When home in Taos Kit played much with his swarthy little daughter, Adaline. Just what to do with her appeared to bother him. Oliver once noted him saying, in his soft voice, with broad accent of the South and the border mingled:
“I war raised without schooling; then I ran away an’ I war twelve years on the trail an’ in the mountains ’fore I came out to Bent’s an’ to Taos again. Now I’m thirty-two, an’ without any education ’cept trapper education. ’Tisn’t human for a man not to be able to read or write; an’ what I’m to do with my leetle gal I don’t know. But I want her to have education.”
This seemed to Oliver rather a queer idea from the great Kit Carson, who could shoot and ride and trail and talk Indian talk and make Indian sign, besides speaking a rude Spanish and some French. Why should such a man care to read and write, or wish that his children should read and write? But Kit Carson had been much in earnest, nevertheless.
Now was it the late fall of 1841, and Oliver still was the official herder for the Carson company. However, he had grown very much during these twelve months in the fresh air, riding and tramping and doing man’s work. Tough of muscle and sturdy of frame, he was becoming full-chested like Kit Carson himself. But he could not yet be called a trapper.
The men were kind to him; he liked them; he stood their joking and their rough ways, and tried to do what they told him was best to do. So they apparently liked him, in turn, and would teach him how to shoot quick and straight, and to ride easily and surely.
On this, an afternoon in the last week of November, he had been permitted by Lieutenant Ike Chamberlain (a stalwart six-footer was Ike, and a tremendous fighter, they all said) to take out upon herd Ike’s favorite rifle—a heavy flint-lock, made by the celebrated gun-smith Hawkins, of St. Louis. It was taller than Oliver, and the long barrel was so heavy that he scarcely could hold it out; so when he shot it he rested it upon brush, or crossed sticks, or whatever else was handy. But the bullet sped true to the sight. “Plumb centre” shot a Hawkins rifle.
With the heavy rifle balanced across his lap, with buffalo-horn powder-flask and beaded hide bullet-pouch slung from his shoulders, and with broad, keen skinning-knife belted by hide belt at his right thigh, he was prepared to shoot rabbits. Obeying instructions of Ike and Sol and the other men, he had learned to hit the rabbits only in the head. It was fairer to the rabbit, for the rabbit had more chance of escape by being missed. To hit a rabbit in the body was scorned by mountain-men, and was deemed careless, slovenly work.
Bearing thirteen rabbits shot each through the head by single ball from the flint-lock Hawkins mountain rifle, Oliver proudly drove the Carson “cavvy” home at evening. Laden like valiant hunter he trudged through the village, to exhibit his spoils—and to get his supper.
He found Taos stirred by excitement. Several strange teamsters were forming centres of little groups of listeners. These were Santa Fé caravan teamsters; they had sought Taos to report that between Taos and Santa Fé a band of Indians had stampeded fourteen span of their mules, and to ask help from the Kit Carson men.