Читать книгу The Adventures of William F. Drannan - William F. Drannan - Страница 10

One evening in October as I was getting ready to retire for the night, Uncle Kit said to me:

"Now Willie, to-morrow you must put in the day moulding bullets, for we must begin making preparations to go trapping."

This was pleasant news to me, for I had laid around so long with nothing to do but skylark with those Mexican boys, that life was getting to be monotonous.

The reader will understand that in those early days we had only muzzle-loading guns, and for every one of those we had to have a pair of bullet-moulds the size of the rifle, and before starting out on an expedition it was necessary to mould enough bullets to last several weeks, if not the entire trip, and when you realize that almost any time we were liable to get into a "scrap" with the Indians, you can understand that it required a great number of these little leaden missiles to accommodate the red brethren, as well as to meet other uses.

That evening after I had gone to bed, Mr. Hughes said:

"Kit, what are you going to do with that boy?"

"What boy?" asked Uncle Kit, as if he were astonished.

"Why, Willie. What are you going to do with him while we are away trapping?"

"Why, take him along to help us, of course."

"Thunderation!" exclaimed Hughes; "he will only be a bother to us in the mountains."

I had been with Kit Carson three months, and this was the first time I had seen him, apparently, out of humor. But at Hughes' last remark, he said in a decidedly angry tone:

"Jim Hughes, I want you to understand that wherever I go that boy can go, too, if he likes."

Hughes seeing that Carson did not like what he had said about "that boy," turned the matter off by saying that he had only made the remark to tease the boy.

Next morning Uncle Kit started a Mexican lad out to round up the horses, and the next two days were spent in fixing up our pack- saddles preparatory for the trip.

Our horses were as fat as seals, as there was no end to the range for them in this part of the country.

All being in readiness we pulled out from Taos, four of us, Uncle Kit, Mr. Hughes, myself and a Mexican boy named Juan. The latter went along to bring our horses back home.

We crossed back over that spur of the Rocky Mountains that we had came in through, and struck the Arkansas river near where Pueblo, Colo., now stands, and from here we polled for the headwaters of that river, carefully examining every stream we came to for beaver sign.

We saw abundance of game on the trip, such as antelope, deer and buffalo.

When we had traveled up the river about two days, Uncle Kit thought it was not best to take the horses any further as the country was now too rough for them, so we spent the next two days caching our cargo.

As some may not know what a cache is, I will explain.

Cache is French for "hide." A hole is dug in the ground and the things to be hidden are put in there and covered with brush, then with dirt, then more brush and more dirt, and the whole is covered with turf, to make the surface look as natural as possible, so that it is not likely to be discovered by Indians at a distance.

We having about a thousand pounds of stores to cache, it was no small job.

On the morning of the third day in this camp, we all started out to kill some game for Juan to take back home. Mr. Hughes started out in one direction and Uncle Kit and I in the opposite. We had gone but a short distance, when, looking across a canyon, I saw a herd of some kind of animals and asked Uncle Kit what they were. He told me they were bison, and complimented me on having such good eyes.

Bison, by the way, is the distinctive name in that region for mountain buffalo, all buffalo belonging to the bison family.

We then started on a round-about way to try and get in gunshot of the herd, in which we were successful. When we had got in gunshot of them and he had pointed out the one for me to shoot at, he said:

"Now take a rest on that big rock, and when I count three, pull the trigger, and be sure that you break its neck."

The guns went off so near together that I turned and asked Uncle Kit why he didn't shoot, too, for I did not think that he had fired; but as soon as the smoke from our guns had cleared away, I saw two bison kicking their last.

After dressing the animals we returned to camp and learned that Mr. Hughes had killed two deer, which, with the two bisons, were enough to load the pack-horses.

We were now in the extreme south end of South Park, which was mostly a prairie country, except along the streams, and more or less pine trees were scattered here and there along the hillsides.

Next morning we loaded the pack-horses with the game and Juan started back home, alone, with the horses.

After we had seen him off, we rolled up our blankets and taking enough provisions to last several days, we "packed up our packs" and pulled out up the Arkansas again.

