "Well, Kit, are you going down there to investigate the
matter?"
Carson answered, "Yes, and won't you send three men along to bury the
dead?"
Col. Bent said, "Certainly, Kit, and anything else you want. When do you
want to start?"
Carson said, "We will start now."
Carson, Bridger, myself and three other men left the fort for the scene
of the massacre, which we reached at the break of day the next
morning, and the sight that met our eyes was a horrible one. We found
twenty-three dead bodies close together, apparently where the attack had
commenced, and down near the river, in the brush, we found five more,
and also four living men who were not hurt, but frightened nearly to
death.
After Carson had talked with these men a while and they had recovered a
little sense, they told how the dreadful thing occurred.
They had just pulled out from camp that morning when they met the
Indians. There were several men on horseback riding on ahead of the
wagons. When they met the Indians, they commenced to shout "How-How,"
and the horsemen began to fire on the Indians without the Indians doing
a thing to provoke them, and then the Indians had turned on them and
killed every white person they could find, but that they had not been
seen by the Indians, as they ran down the river and hid in the brush.
We searched thoroughly the brush all around for quite a distance, but we
could find no more living or dead.
We could not find out by these men how many there were in the train any
more than we could of the men that came with the news to the fort.
We began to bury the dead, and the four men commenced to look after the
teams and wagons.
In a little while they came back driving three teams, and said they had
found them hooked together, feeding along quietly, and they found that
nothing had been touched or carried away from the wagons.
After Uncle Kit had learned the cause of the massacre, I think he was
the most out of humor that I ever saw him. He said, "Such men as the
ones who fired on those Indians deserve to be shot, for they are not fit
to live in any country," and turning to Bridger he said, "Jim, it has
always been such men as they that has made bad Indians and caused most
all the trouble the whites have had with them, and still the Indians are
blamed for it all, and have to suffer for it all. I hope I shall live to
see the day when these things will be changed in this respect, and the
Indians will have more justice shown them."
But I am very sorry to say that Uncle Kit did not live to see this
accomplished. It was fifty years ago that Kit Carson expressed that wish
in regard to the Indians, but it has never been gratified, for in all
that time the Indians have been driven from one place to another and not
allowed to rest anywhere long at a time, and in my opinion certainly
have not had justice done them by the white race, and I will say this
from my own experience, that when an Indian professes to be a friend he
is a friend indeed, in storm as well as sunshine.
I will tell an instance that occurred four years ago when I was in
Indian Territory. I was sitting on the street in one of the towns when
an old Kiawah Indian came along, and looked at me quite sharply and
walked on a few steps, then turned and looked at me again, and then he
came back to me and slapped me on the shoulder and said, "A-Po-Lilly,"
which meant "Long time ago me know you." I looked at him and said, "No,
you are mistaken, I do not know you," and then he told me where he
had met me and what I had done for him, and as he recounted what had
happened I remembered the incident.
The time I had first met him I was out hunting and met him in the
forest. It was in the Territory of Wyoming, and he had had a fight with
the Sioux, and they had shot his horse, and he was hungry and tired and
footsore. I took him to my camp and fed him and kept him all night, and
the next morning I gave him a horse so he could ride back to his tribe
in more comfort, and I had not seen him since that morning, and this
happened forty years before I saw him again, and he remembered me. He
shook hands with me, which is a custom the Indians have not outgrown,
and left me, but in a few minutes he returned with at least forty of his
tribe with him, and I had to shake hands with every one of them. Some of
them could speak good English, and they told me the story he had told
them about my being kind to him, and they all called me their friend.
This incident shows that the Indian appreciates kindness.
After we had buried the emigrants, which took nearly two days to do,
Carson asked the men who had escaped being massacred where they were
going and what they intended to do.
One of them answered, "If you men will stay with us all night, we will
talk it over and decide what we had better do."
Carson said we had better stay with them that night, so we made a fire
and prepared supper, and while we were eating we saw several more wagons
coming down the trail near the river.
Uncle Kit said to the men that were with us, "Now is your chance, boys.
You can join this train and go home with them."
