Christopher Carson by John S. C. Abbott (100 books to read in a lifetime .txt) 📖

the States. Leaving his animals and wagons on the Kansas frontier, he descended the river to St. Louis in a steamboat. Here he purchased a large stock of goods, and reascending the river, transferred them to his caravan. He then started with his long train to return to New Mexico. His route was through the rich pasturage to be found on the way to Bent's Fort. Just before reaching the ford of the Arkansas, he fell in with an encampment of Cheyenne warriors. They were greatly and justly exasperated by an outrage inflicted upon them by a preceding party of United States recruits. Kit Carson, though unconscious of this, perceived at once that something was wrong. These Indians had been very friendly.

With his customary caution, he ordered the caravan to press forward as rapidly as possible, through the country of the Cheyennes, while every man was ordered to be constantly on guard. Having advanced about twenty miles, he saw that the savage warriors were rapidly gathering around him, in ever increasing numbers. Throwing up an intrenched camp, he rode out to within hailing distance of an advanced party of the warriors, and proposed a council. His friendly words in some degree conciliated them. They were soon seated in a circle, and they smoked the pipe of peace. Carson had addressed them through an interpreter. They did not suppose that the pale face could understand their language. But he did understand it perfectly.

The savages began to talk very loudly among themselves. Carson, understanding every word they said, listened eagerly, hoping to ascertain the cause of their unexpected hostility. Openly, but as they thought secretly, they discussed their plot, treacherously to disarm the whites of their suspicion, and then to arise and massacre them all. With true Indian cunning, they had arranged matters so that it would appear that the Sioux Indians, had perpetrated the massacre, and that the white man's vengeance might fall upon them.

Suddenly Carson sprang to his feet, ordered every man who attended him, to be ready for immediate action. Then to the astonishment of the savages, in pure Cheyenne, he said to them:

"You see that I understand all that you have said. Why do you wish for my scalp? I have ever been the friend of your tribe. No one of you has ever been injured by me. There are some here whom I have met in past years. If they will turn to their memories, they will recall the former hunter of Bent's Fort. I have eaten and drank with them. And now without any provocation from me, you treacherously seek my life. If you do not instantly leave this place, I will order you to be shot."

The warriors disappeared on swift feet. Kit Carson's change of dress had so altered his appearance, that they did not at first recognize him. But they had not forgotten his reputation. Though they had counted his armed teamsters, and saw that they numbered fifteen, the Indian warriors held a grand council, and probably the decision was to withdraw without an attack. Perhaps they remembered their former friendship for Carson; perhaps they were intimidated by his military prowess. At all events, he was not again molested. The remainder of the journey to Razado was accomplished in safety, though the vigilance of this distinguished leader was not intermitted in the slightest degree for a single mile of the way.


CHAPTER XV.

Recollections of Mountain Life.

Character of the Native Indian. - The Caravan. - Interesting
Incident. - Effects of Cholera. - Commission of Joe Smith. - Snow on
the Mountains. - Government Appointment. - Adventure with three
Bears. - Journey to Los Angelos. - Mt. St. Bernardino. - The
Spring. - Character of Men. - Insubordination Quelled. - Suffering
for Water and Relief. - A Talk with Indians.


In writing the life of Kit Carson, my object has been, as has been mentioned, not merely to record those remarkable traits of character which Mr. Carson developed, but also to portray and perpetuate the great features of that wild and wondrous mountaineer life, which the discovery of this continent ushered in, but even the memory of which is now rapidly passing to oblivion.

It so happens that I have an intimate friend who passed ten years of his early manhood roving through these solitudes. I have spent many an evening hour, listening to his recital of the adventures which he encountered there. This friend, Mr. William E. Goodyear, is a man of unusual native strength of mind, of marvellous powers of memory, and I repose implicit confidence in his veracity. At my earnest solicitation, he has furnished me with the following graphic narrative of the scenes which he witnessed nearly a score of years ago, when these regions were rarely visited save by the wild beast and the Indian.

In the year 1852 I, then a young man, in all the vigor of early youth, and of unusual health and strength, when the wildest adventures were a pleasure, was led by peculiar circumstances to undertake a trip across the continent. Our journey from Independence, Missouri, to Salt Lake was accomplished without any incident worthy of especial record. Along the route we were accompanied by almost an incessant caravan of wagons, horsemen and footmen, some bound to the Mormon city, some flocking to the recently discovered gold mines in California, and some on hunting and trapping excursions, to the vast prairies and majestic valleys of the far west. Here we met several men whose names had attained much renown among the pioneers of the wilderness, such men as James Bridger, Tim Goodell, Jim Beckwith, chief of the Crow Indians, William Rogers, a half breed, and Arkansas Sam.