This, to me, was like breaking a colt to the saddle, only I didn't buck.

Notwithstanding I had a light pack, for I was a light subject, it was hard work for me. Mr. Hughes had been out the year before, and being a grown man, it did not worry him as it did me. However, we traveled very slowly, looking well all the time for beaver sign.

In the afternoon of the second day we came to where there was plenty of beaver sign. In fact the trees they had gnawed down were so thick that we could not travel along the river, but had to take to the hillsides.

We camped that night at the mouth of a little stream that empties into the Arkansas, and the following morning, after looking over the trapping ground, the two men selected a place to build our winter quarters, and we went to work. They worked at the cabin while I killed the game for our meat and did the cooking, my outfit being a frying-pan, a coffee-pot and a tin cup for each of us.

They were about two weeks getting our cabin, or dugout, completed. It was made by first digging out a place in the hillside, about twelve feet square, and building up the front with logs, then brush and pine boughs, and then the whole with dirt, the door was made of hewed logs, fastened together with crossed pieces by means of wooden pins, and it was hung on heavy wooden hinges.

Our winter quarters being thus completed, Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes set out one morning for the cache, intending to return that same evening. Before starting they told me to go out some time during the day and kill a small deer, that I would be able to carry to camp, and have a good lot of it cooked for supper, as they would be very hungry when they returned that night. They started sometime before daylight, and I stayed around the cabin, clearing things up and cutting wood, until about ten o'clock, then cleaned up my rifle and started out to kill the deer. It was an easy matter to find one, for they were as thick in that country as sheep on a mutton farm. But, boy-like, I wandered off up the canyon about two miles before I found a deer that just suited me, and I wanted to see the country, anyway.

At last I found a little deer that I thought about the right thing and I killed and dressed it—or rather undressed it—threw it on my shoulder and pulled for camp.

Instead of going the way I had come, I climbed out on the ridge to avoid the down timber, that was so thick in the creek bottom. When I was near the top of the ridge, I looked off a short distance and saw three Indians, on foot, going down the ridge in the direction of our dug-out.

I had often heard Uncle Kit tell how the Indians robbed the camps of trappers and that they invariably burned the cabins.

As soon as I got sight of the Indians, I dropped back over the ridge, for, luckily, they had not got sight of me. In a few seconds I did some powerful thinking, and I came to the conclusion that it would never do to let them find our dug-out, for while it would hardly burn, they might carry off our bedding, or destroy it. So I crawled up to a log, took good aim at the leader and fired, striking him just under the arm, bringing him down. The other two dropped to their knees, and looked all around, and I suppose the only thing that saved me was the wind was coming from them to me and blew the smoke from my gun down the canyon, so that they did not see where the shot came from.

I heard Uncle Kit tell of lying on his back and loading his rifle, when in a close place, so I did likewise and crawled up to my log again. The remaining two Indians, having looked all around and seeing no one, had got on their feet again, and were standing with bow and arrow in hand, each having a quiver full of arrows on his back, and if they had got sight of me that would have been the last of Young Kit. But I took aim at one of them and fired, with the same result as before. As my second Indian fell, the third one started back up the ridge, in the direction from which they had come, and if I ever saw an Indian do tall sprinting, that one did. I watched him until he was out of sight, and then loaded my gun, shouldered my deer and went to where the two Indians were lying. They were both as dead as dried herring.

I had never seen an Indian scalped, but had often heard how it was done, so I pulled my hunting-knife and took their top-nots, and again started for the dug-out, a great hunter and Indian fighter, in my own estimation.

I hung the scalps up inside the dug-out, directly in front of the door, so that Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes would see them the first thing on entering the cabin. Then I set about getting supper, all the while thinking what a mighty deed I had done in saving our cabin, which was probably true.

The two men did not return until after dark and they were very tired and hungry, having walked forty miles that day, carrying on the return trip a hundred pounds each. That is a heavy load for a man to carry twenty miles, but they did it, and it was no uncommon thing for the hardy frontiersmen of that day to perform like feats of strength and endurance.

When they pushed open the heavy log door, the scalps were almost in their faces.