When the teams drove up, the three men and the boy we had left at the
fort were with them.
They all camped there with us, and after talking with the men, we found
out that none of them claimed the teams and wagons that had been found.
The owners of them had all been killed. The survivors did not know what
to do with the wagons and their contents, and they appealed to Uncle Kit
for advice in the matter.
Carson said, "I do not see that you can do better than take them along
with you. If you leave them here, somebody will come along and take
them, and they belong as much to you as to anyone."
So the next morning they rigged up five wagons with three yoke of cattle
to a wagon, leaving eight wagons with their contents standing where
their owners had left them when the Indians had killed them.
As they were ready to pull out, Uncle Kit went to them and asked them to
give him their names and where they lived, "for," he said, "if I ever
hear where any of the people lived who owned the property you have
taken with you, I want to write to you so you can give them to their
families."
We then bid them all good bye, and they started on their journey home,
Carson having advised them not to molest the Indians no matter how many
or how few they might meet on their way, and then the Indians would not
molest them, as they were a friendly tribe, and that was the last we
ever saw or heard of that party.
We now turned back to Bent's Fort and reached there just before night.
Col. Bent's herder took care of our horses.
That night Carson, Bridger and I consulted together, and Bridger and I
decided to go with Uncle Kit to his home at Taos, Mexico, and stay a
month with him, but fate seemed to step in and change my plans.
The next morning when the herder went out to get our horses he found a
man crawling along, trying to get to the Fort, who was nearly starved
and so weak that he could hardly speak.
The herder put him on his horse and brought him to the Fort, and we gave
him some food. He said this was the first time he had broken his fast in
four days, and then he went on to tell that he and his comrades, which
were four altogether, had been among the first to come out to Cherry
Creek in search of gold the spring before, and after they got there,
they were so disappointed to find that there was not enough gold there
to pay them to stay that they concluded to go and prospect on their own
hooks. Each of them had taken as much provisions as he could carry, with
his gun and blanket, pick and shovel, and they had struck out into the
mountains. They had kept on at the foot of the mountain until they
passed the Arkansaw river, and here they went up into the mountains and
soon lost their way.
"How long we were traveling or where we went, I do not know," continued
the unfortunate man, "and finally we forgot the day of the week. As long
as our ammunition lasted, we did not lack for something to eat, and
foolishly we sometimes shot game we did not need, and after a while our
ammunition gave out, and when that happened it was not long until all
the other stuff was gone, and we could not tell where we were until we
got out of the mountains and saw Pike's Peak, as we knew what direction
Pike's Peak was from Cherry Creek.
"We knew then what direction to take to get back. The second night after
we left the mountains, one of the boys was taken very sick, and as we
could not think of leaving him to die alone, and we had nothing to eat
for him or for ourselves, and I being the strongest, they picked me to
go and try to get relief. It has been four days and nights since I left
them, and I do not believe I have slept over two hours at a time since I
started, I was so anxious to find help to go to them. And besides, I was
so hungry I could not rest. Many a time I have walked as long as I could
keep my eyes open, and I would drop down beside a log and fall asleep
before I struck the ground and slept an hour or two, and then awoke with
that dreadful gnawing in my stomach. Then I got up again and struggled
on, but I could not have gone much farther when the herder got up to me,
for my strength was nearly gone, and I should have given up and died
very soon. Nobody knows what I have suffered on this trip, except they
that have gone through the same ordeal. We have about one hundred
dollars between us, and we are willing to give it to anyone who will go
and carry something to eat and help my comrades to come here."
The looks of the man and the pleading way he talked and the faithfulness
to his friends in trying to get help to them was more pathetic than any
romance could describe it, and could not help but appeal to the heart of
any man.
With the light of deep sympathy in his eyes, Uncle Kit stepped forward
and, stretching out his hand toward the unfortunate, exclaimed, "Do not
worry another moment; your comrades shall have assistance at once, or as
soon as I can reach them," and turning to me, Uncle Kit said, "Willie,
come outside with me a moment," and when I looked at him after I had
followed him, I saw the tears on his cheeks. I had known Kit Carson
several years, but this was the first time I had seen him moved to
tears. He said, "Willie, my boy, can't you find these men as well as
anyone?"
