All being ready, Uncle Kit, Johnnie West and myself pulled out for South Park. We passed over a high range of mountains, struck the Park on the east side, and a more beautiful sight I never saw than the region was at that time. Coming in from the direction mentioned, one could overlook the entire park, which was almost surrounded by snow-capped mountains, and the valley, several miles below, which was about eighty miles long and from ten to twenty miles wide, was as green as a wheatfield in June. When we were near the valley we could see elk in bands of a hundred or more, with small herds of bison scattered here and there in the valley, and antelope by the hundred.

I had often heard of a hunter's paradise, and when I got sight of this lovely valley, with its thousands of wild animals of almost every description known to the continent, I made up my mind that if there ever was such a place as a hunter's paradise, I had surely found it. The high mountains with scattering pine trees on the sides; the snowy white peaks above the timber line, and the many little mountain streams and rills that paid tribute to the main stream that coursed this beautiful valley, all combined to form a scene of magnificent grandeur. The quaking-asp, balm and various other kinds of small timber that grew along the streams all helped to add to the beauty of the scene.

We crossed over to the west side to a cove that ran back some twelve miles from the main valley; here, we decided, was the best place to establish our winter quarters. Every little mountain stream in the valley was alive with beaver, and Uncle Kit thought it so late that we would not be bothered by the Indians that fall, but, that we would have to get out early the following spring. Feeling perfectly safe, we built our cabin this winter entirely on top of the ground, consequently we were not long in getting our winter quarters completed and were soon ready to start in trapping. We had excellent success this winter; very little snow to contend with, making it much better getting around than usual and an easier task to look after strings of traps.

In those cases each man had his string of traps, and it was his business to go to each trap every day, take the beaver out, skin them, set the traps, carry the skins home and stretch them. Sometimes we would trap as far as seven miles from camp, that being the outside limit. After we had trapped here about three weeks there came a light fall of snow which drove most of the game to the valley, and we experienced no trouble in getting all the meat we wanted close to camp, in fact we could often kill deer and antelope from our cabin door.

The second morning after the snowfall, Uncle Kit, Johnnie West and myself all started down the valley to took after our traps. We went about a mile together, I left the other two, my traps being the farthest away, some three miles down the valley. After leaving the other two I struck out down the valley on a turkey trot, that being my usual gait when alone. I had not gone far when I heard two gun shots. Thinking that Uncle Kit and Johnnie had been attacked by the Indians, I turned in the direction that I heard the shooting, and ran back much faster than I had come, but had not gone far when I saw ahead of me, up the narrow valley, a band of about twenty bison coming direct for me. I thought by shooting the leader it might check their speed and perhaps cause them to change their course. So I brought my gun to my face and dropped the leader, but it neither caused the others to halt or change their course, and they were making a bee line for me, and there was not a tree in reach large enough for me to climb nor a place of any kind that I could hide.

Now I was not long in making up my mind that I had a first-class foot-race on my hands--as an Irishman might say--and after running some distance I looked back and saw the bison were on me at every jump. Had I only known the nature of bison, which I learned afterward were not so vicious as buffalo, I could have turned to the right or left and they would have passed on; but thinking that they were after me, I got out like a quarter-horse, putting in my best licks to try to reach a wash-out that I knew of ahead of me. Thinking that if I only could reach that ditch I might have some possible show for my life, I lost no time in getting there, but got right down to business and did the prettiest running I have ever done in my life. Every time I looked back I saw that the rushing herd was closer upon me, until they were within a few feet, and by the time I reached the ditch I fancied that I could feel the bsreath from the nostrils of a half dozen bison on the rear base of my buckskin trousers. Then into the ditch I went, head-long and into about four feet of water. It seemed to me that those buffalo were half an hour crossing that ditch, but I stood perfectly quiet in the water up to my waist until they had all passed over.

The ditch being deep and the banks perpendicular, I had to wade the water for some distance up the ditch before I could find a place where I could climb out. I had just scrambled up the bank and shaken myself, when up came Uncle Kit and Johnnie, who had heard the report of my gun and had come to see whether or not I had killed anything.

"Rather cold to go bathing," said Uncle Kit. "When I go bathin' I allus pull off my buckskin suit."