Our company numbered but four, consisting of my uncle, then and now resident in California, who was returning to his home, from a visit to the States; myself, who was crossing the continent mainly for the love of adventure; another young man, and an Indian boy, about sixteen years old, called Joe. The boy had been brought from the Indian country, and was about as wild and ungovernable a spirit as ever chased a buffalo or shouted the war-whoop.

My uncle had often during the previous twenty years, crossed the mountains, on trapping expeditions with an elder brother. In these adventures my uncle, whom I was accompanying, had become quite familiar with the peculiarities of the Indian, and had become acquainted with many of the chiefs of the different tribes. Neither he nor his brother had even been afraid to enter the camp of the Indian; for they had never deceived nor defrauded him.

Let it be remembered that these excursions of my uncle had taken place nearly forty years ago, before unprincipled traders had carried whiskey into the country and robbed the Indians in every possible way. The native Indian seems to have been the soul of honor. But now how changed! contaminated by vagabond white men.

Our company had about a dozen horses and mules. We rode the horses and the well packed mules carried our luggage. We had also a light two horse spring wagon. Behold us, then, three of us, mounted in half Spanish saddles, with our rifles in front lying crossways between our persons and the horn of the saddle. The never-failing revolver and hunting knife were in our belts. The young man drove the wagon which contained many of our most valuable effects.

It was without much thought that we set out on the emigrant trail to California, a distance of about three thousand miles. As on our journey we were one day descending the hills into the valley of the Platte river, near a place called Ash Hollow, our keen-eyed Indian boy exclaimed, "I see Indians." Looking around with a rapid glance and seeing nothing, I said, "I think not." "Yes," he replied, "there certainly are Indians," and pointed to some specks far away before us, on the meadows which skirted the stream.

Sure enough, there was a band of Indians quite distinctly discernible. My uncle looked at them for a moment quite intently and in silence. Then he said:

"Boys! there is a band of Indians on the war-path. I wish you to obey my instructions exactly. Do not stop your riding animals or the team. Keep straight ahead, unless I tell you to halt. Do not fire a shot unless I fire first. Then take deliberate aim and kill as many as you can before you go under."

"Go under!" this was the almost invariable phrase, in the language of the mountains, for death. I well remember my thoughts as we neared them. It was indeed a formidable looking band of Aripaho Indians, hideously painted, and looking more like demons than men, armed for a fight. They were all mounted, and each warrior carried in his hand a long spear and a strong shield, impervious to arrows, made of rawhide. Their bows and arrows were slung to their backs. To my inexperienced eye they seemed incarnate fiends. We had met several small bands of Indians before, but no war party like this.

When we had approached within a few hundred yards of each other, my uncle said:

"Boys! do not forget what I have told you."

Then pressing his large Mexican spurs into the sides of his horse, he darts away towards them upon the full gallop, at the same time shouting something in the Indian language which I did not understand. Their ranks opened and he rode into the centre and instantly dismounted. There was the chief on a splendid charger. He also alighted, and for a moment both were concealed from our view, buried as it were, within the ranks of the plumed warriors. They were, as we afterwards ascertained, fraternally embracing each other. Both remounted their horses, the ranks opened again and they two, my uncle and the chief, rode out upon the full run towards us as our little cavalcade were steadily pressing forward on the trail.

When they reached us, the chief held out his hand to me, and said in broken English, "How do, brother?" I shook hands with him, returning the salutation of "How do." My uncle then turning to me said, "Have you plenty of tobacco with you?" "O yes," I replied rather tremblingly, for I was ill at ease. "You can have it all if you want it." "I don't want it all," uncle replied. "Give me one plug." I gave it to him and he handed it to the chief.

The war party was directly on the trail. Four hundred mounted warriors occupy much space, composing a formidable looking band. Following the directions which had been given us, we continued on the move. The chief waved a signal to his men, to which they promptly responded, opening their ranks and filing to the right and to the left. We passed on through this, living wall bristling with spears, meeting with an occasional greeting of "How do." Having passed through the long lines of the band my uncle said to me, "Keep straight on till night. I will then rejoin you. I am going to have a big smoke with the chief."

With alacrity we obeyed this mandate, glad enough to leave such customers behind us. I confess that I was half frightened to death, and feared I should never see my uncle again. In the evening he joined us and laughed very heartily at me for wishing, in my trepidation, to give the chief all my tobacco.

In after life, in my intercourse with the Indians, I got bravely over being