I answered, "Yes, sir; if this man can give me any clue to follow, I
will find them in short order, for I have been all over those mountains
and through the valley several times, and know the country well."
He said, "Well, I thought you could fill the bill if any one could,
Willie; and now go and have three horses saddled, and I will have some
grub fixed up, and by that time the man will have finished eating and
will be more fit to talk to you."
My horses were soon ready, and I went in to see the man. When I went
into the room where he was, I found him lying on a cot, and after I had
talked with him a few moments, I decided in my mind he had left his
comrades not far from where the city of Trinidad now stands. He gave me
the description of nearly all the mountains and streams he had crossed
on his way to the Fort after he had left his friends, and I thought if
he had been correct in his description of his route I could find the
suffering men without much difficulty. When I went out to where the
horses were waiting for me, I found Uncle Kit had packed about forty
pounds of grub on one of the horses. Col. Bent handed me a pint flask of
whiskey, saying, "Now, if these men are alive when you find them, give
them a small quantity of this, but be very careful not to give them too
much at a time, and the same care must be taken in giving them food."
As I was starting, Uncle Kit said, "Now, Willie, if you are successful
in finding the men, I hope to hear from you in two or three weeks. Jim
and I will leave here today for Taos, and you will find us there when
you come home," and he gave me his hand, and with a lingering pressure
said, "Goodbye, and God speed you on your errand of mercy, my boy."
And I mounted my horse and left the Fort, and was off on my long, lonely
journey over trackless prairies and through mountain passes that had
perhaps never been trodden by a white man beforehand. No one can realize
how lonely this journey was. I did not think much about it myself until
I made my camp the first night. After I had staked out my horses and
built a fire, I began to realize what a dreadful state the lost men must
be in, for if I was so hungry, who had eaten a good meal at noon, what
must they be suffering who had had nothing to eat in five days? The
thoughts of the suffering men whom I hoped to rescue from death kept me
awake most of the night, and I fully decided that this was the last time
I would try to sleep until I knew whether they were living or dead. I
was up with the dawn the next morning, and on the way, and I thought if
I did not meet with any bad luck to detain me I would be in the vicinity
of the men I sought by night.
From this time out I knew I must be very careful to look for signs of
the lost men, as hunger might drive them to leave the place where their
comrade had directed me to look for them. When I was a little west
of where the city of Waltzingburge now stands, and the darkness was
beginning to close down, I saw the glimmer of a little fire off to the
right, at what looked about a half mile from me. I thought it might be
an Indian camp and directed my course that way, but when I was within
sight of it and was within a hundred yards or so of the fire, I could
not see a soul stirring around it, but I kept on up to the fire, and
suddenly my horse came near stepping on a man who lay on the ground with
bare feet and nothing under or over him. I sprang from my horse and bent
over him and spoke to him, but he did not answer or move. I then took
hold of his shoulder and shook him gently, and he seemed to rouse up a
little. I said, "What are you laying here for?" and he murmured in a
voice so weak I had to bend my ear close to him to hear, "I have laid
down to die."'
I pulled the flask of whiskey from my pocket and raised him on my arm
and wet his lips with a few drops of the whiskey. I repeated this
several times, as he seemed to have relapsed into unconsciousness, and
I was afraid I was too late to save him or bring him back to
consciousness.
I laid him down and built the fire anew and unpacked my horse and got my
blankets and made a pallet and lifted him on it. Lifting him seemed to
revive him, and the firelight showed me that he had opened his eyes, and
he put his hand on his stomach and whispered, "Oh, how hungry I am."
I gave him a small sup of whiskey, and, taking a piece of buffalo meat
from my pack, I soon had it broiled, and with some bread I began to feed
him in small morsels. I continued to do this for perhaps half an hour,
as he was too weak to swallow much at a time, and I had to wait some
moments before giving him another morsel, and between times I gave him
a taste of the whiskey. Up to now I had no idea he was one of the men I
was hunting for.