But I told them I considered myself lucky to be able to find a suitable place to go swimming just at that time, and congratulated myself on being all there.

Aside from my race with the bison, I put in a very pleasant winter, and Uncle Kit said he had never spent as pleasant a time in the mountains as he did that winter in South Park. "In fact," said he, "it was more like a pleasure trip than anything else."

Our camp at this time was near where the town of Tarryall has since been built, and we ranged our horses in the extreme south end of the park, where they had the best kind of grazing the entire winter.

It was in the latter part of March--this now being the spring of 1852--when Uncle Kit made a trip to the south end of the park to get our horses, thinking we had stayed there about as long as it was safe.

During his absence Johnnie West and I were busily engaged in making preparations to start for Bent's Fort, as soon as Carson should get back with the horses. On his return he informed us that he would not leave the park until about the first of May, which was a surprise and disappointment to us both, as we had made all calculations on getting started the following day. We asked what was up that we were to be detained so long.

"On my trip for the horses," said Carson, "I saw some Injuns of the Comaneche tribe, and they told me that them and the Utes war goin' to have a battle as soon as the Utes can cross the mountains, and the place for the battle decided on is in the south end of the park." He also said that with all the Indian fighting he had been mixed up in he had never before had an opportunity to see two tribes come together, and that he would not miss seeing it for any consideration.

In those days each tribe of Indians had their own scope of hunting and trapping ground, and if one tribe was caught intruding upon the rights of another tribe it was apt to cause trouble.

As I have said before, South Park was a hunter's paradise in the winter, and added to this, in the summer almost the entire valley was covered with wild strawberries. Along the many little mountain streams were abundance of wild gooseberries, blackberries and wild currants, while on the hillsides were acres of wild raspberries. In fact almost every variety of berries that there grew west of the Missouri river could be found in South Park; while the streams were full of the finest quality of mountain trout as well as many other kinds of fish.

The two tribes of Indians mentioned had been in dispute for a number of years as to their boundary line, each claiming South Park, and this battle had been arranged the fall before by the chiefs, also the place decided upon for the battle, which was to be on a little stream in the extreme south end of the park, that has since gone by the name of Battle Creek.

Battle Creek heads in the Pike's Peak range of mountains, and runs almost due west. The particular spot selected for this battle was on this creek, about two miles from where it empties into the stream that runs through the park.

No better place could have been selected for the fight. There were scattering pines here and there, with not a bush of any kind to interfere with their wild charges, and a gentle slope from each side to the stream which we might call the dead line.

The Comanches were to occupy the south side, while the Utes were on the north.

As this battle was to settle for all time the long-disputed right of these two powerful tribes, it was likely to be no tame affair.

This was what might be called a civil war between two tribes of Indians. They had quarreled so long over this portion of the country that the two chiefs had met and decided to have it settled for, and the conditions of the battle were as follows: In the event of the Comanches being victorious they were to have South Park; the summit of the Rocky Mountains to be the boundary line. And in the event of the Utes being victorious, the boundary line was to be at the foot of the Rocky Mountains on the eastern slope, the country in dispute comprising all of the territory between the Arkansas river and South Platte, including South Park.

About two weeks before the time set for the battle, the Comanche warriors began to arrive. Some brought their families while others did not.

Uncle Kit, being well acquainted with the Comanche chief, as well as the most of his warriors, loaded up all his furs and we moved over near the Comanches' quarters a few days before the battle was to take place.

As the Comanches came in they would pitch their wick-i-ups back on the hill about a quarter of a mile south of the little stream, which was to be their line of battle. They were all on hand before any of the Utes came across the mountains.

About two days from the time the last of the Comanches came to the ground, there was a little squad of Utes came in and pitched their camp about the same distance from the little stream as the Comanches, only on the opposite side.

This little squad of Indians came on ahead to ascertain whether they would be able to cross the mountains, and if they did not return in so many days the others would take it for granted that all was clear and would follow, which they did, and a few days later the entire Ute nation was there.

The battle did not begin for two or three days after all the Utes were on the ground, thereby giving both sides ample time to kill plenty of game to last them through the war.

During the time they were preparing for battle, neither tribe seemed to make any attempt to molest their enemy in any way whatever, but apparently looked upon it as a matter of business and proposed to fight it out on the square.

