The Life and Adventures of Kit Carson, the Nestor of the Rocky Mountains, from Facts Narrated by Himself

by De Witt C. Peters

CHAPTER XIII.

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."

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.