"Who did this?" said Uncle Kit, as he threw his heavy pack on the dirt floor.

I told him and he was very much astonished.

"How was it, Willie?" he asked, and I told him the whole story.

While I was telling him the story, as briefly as I could, he showed more agitation than I had ever seen him exhibit.

During all the time I had been with him, he had never spoken a harsh word to me, up to this time. But while we were at supper he said to me:

"My boy, don't let me ever hear of you taking such chances again. Not that I care for you killin' the Injuns, but you took great chances for losing your own hair, for had them redskins got sight of you, by the time they had got through with you, your hide wouldn't have held corn shucks. And it's a mystery to me that they didn't see you."

The following morning after breakfast we all took a trip up the canyon, where I had gone the morning before, and we took with us twelve beaver traps that they had brought up from the cache, and these we set at different places along the stream.

After they were set Uncle Kit asked me if I thought I could find all of them again, and I said I thought I could.

"All right then," he said. "It will be your job to tend these traps, until Jim and me get the balance of the stuff packed up from the cache. Now le's go and see your Injuns."

I took them to where I had shot the two Indians, and Uncle Kit, as soon as he saw them, said:

"They are Utes, and the wust hoss-thieves on the waters of the Colorado. Willie, I'm dog-goned glad you killed 'em. I would a give the best hoss I've got to a been here with you, for I think Old Black Leg would a caught the other feller, afore he got to the top o' the mountain."

"Black Leg" was Uncle Kit's pet name for his rifle.

That night, before going to bed, Uncle Kit said we must be up early next morning, as he and Hughes would have to make another trip to the cache, and that I must tend to the traps and keep a sharp lookout for Indians "But whatever happens," he said, "don't ever be taken prisoner."

They started very early the next morning, and as soon as it was light I struck out to examine the traps. From the twelve I took nine beaver, skinned them, reset the traps, returned to the dug- out and stretched the skins.

The stretching is done by making a bow of a small willow or other pliant wood, for each hide, and then pulling the hide over it. The hides are thus left until they are dry, when the bows are taken out and the hides are packed in a frame made for that purpose, fifty in a bale.

All of this kind of work I had learned at Bent's Fort, while there, from the many trappers there. Besides, Uncle Kit had given me other lessons in the work.

Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes made a trip to the cache every other day until the stuff was all packed up to our winter quarters.

I had my hands full attending to the traps, as the men brought more of them on the second trip, and they set enough of them to make double work for me. One dozen traps is called a "string," and it is considered one man's work, ordinarily, to "tend a string."

The two men brought all the stuff up from the cache in five trips. On the day the last trip was made, I went out early, as usual, to attend to the traps, of which we had thirty-six. That morning I took twenty-three beaver, and seeing that it would be impossible for me to skin them all, I set about to carry them to the dug-out. If ever a boy worked, I did that day, and had just got through carrying them in when Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes returned.

After we had got caught up with our work and rested a few days, Uncle Kit said one morning that we must be out early next day and get our work done so that we could go and kill some elk. "For," said he, "we have got to have meat for the winter and we must have some hides for beds."

In those days the trappers made their beds by first constructing a frame or rough bedstand, over which they stretched a green elk hide, securing that by thongs or strings cut from a green deer skin. By lying on these at once, before they are dry, they get shaped to the body and they make a first-class bed for comfort.

We were out early to the traps next morning, and the catch being somewhat smaller than usual, we got through by 11 o'clock, and after eating a "snack"—a lunch—we started on the elk hunt.

After going about four miles we jumped up a band of fifty elk, which was considered a small herd then. But we didn't get close enough to shoot any of them.

"Let 'em go," said Uncle Kit; "no doubt they will go to the quaking-asp grove, and we can git 'em to-morrow." So we returned to camp without any elk. But the next morning we went to the quaking-asp thicket, and there, sure enough, we found the same band of elk, and succeeded in killing five of them. Thus we had enough meat to last a year, if we had wanted that much, and we had skins enough for our beds and moccasins for the winter.

Now we were in no danger of starving, and from now on we could devote our whole attention to the traps.