During the time we were awaiting the battle, Kiwatchee, chief of the Comanches, who was a very intelligent Indian in his way, and could speak French fairly well, and who was also an intimate friend of Kit Carson, came to Uncle Kit and said:

"I know you are a great chief and I want to hire you and your men to help me whip the Utes.

"If you help me fight the Utes I will give you five ponies each."

Kit Carson declined by telling Kiwatchee that he did not come to fight, but as he had never witnessed a war between two tribes of Indians, he had come merely to look on, and as the war was for the purpose of settling a dispute between the two tribes, he did not think it would be right for him to interfere. Kiwatchee insisted on our entering into the battle and asked how many horses we would take to help him fight the Utes. But Uncle Kit told him he would take no hand in the affair.

We were camped on the hill near the Comanches, where we could overlook the entire battle-ground, as well as the Ute camp. We dared not go near the Utes, for they were not at all friendly toward the pale-faces, and in case the Utes were victorious we would have to flee with the Comanches.

The day before the battle was to take place, Kiwatchee came and said to us:

"To-morrow we will fight."

We asked him how long he thought the battle would last. Kiwatchee said he thought he could whip the Utes in one day.

The following morning about sunrise, just as we were eating breakfast, the two chiefs commenced beating their war-drums, which was a signal to call their men together. The war-drum, or what the Comanches call a "tum-tum," was made of a piece of hollow log about eight inches long, with a piece of untanned deerskin stretched over one end. This the war chief would take under one arm and beat on it with a stick. When the tum-tums sounded the first morning there was great commotion among the Indians. At the first tap the war-whoop could be heard, and in a few moments both tribes of Indians were down at the little stream, each formed in line on his own side.

On arriving at the stream the tum-tums ceased and were not heard again till the Indians were formed in line of battle and each war- chief passed down in front of his men, after which they again commenced beating on the tum-tums, and at that the arrows began flying.

Now the fun had commenced in earnest, and of all the war-whoops I ever heard they were there, and the more noise the Indians made the harder they would fight.

After they had fought for about two hours they seemed to get more cautious than at the start, and would look for some advantage to take of the enemy.

They fought hard all day; sometimes the Comanches would cross over to the same side with the Utes, and I saw many hand-to-hand fights with tomahawks and knives. At other times the Utes would cross over on the Comanche side of the stream, but would soon retreat again, and each side would resume their old position for a time. About sunset both tribes withdrew, apparently by mutual agreement, each side returning to camp for supper.

I did not learn how many Comanches were killed that day, but there were some twenty odd wounded, and some of them fatally. The night was made hideous by the shrieks and cries of the squaws and children of the warriors who had been killed or wounded during the day.

Neither tribe put out picket guards during the night.

The next morning about sunrise the war-chiefs were out beating on the tum-tums. The warriors did not hasten around so briskly as the morning before, however, they were soon at the spot and ready for battle.

After going through the same manoeuvres as the morning before, the war-woops rang out loud and shrill, and again the arrows began to fly. The contestants fought hard all day again, without ceasing. About the middle of the afternoon the Comanches made a desperate charge on the Utes, crossing the creek and fighting them at close quarters. Among the Comanches was one Indian in particular that I was acquainted with, that I saw engaged in a number of hand-to- hand fights, and always came out victorious, but he got badly used up during the day. This Indian went by the name of White Bird, and he was beyond doubt the worst disfigured piece of humanity I ever saw, but he fought on, and he seemed to say by his actions:

"I am slightly disfigured, but still in the ring."

About sundown the two armies again withdrew for refreshments and repairs.

That evening after eating my supper! went over to White Bird's wick-i-up and found him sitting there, bloody from head to foot, with a huge cut on one cheek, another on one side of the head, and numerous other wounds, making him the most horrible specimen of humanity that I had ever seen living. He had not even washed the blood from his face or hands, but was sitting there telling his squaw and children how many Utes he had killed during the day, apparently as cool and unconcerned as though nothing had happened him. But he was not able for duty the next day, and died about ten o'clock.

We never learned where the Indians buried their dead, for they took them away during the night and disposed of them in some manner.