It was perhaps an hour from the time that I commenced to feed him when
he seemed to come to himself, and I thought that he was strong enough
to answer me, so I asked him how he came to be here in the weak, almost
dying condition that I had found him in, and then he told me who he was
and how he came to be there, and I knew he was the only survivor left
alive of the three whom I had started out to find.
He said that he had not had a bite to eat in seven days, only what
nourishment he could get by chewing his moccasins.
He had soaked them in water until they were soft and then broiled them
on the coals and eaten them.
I told him how his comrade had been picked up near Bent's Fort in an
exhausted condition, and how he had begged someone to go to the relief
of those he had left starving, and that I had started out to find them
if I could.
He said the one who first fell sick died the same night their comrade
left them to get help, and that the other one and himself were not
strong enough to dig a grave to bury him in, so they left him just as he
had died and crawled away, and they kept on together until near the next
night, when the one that was with him took sick and could go no further.
"And," said he, "I built a fire and we lay down, and I was so weak that
I fell asleep and slept until morning, and when I awoke my companion was
dead and cold. So I was all alone. I could do nothing for him any more
than he and I could for the other one. I left him also and started on
alone, but I could not go far, for I grew so weak. Then the thought came
to me that I could eat my moccasins if I soaked them soft and broiled
them over the coals. After I had eaten them, I was a little stronger and
kept on until I reached this place, when my strength gave out again, and
I built a fire, as I thought for the last time, for I did not expect to
ever leave here. When you came, I heard your voice, but I thought I was
dreaming."
After I had listened to his sad story, I gave him some more to eat and
more whiskey, which seemed to revive him, and he gained strength very
fast, and when the morning came he could sit up and seemed quite
composed, although he was no more than the shadow of a man. But by noon
he could walk around and seemed very anxious to be moving. Late that
afternoon I saddled the horses and assisted him to mount one of them,
and we left the place. He said he had thought that place would be his
last resting place.
We had ridden slowly for about five miles when we came to a stream of
cool water, and where we could have a shady place to lie down and
rest, and I made a camp there and spread a blanket for my sick man and
prepared some supper for us both. I had to remind him many times to be
careful and not eat too much in his weak state, for he was so hungry and
the food tasted so good that he found it difficult to restrain himself
from eating more than was good for him.
For two days it seemed almost impossible for him to get enough to eat,
and although I pitied him, I knew I must not give him all he would have
eaten.
The morning of the third day after I found him, he seemed more rational
than he had since I had been with him. That morning he asked where we
were going, and when I told him we were going to Bent's Fort, where his
comrade was waiting for us, he seemed surprised. He did not remember
that I had told him how the herder at the Fort had found him, and that
it was through his faithful struggle to get help for his starving
friends that I had started out to find them. When I told it all to him
again, he sat and cried like a child.
He said: "How can I ever pay this friend for suffering so much for
me, and you, a stranger, for seeking to find me in the trackless
wilderness?"
And then he told me what each of his comrades said before they died.
He said they were all raised together in one town in Missouri and were
as dear to each other as though they had been brothers, and all their
parents were in Denver, Colorado, where the four sons had left them when
they started out prospecting for gold, and he said with tears in his
eyes, "How can I ever tell their mothers what we all suffered, and how
the two died and their bodies left laying unburied?"
After we had talked as long as I thought was best for him to dwell on
the sad events, I cheered him up as well as I could. I assisted him to
mount the horse I had selected for him to ride, and we pulled out on the
trail for the Fort.
He was so weak that we could not ride over ten miles a day, and we were
seven days going back the same distance that I had traveled in two when
I struck out to find them.
The day before we reached Bent's Fort, I shot a young deer just as we
were going into camp, and as he was eating some of it, he said it was
the sweetest meat he'd ever eaten.
We landed at Bent's Fort on the evening of the seventh day after I
started back with him. His comrade was sitting outside of the Fort when
we came in sight, and when he saw us he hurried to meet us, and when we
were in speaking distance of each other he said:
"Bill, I had given up all hope of ever seeing you again," and he did not
wait for his friend to dismount, but reached up and took him off in his
arms, and men who were used to all kinds of sights turned away with
tears in their eyes at the sight of that meeting.