I had to work very hard that winter, but I was much better contented than when I was with Drake and in the grasp of that old "nigger wench."

Not until now did I tell Uncle Kit of the prank I played on the black tyrant. I also told him why I was so anxious to get away from St. Louis. That it was I feared Drake would discover me and take me back to his farm and the society of his slaves.

Mr. Hughes here interrupted me to say: "Well Willie, you are safe enough from Drake and the wench, but I think by the time you get out o' here in the spring, you would much rather be with them."

I assured him, however, that he was mistaken, and that I was bent on being a hunter and trapper.

"And an Indian fighter?" he added.

"Yes, and an Indian fighter, too, if you like;" I replied.

Well, we remained at this camp all winter, not seeing a person outside of our own crowd, and to take it on the whole, it was one of the most enjoyable winters of my life. It being my first winter in the mountains, I was learning something new every day, and whenever I found the track of any wild animal that I was not acquainted with, I would report to Uncle Kit, and he would go miles with me to see the sign, and would take great pains to tell me what sort of an animal it was and all about its nature and habits.

This was one of the most successful winter's trapping he had ever had, as we were on entirely new ground, where trapping had not been done before, and, moreover, the weather was particularly favorable.

Winter began to break up about a month earlier than usual, it being toward the last days of March when the snow commenced going off. We then took a pair of blankets each, and enough provisions to last us on our trip, and started for Taos, the only kind of provisions we had left being dried elk and venison. It was an easy matter to cure meat in this style in that country, for the air is so light that meat stuck upon the top of a pole eight or ten feet high, will quickly become dried, or "jerked." Trappers seldom take enough flour and coffee to last all winter, as it made too much bulk and weight to pack so far. Sugar was almost unknown in a trapper camp.

The second day after leaving the dug-out we met Juan, the Mexican boy. He was not bringing our horses, but was carrying a letter for Uncle Kit, from Col. John C. Fremont, asking him to come to Taos, as he wished to employ him as guide for his expedition to California.

That evening, after reading the letter, Uncle Kit said: "Willie, I have got to go to California in the summer to pilot Col. Fremont through. Do you want to go along?"

I said I was perfectly willing to go anywhere that he went.

He said: "We will pass through some mighty rough country, and also through the country of the Utes. If you go, you will, no doubt, have plenty of chances to try your hand at shootin' Injuns, for them Utes are tough nuts."

That didn't scare me a bit, for I was now sixteen years' old, had killed and scalped two Indians, and had already begun to consider myself a hunter and Indian fighter from away back. Besides, when the story of my killing the two Indians got out, I came to be generally called "the boy scalper." But Uncle Kit never spoke of me in that way, for he always respected me as a father would his own son.

Now Uncle Kit was anxious to reach Taos and meet Col. Fremont, so we pushed on with all possible speed until the third day from where we met Juan with the letter, we met Col. Fremont at the crossing of the Arkansas river. He had became over-anxious and had started out to meet us.

It was late in the afternoon, so we went into camp and had supper, which consisted of dried venison and water, but for breakfast we had a change of diet, which was dried elk and water.

We learned that Col. Fremont had been detailed the summer before by the government to command an exploring expedition across the continent, and, if possible, find a better route from the "States" to California.

It leaked out that some of the trappers who did not like to have him in the neighborhood of Bent's Fort, for their own selfish motives, had misinformed him that first summer out, as to the lay of the country, hoping thereby to mislead him and his company into the mountains, where they would get snowed in and die of starvation.

Fremont and his party, consisting of twenty-eight men, had started up the Black Canyon, and they did get snowed in and had to stop for the winter.

They ran out of provisions and killed and ate some of their horses, but the other horses died of starvation and six of the men died of scurvy.

It being late when the Fremont party got into the mountains, and the snow-fall being very deep, the game went early to the lowlands and the men were forced to live on salt bacon and horse-flesh. Even that became scarce and the entire company came near perishing before spring.

In the camp with Col. Fremont that evening Uncle Kit and he made their bargain. Carson was to furnish all the horses and was to have the right to take as many extra men and horses as he liked, also the right to trade for furs and send his men and their horses back whenever he desired to do so.