There were more Indians killed and wounded the second day than the first, and that night the Comanches had a big war-dance over the scalps they had taken

The morning of the third day each tribe marched down at about the usual hour and resumed their positions in the line of battle, and that morning they fought more cautiously than before, until about ten o'clock, when the Utes made their first big charge on the Comanches, and they had a hard fight, which resulted in the death of many Indians, and the Utes retreated with considerably the worst of it.

In this charge we counted over forty Utes that were killed and scalped.

After the Comanches had driven the Utes back, Johnnie West and I went down within about fifty yards and sat there until the war was ended. About the middle of the afternoon of the third day, the old war-chief of the Comanches rushed up and commenced to shout, "Co- chah! Co-chah!" which meant to go ahead, or, in other words, to charge. Johnnie West, who understood the language, turned to me and said:

"The Comanches are going to make another charge."

Sure enough, they did; crossing the creek and made a desperate rush for the Utes, but the Utes could not stand the pressure and retreated, the Comanches following them to the top of the hill where the Utes were camped, it being understood between the two chiefs that, when either army or tribe was driven back to the top of the hill, they had lost the battle.

The Comanches now returned, singing and shouting at the top of their voices, and in a short time a little squad of Comanches came in with about one hundred head of Ute horses. We never learned whether they had captured the horses or whether they had won them in the battle.

That night the Comanches had another big war-dance, and while the unfortunate squaws and children were weeping over the loss of their fathers and husbands, the victorious warriors were dancing, singing and shouting, and while dancing, each warrior would try to show as near as he could the mariner in which he killed and scalped his enemy, and of all the silly maneuvers a white man ever witnessed, it was there at that war-dance.

The next morning there was not a Ute to be seen, all having left during the night.

The day following, the Comanches broke camp and started back for their main village on the Arkansas river. We broke camp and started out ahead of them, and in four days reached Bent's Fort, where Uncle Kit sold his furs to Colonel Bent and Mr. Roubidoux.

These two kept a boarding-house at the Fort, and this being the general loafing place during the summer season for most of the trappers in this part of the country, they also kept whiskey, and after the trappers had sold their furs, many of them would stop around the Fort and pay board for about three or four months during each summer, and by the time they were ready to start trapping again, Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux would have all of their money back for grub and whiskey, and, in fact, many of them would be in debt to them.

There being so much stock around the Fort the game was driven back so far that it became necessary to go considerable distance to get any. Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux proposed to hire Johnnie West and I to hunt for them for two months, saying that they had not had fresh meat half of the time the past spring. We agreed to work for them for two months, they being willing to pay us fifty dollars each per month, with the understanding that in case we kept them in meat all summer they would pay us extra wages. They now having some thirty odd boarders, it took a great deal of meat, and having to go some distance for game we had to pack it on pack-horses. We hunted for them two months, and at the end of that time we had kept them in meat and had enough ahead to last them one month longer.

It now being time to start out to look for trapping ground for the coming winter, we went to Col. Bent for a settlement, and after he had counted out our hundred dollars each he asked us how much extra wages we thought we should have. I told him I was perfectly willing to leave it to Mr. Roubidoux, and Johnnie being willing to do that also, Mr. Roubidoux told the Colonel to pay us twenty dollars each, extra, all of which was agreeable to us, and they engaged us to hunt for them the next summer at seventy-five dollars per month.

We returned now to Taos to prepare for the winter's trapping.

Arriving at Taos I learned that Uncle Kit had his trapping company already organized for the coming winter, consisting of himself, Jim Bridger, Jim Beckwith, Jake Harrington, Johnnie West and myself, six in all.

Early in the fall of 1852 we pulled out for the head of Green river, which was a long and tedious journey, being more than eight hundred miles from Taos and over a rough country. We took the trail along the foot of the Rocky Mountains, running north until after crossing North Platte. Here we struck across the Bad Lands, and I thought that if there ever was a place rightly named, it surely was this section of country. We were three days crossing this God-forsaken country; and we would often travel a half day without seeing a living thing of any description. From there we struck across the main divide of the Rocky Mountains, and were three days crossing over to the headwaters of Green river, and were somewhat disappointed when we learned that Green river had been trapped over by the Hudson Bay Company the year before. However, we were there, and it was too late to look up another trapping-ground, so we occupied some of the old cabins that had been erected by the Hudson Bay Company and went to trapping.