After they were seated together in the Fort and were more composed, they
began talking about how they should tell the parents of the comrades who
had died in the mountains.
One said, "I can never tell them," and the other said, "We must, for
they will have to be told, and who else will do it?"
They now turned to me and asked if I would take them to Denver, and what
I would charge them for doing it. I said, "Boys, I will take you to
Denver, and when we get there you can pay me whatever you can afford to
pay, be it much or little."
So it was decided that we should leave the Fort in the morning, and, as
we were nearly ready to start, the man who had brought the news and had
remained at the Fort while I went to find his comrades asked Col. Bent
how much his bill would be for the time he had staid there. Col. Bent
said, "You do not owe me a cent," and taking a twenty-dollar gold piece
from his pocket, the Colonel handed it to one of the men, saying as he
did so, "But you can give this to Mr. Drannan, for he is the one that
deserves this and more for what he has done." We mounted our horses and
left the Fort and struck the trail for Denver.
Nothing occurred to impede our journey, and we arrived at Denver on the
third day after we left Fort Bent.
We camped on Cherry Creek on the edge of town.
I said: "Now, boys, I will take care of the horses and cook supper, and
you two can strike out and see if you can find your folks, and if you
have not found them by dark, come back here and get your supper and stay
with me tonight."
They had not been gone more than half an hour when I saw them coming
back, and an elderly man and woman and a young lady were with them.
When they came to me, the man whom I had found unconscious in the
mountains said:
"Father and mother, this is the man who sought and found me and saved my
life."
The father took my hand, and, in a voice that trembled with emotion,
said, "I can never thank you enough for what you have done for my boy
and his mother and me, for he is our only son, and I think our hearts
would have broken if he had shared the sad fate of his two comrades."
The mother gave me her hand without speaking, but her tear-stained face
and smiling lips thanked me more than words could have done. The young
girl, whom the elder man presented as his daughter, thanked me in a
sweet voice for bringing her brother back to them, and when all got
through, I felt almost overpowered with their gratitude.
They insisted on my going home with them to stay all night, which I did,
and the next morning I had the pleasure of meeting the father and mother
and two brothers of the other man.
After I had talked with them all a while, one of the young men asked me
what they should pay me for all the trouble I had taken upon myself in
their cause.
I told them that I would take the twenty dollars that Col. Bent had
given him for me, and as the morning was wearing away, I bid them good
bye and left them and started on my journey to Taos, New Mexico, and my
much-looked-forward-to visit to Uncle Kit, and that was the last time
I ever saw any of these people. But a year ago I was at Denver and had
occasion to call at the office of _The Rocky Mountain News_, which, by
the way, is the oldest newspaper published in the state of Colorado, and
while I was talking with the editor, he alluded to the incident I have
just spoken about and said that the man whom I had found unconscious at
the camp fire in the mountains lived and died at Denver, and that he was
always called "Moccasin Bill," from the fact that he ate his moccasins
while trying to find his way out of the mountains, and that for several
months before he died he seemed to dwell upon that event and always
mentioned how I'd rescued him from certain death on that to him
never-to-be-forgotten occasion.
When I arrived at Taos, I found Uncle Kit and his family all in good
health, and I found Jim Bridger there having what he called a grand good
rest.
As soon as I had been greeted by Uncle Kit and the others of the family,
he asked me how I had succeeded in my quest of the lost, and when I told
him all the particulars, he said:
"Willie, my boy, that was one of the best things you have ever done, and
it is something for you to be proud of doing, and I am proud of having a
share in directing you what to do, and I am very proud of my boy."
I answered, "Uncle Kit, you have always taught me to do my duty on every
occasion, as I have noticed you always do yourself, and it has been the
example you have set before me as well as the instruction you have given
me from my boyhood until now that has made me what I am, and I should be
very sorry to do anything to make you ashamed of or cause you to regret
that you took the little homeless, wandering orphan and gave him a
father's care and protection, and I shall always try to make you love me
whether I can do what will make you proud of me or not."
THE END.