After eating heartily of the dried venison and hearing Col. Fremont's story of the dreadful experiences of his party in the Black Canyon, it was bedtime, and each man rolled himself in his blankets and soon all were sleeping, as tired men can, out on the plains.

We had an early breakfast, each man's hunk of dried meat being handy, so there was really no preparation to be made, except to wash. No compulsion, however, as to that. But having distinguished company, all hands washed this morning before squatting for breakfast.

While we were eating, Fremont asked whose boy I was. Uncle Kit replied that I was his boy, and "a first-class hunter and trapper, and he shoots Injuns purty well, too." He then related the incident of my killing the two Utes.

All arrangements having been made, Uncle Kit agreeing to meet Col. Fremont at Bent's Fort in three weeks, they separated and we pushed on for Taos. On arriving there Uncle Kit hired two Mexicans to go back with Mr. Hughes to our beaver camp and get the furs, and he gave instructions to take the furs to Santa Fe and dispose of them. Uncle Kit then employed Juan and a Texan boy named John West to assist us in fitting up for our California trip. So at the end of three weeks we met Fremont at Bent's Fort as per agreement.

Fremont's company consisted of twenty-two men, and they were, beyond doubt, the worst looking set of men I ever saw. Many of them were scarcely able to walk from the effects of scurvy and they were generally knocked out.

We had taken with us from Taos a pack-train loaded with vegetables, such as potatoes, onions and the like, and after Freemont's men had associated with those vegetables for a few days, they came out fresh and smiling and were able to travel.

It was about the Middle of May, 1848, that we left Bent's Fort to hunt a new route to the golden shores of California.

The first night out we camped at Fountain Qui Bouille—pronounced Koh-boo-yah—and here a little incident occurred that created much fun for all the party except one—that was me.

As soon as we went into camp, Carson told Johnnie West and me to let Juan take our horses and for us to go out and kill some meat.

We started out in opposite directions, and I had not gone more than a quarter of a mile when I saw a small deer, which I shot, threw on my shoulder and pulled for camp. Only a few rods on the way I came to a little mound of rock about three feet high, and from it flowed a spring of the nicest looking, sparkling water I thought I had ever seen. Being very thirsty, I made a cup of my hat by pinching the rim together, dipped up some of the water and gulped it down, not waiting to see whether it was hot or cold, wet or dry. But a sudden change came over me. I felt a forthwith swelling under the waistband of my buckskin breeches, and I seemed to have an internal and infernal hurricane of gas, which in a second more came rushing through my mouth and nostrils like an eruption from Cotopaxi or Popocatapel. To say that I was frightened would be putting it mild. I rushed down the hill like mad, and fairly flew to camp and up to Uncle Kit, exclaiming as best I could, "I'm poisoned!"

"Pizened?" said Uncle Kit.

"Yes, poisoned;" and just then another rush of gas came through my nostrils.

When the men saw me running so fast they grabbed their guns, thinking the Indians were after me, and quickly surrounded me to hear what was the matter.

Uncle Kit asked me how I got poisoned, and I told him of the spring water I had drank, and asked him if he could do anything to save my life. Then there was another eruption.

Uncle Kit laughed harder than I had ever seen him, but he told me, as fast as he could, that I had drank from a soda spring and that it would not hurt me. Everybody laughed and then all went to the spring to get some of the "poisoned water," which was very good when taken in reasonable quantities and in a reasonable way.

My gun, deer and hat were all lying near the spring, and I secured them, but it was many a day before I heard the last of the "pizen- spring."

Johnnie West came in soon after, having missed all the fun, and Juan and I went with him, taking each a horse, and packed the game into camp.

I was anxious to get away from camp on that little packing trip, hoping the crowd would forget all about the soda-spring before I returned, but I hoped in vain, for when I returned they laughed at and joked me more than ever.

We traveled up the Arkansas river nearly a hundred miles, and as we neared the snow-line the deer and elk were more plentiful and we never went hungry for meat.