Notwithstanding the country had all been trapped over, we had fair success, or, at least, much better than we expected. We stayed there and trapped until some time in February, when we pulled up and moved down Green river nearly twenty miles and there we trapped for two weeks, but not with as good success as we had had at the old camp.

We again moved camp down to what was known as Hell's Hole. There we found about forty French Canadians trapping for the Hudson Bay Company, who, by the way, had plenty of bad whiskey. They were not very friendly toward the new arrivals.

Among the party was a big fellow by the name of Shewman, that seemed to think himself a very bad man; he did not appear to have any love or respect for any American trapper, which was the case with the general run of those French Canadians who were in the employ of the Hudson Bay Company.

This man Shewman seemed to have a great antipathy toward Kit Carson.

If the reader will pardon me, I would like to say just here, that while Kit Carson was the last man to offer an insult, yet, at the same time, if challenged, he would fight any man living rather than be called a coward, and in those days the character of men concerning whom this work is written quarreled but very little. If a man insulted another, ten chances to one he would be challenged to fight a duel; and in such a case he would either have to fight or be branded as a coward, and the sooner he left the crowd the better it would be for him, for he could see no peace while remaining with them.

The third day we arrived at the place spoken of, this man Shewman got pretty well ginned up and started out to look for Uncle Kit, saying that he had heard a great deal of Kit Carson and of his fighting proclivities, and that he would lick him on sight. One of Shewman's friends, knowing Kit Carson by reputation, tried to induce him to let Kit alone and have nothing to do with him, but the more they said to him the madder he got, until finally he was raging with anger.

It happened that while he was in his rage, Uncle Kit, Jake Harrington and I, knowing nothing of Shewman's mad fit, started out to look after our horses and had to pass near their camp. Just as we were passing by their cabin, Shewman said:

"There goes the d--d white-faced American now. Look at him, he looks just like a coward, and he is a d--d cowardly cur, just like all the rest of the Americans."

Uncle Kit stopped and addressed him in the following manner:

"I am an American and I feel proud of the name, but I would have you understand that I am no coward. I will fight you any way that you wish."

Shewman said: "If you want me to kill you, get your horse and I will get mine, and we will get one hundred yards apart and start at the word. After we start, each fire when we please."

This Uncle Kit agreed to, saying: "There is my horse, I will be ready in three minutes. Get ready as soon as you please; as you seem to want to fight, I will accommodate you."

I had been with Uncle Kit now since 1847, and this was the first time I had ever seen him in any serious trouble, and I was surprised at the cool and unexcited manner in which he talked to Shewman. He was apparently as cool as though he was just in the act of starting out buffalo hunting. There was a smile on his countenance when he was talking to Shewman about the fight that was to take place, in which one of them was to lose his life.

I had been with Kit Carson long enough to know better than to say anything to him, but Jake Harrington followed him out to where his horse was, and started in to try to talk him out of the notion by telling him that Shewman was drinking. He turned to Harrington and said: "Jake, I thought you were an American, and would fight for the name." Harrington, seeing that Uncle Kit was determined in the matter, said no more.

Carson went out to where his saddle-horse was feeding, caught him and took a half-hitch around his nose with the riatta, jumped on him without any saddle, and by this time Shewman was on his horse also, with his rifle in hand.

Up to this time I had not said a word to Uncle Kit, but as I came up I asked him if he was not going to get his gun.

"No," said he, "this is all the gun I want;" and he took out his pistol and rode away a few rods, so that Jake Harrington and I would not be in range of the bullets from Shewman's gun, and stopped to wait for Shewman to give the word. A number of Shewman's friends tried to persuade him not to start, but their talk only seemed to add to his rage. After they had exhausted all their persuasive powers, and seeing that he was so determined in the matter, they let him go.

He cried out in French that he was ready, and at that moment they both started their horses at full speed toward each other. When within thirty yards, Shewman fired, and at the crack of his gun, Jake Harrington clapped his hands and shouted: "Good! good! Uncle Kit is safe."

We could not see any sign of his being hit, and when a few yards nearer each other, Uncle Kit fired, and Shewman fell to the ground mortally wounded, the bullet passing through his body just above the heart.

