He gave himself up at once; an examination was shortly held before the alcalde, where all the facts were elicited, and the verdict of the jury was, "Justifiable homicide."
Thus ended the career of Wal. Henderson, whose bones are reposing on the little hill above the now abandoned camp, where a score or more of others lie who went the same way.
KIT CARSON'S PAWNEE ROCK STORY.
Pawnee Rock has probably been the scene of a hundred fights, and a volume could be written in relation to it. Kit Carson, one night some years ago, when camped half-way up the rugged sides of "Old Baldy" in the Raton Range, told in his peculiarly expressive way, among other border reminiscences, the following little story, the incidents of which occurred long years ago.
The night was cold, although midsummer, and we were huddled around a little fire of pine-knots, more than eight thousand feet above the level of the sea, close to the snow limit. We had left Maxwell's early in the morning to trace a quartz lead that cropped out near the mouth of the copper mine worked by him, and night overtook us many miles from the ranch; so we concluded to remain on the mountain until daylight. We had no blankets, and of course had to sit up through the long hours; and as it was terribly cold, we made a fire, filled our pipes, and spun yarns to keep awake. Our lunch that we had brought was all eaten about noon,—so we were supperless as well; but a swift cold mountain stream ran close to our little camp, and we took a swallow of that occasionally, which served the place of a meal.
Kit (the General, as every one called him) was in a good humor for talking, and we naturally took advantage of this to draw him out,—for usually he was the most reticent of men in relation to his own exploits. The night was pretty dark, there was no moon, and our fire of dry knots blazed up beautifully every time the two Indians, whom we had appointed to this special duty, threw a fresh armful on. The flames cast their weird and fanciful shadows on the side of the mountain, and contrasted curiously with the inky blackness all around below us, while far above could be seen the dim outline of "Old Baldy's" scarred and weather-beaten crest—crag piled upon crag, until they seemed to touch the starlit sky.
For an hour or two the conversation was confined to the probabilities of gold being found in paying quantities in the mountains and gulches of the range; and when the interest on that subject flagged, Maxwell having made a casual remark in relation to some peak near by, just discernible in the darkness, and connecting the locality with some trouble he had had ten or a dozen years before with the Indians, his reminiscences opened Kit Carson's mouth, and he said he remembered one of the "worst difficults" a man ever got into; so he made a fresh corn-shuck cigarette and told us the following about Pawnee Rock, which he said had been written up years ago, and that he had a paper containing it (which he afterward gave me), and which, with what Kit related orally that night, is here presented:
"It was old Jim Gibson—poor fellow, he went under in a fight with the Utes over twenty years ago, and his bones are bleaching somewhere in the dark cañons of the range, or on the slopes of the Spanish Peaks. He used to tell of a scrimmage he and another fellow had on the Arkansas with the Kiowas, in 1836.