At Jimmie's Fork we turned to the left and followed that stream to its head, then crossed over to the Blue river, which is a tributary of the Colorado. Now we were in the Ute country, and had to keep a sharp lookout for Indians. Every evening, after making camp, Uncle Kit would climb to the top of the highest hill near us to look for Indian camps, as it was an easy matter late in the evening to discover their camps by the smoke from their fires. He used to take me along with him, and he would point out different landmarks in the country and would tell me to make close observations, as I would have to return, without him, over the same route and if I were not careful I might lose my way.

On the third day after crossing the divide, we met Tawson, chief of the Apache tribes. Tawson had never met Carson but knew him by reputation; but a number of the warriors were personally acquainted with him.

The Indians all turned about and rode back with us to their village, which was only a short distance away.

Uncle Kit being able to speak Spanish, as were all the Indians in that country, he had quite a talk with the old chief, and in the meantime he had bought all the furs the Indians had to sell.

When we were ready to start from the village, Carson said in

Spanish:

"Now, Tawson, I have always been a friend to your tribe and I will tell you what I'm going to do. In about one moon I will start this boy back through your country, with the horses and two other boys- -referring to Juan and West—and if anything happens to them while passing through your country I will hold you personally responsible."

The chief having heard a great deal of Carson, knew he meant just what he said.

The third day after leaving the Apache village we reached the Colorado river, and we had a hard time finding a suitable place to cross. Finally we decided to build a raft of logs and ferry our stuff on that, and swim the horses. This we did successfully, and also cached the furs to keep them safe until my return.

As soon as we crossed the river we began to see signs of the Ute Indians, and Uncle Kit told me to keep my rifle in trim as I might need it soon.

The second day after crossing the river, about 4 o'clock in the afternoon, and just as we had gone into camp, a band of about forty Indians made a dash for our horses. This was the first time I had ever heard the war-whoop, and it fairly made my hair stand on end. Some of our crowd had seen the Indians while yet a distance off, and when the men yelled "Indians! boys, Indians!" I made a bee-line for Croppy, who had by this time fed himself away about fifty yards from camp. When Col. Fremont saw me start on the run, he asked me where I was going. I told him that I was going for my pony as I didn't intend that the Utes should get him.

By the time I got to Croppy I could see the Indians coming, full tilt, and some of the men had already fired upon them. I got back to camp as fast as I could get Croppy to go, and when in a few yards of the camp, I took a rest off of his back and fired, but I missed my Indian. I reloaded as quickly as possible and laid my gun on Croppy's back again, for another shot, and just then it struck me that the reason I missed the first time was because I didn't take good aim.

Uncle Kit had always taught me that it was not the fastest shooting in an Indian fight that did the most execution, and that it was better to fire one shot with good aim than four at random.

When I went to shoot the second time, Uncle Kit was near me, and he said:

"Take good aim, Willie, before you fire."

I did take good aim and had the satisfaction of seeing the Indian tumble to the ground. But whether I killed him or some one else did, I could not say, for an absolute certainty, but I have always thought he belonged to my list.

The Indians were no match for Col. Fremont's men, being only armed with bows and arrows, and they beat a hasty retreat, closely followed for a distance by the soldiers, who, however, did not get any Indians on the run.

When the men returned to camp, and, as usual, after a scrap with

Indians, were telling how many red-skins they had killed, Uncle

Kit turned to me and asked how many I had got. I said, "one."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "I took a rest off of Croppy's back; with a good aim, at the crack of my rifle, the Indian came down."

The crowd went with me to where I had seen the Indian fall, and there he was, as useless for Indian work as Powhattan is.

Col. Fremont then asked the soldiers where were their dead

Indians, and Uncle Kit said:

"I reckon Willie is the only one that got his man. Didn't I tell you, Colonel, that he could shoot Injuns?"

However, after looking around awhile, he found five more dead Indians, and, doubtless, more were killed but were carried away by their companions.

The only harm the Indians did our party was to wound two of

Fremont's men, slightly.

This was the last trouble we had with the Utes on the trip.

The second day from this little brush we struck a village of Goshoot Indians, and there Uncle Kit bought enough furs to make out his cargo.

We went into camp here for the night, but Uncle Kit and I did not sleep much, as we were up very late as we did not expect to meet again until the next spring, and he had a great deal to tell me before we parted.

The following morning Johnnie West, Juan and I loaded up and started for Santa Fe, and Uncle Kit went on to Los Angeles with Col. Fremont, as guide.

Before I left camp that morning, Col. Fremont, unbeknown to Uncle

Kit, came to me and said:

"Willie, in about a year from now I will be on my way back to St. Louis, and I will take you home with me if you would like to go. I will send you to school and make a man of you. You are too good a boy to spend your life here, in this wild country."

But I told him I was perfectly satisfied to remain with Kit

Carson.

Had Uncle Kit known of that conversation I think he would have been very much displeased, and it might have caused serious trouble. Therefore I kept my own counsel and did not mention the matter to Carson.

Us boys were four weeks making the return trip to Santa Fe, and we did not see a hostile Indian on the way. I wondered much at that, but a year or two afterward Uncle Kit told me that the Apaches saw us every day and were protecting us, for he had seen Tawson on his return and the chief told him that we had gone through safe.

We arrived at Santa Fe about the first of October, and there I met Jim Hughes, who was waiting our arrival, and I was very glad to see him. I gave him a letter that Uncle Kit had sent him concerning our trapping for the coming winter.

Mr. Hughes said that he was glad that we had got back so early, for it was time we were getting into the mountains for our winter work.

I asked him if we would trap in the same place as the winter before, and he said we would not, as he had brought all the traps out to Taos, and we would go the next winter up to North Park, as he had just returned from there and knew we could put in a good winter's work, as it was new trapping ground that had not been worked, and it was a fine country, too.

Soon as we had got rid of our furs, which Mr. Hughes had sold before our arrival, we pulled out for Taos and begun operations for going to North Park.

All being in readiness in a few days thereafter, Mr. Hughes, Johnnie West and I had started for the new trapping ground, taking Juan along, again, to fetch our horses home. We had to travel over some rough country on the way, but found the North Park a fine region, with scattering pine timber on the hills and quaking-asp and willows along the streams. I have been told that this park is now owned by sheep men, and it is an excellent region for their business.

After looking around over our trapping field Mr. Hughes selected a suitable place for our winter cabin, and we fell to work building it. This time we built entirely above ground with pine logs, an unusual thing for trappers to do.

As soon as our cabin was built, Juan returned to Taos with the horses and we set into our winter's employment.

In those days hunters never wore boots or shoes, but moccasins from the tanned hides of elk. This winter we made enough gloves and moccasins to last us for two years, and each made himself a buckskin suit, out and out.

Game was very plentiful in that country, such as moose, elk and deer, and early in the winter a few mountain buffalo.

We were successful this winter, our beaver catch being nearly eight hundred. The winter was also an unusually long one, lasting until far into April.

After the snow had gone off so that we could travel, Jim Hughes, who had been our foreman, in the absence of Carson, asked me if I thought I could find the way back to Taos, which I said I could. He said that one of us would have to go and get our horses to pack the furs in on.

It was now the spring of 1849 and I was seventeen years old, but it looked to me to be a big undertaking for a boy of my age, a trip of three hundred miles, a foot and alone, with my rifle and blankets; but some one had to go, and I agreed to tackle the trip.

This was on Saturday, and as we never worked on Sundays, except to tend the traps, Mr. Hughes and Johnnie West talked the matter over and decided that before I started away we had better cache the furs and such traps as they would not use in my absence. This was done, so that in the event of their being killed by the Indians, I could find the furs on my return. It was a wise conclusion, as will be seen later on.

It was the custom of the Utes to cross over the mountains in small squads every spring and kill all the trappers they could find and take their traps and furs.

On Monday morning we all set about to cache the furs and traps that would not be used, and it took two days hard work to accomplish the task. Then I made preparations to start on my journey to Taos.

Mr. Hughes thought that as it would be a long and tedious trip, I had better rest up a day or two before starting, but I thought that as I had to make the trip I might as well begin first as last, so Wednesday morning was set as the time for my start.