Shewman lived until Uncle Kit got to him, then he acknowledged that it was all his own fault, and that it was good enough for him.

As soon as the fight was ended, Jake Harrington and I ran into camp to notify the rest of our crowd, thinking that we would have to fight the entire Canadian outfit of trappers, but we found it quite different, for after the fight they were more friendly toward us than before. We stayed two days and helped to bury Shewman.

This was the first white man that I had ever seen buried in the Rocky Mountains.

We rolled him up in a blanket, laid him in the grave and covered him with dirt. The funeral being over, our party started for Bent's Fort.

The third day's travel brought us to Sweetwater, where we came to the top of a hill, from which we could overlook the entire valley, which was covered with wagons and tents. This was a large train of emigrants from various portions of the East who had started the year before and had wintered on Platte river, the edge of settlement, and when spring opened they had resumed their journey.

After supper that evening, Uncle Kit suggested that we visit the emigrant camp and see the ladies, which did not altogether meet with my approval, but rather than be called bashful, I went along with the crowd. I was now twenty-one years of age, and this was the first time I had got sight of a white woman since I was fifteen, this now being the year of 1853.

I had been out in the mountains a long time, and had not had my hair cut during that time, but took excellent care of it. I always kept it rolled up in a piece of buckskin, and when unrolled it would hang down to my waist.

There was a number of young ladies in the train, and they were not long in learning that I was the most bashful person in the crowd, and they commenced trying to interest me in conversation. At that time I only owned two horses, and would have given them both, as free as the water that runs in the brook, if I could only have been away from there at that moment. Seeing that I had long hair, each of them wanted a lock. By this time I had managed to muster courage enough to begin to talk to them.

I told them that if they would sing a song, they might have a lock of my hair.

A little, fat Missouri girl, spoke up and said: "Will you let any one that sings have a lock of your hair?"

I assured her that I would.

"And each of us that sing?" interrupted another young lady.

I said each one that would sing could have a lock, provided there was enough to go around

I now had the ice broken, and could begin to talk to the ladies and crack a few jokes with them.

The little, fat, chubby young lady, that first started the conversation, sang a song entitled "The Californian's Lament," which was as follows:

Now pay attention unto me, All you that remain at home, And think upon your friends Who have to California gone; And while in meditation It fills our hearts with pain, That many so near and dear to us We ne'er shall see again.

While in this bad condition, With sore and troubled minds, Thinking of our many friends And those we left behind, With our hearts sunk low in trouble Our feelings we cannot tell, Although so far away from you, Again we say, farewell.

With patience we submitted Our trials to endure, And on our weary journey The mountains to explore. But the fame of California Has begun to lose its hue--When the soul and body is parting What good can money do?

The fame of California Has passed away and gone; And many a poor miner Will never see his home They are falling in the mountains high, And in the valleys, too; They are sinking in the briny deep, No more to rise to view.

This I thought the prettiest song I had ever heard in my life. Environment so colors things. In other words, "circumstances alter cases."

The lady at once demanded a lock of my hair as compensation for services rendered, and I removed the buckskin wrap and told her to take a lock, but cautioned her not to take too large a bunch, for fear there might not be enough to go around. The young lady, seeing that I was very bashful, had considerable trouble in finding a lock that suited her. A number of the young ladies sang together, after which several of them took the scissors and cut a lock of hair from the head of the young trapper.

I wondered at the time why it was that all the young ladies had a pick at me, for there was Johnnie West, a fine looking young man, who was continually trying to engage some of them in conversation, but they did not want to talk to any one but me, and it amused Uncle Kit not a little to see the sport the young ladies were having at my expense.

Before leaving, I told the young lady who sang the first song that I thought it was the prettiest song I had ever heard, and requested her to sing it again. She replied that she would if I wished, and she did.

The next day about ten o'clock as we rode along, feeling drowsy from the warm sun, Jake Harrington turned around in his saddle, yawned and said: "Well, Will, can't you sing the song for us that you learned from those little Missouri gals last night?"

I told him I thought I could, and commenced clearing up my throat, at which the entire crowd smiled above a whisper; but I surprised the crowd by starting in and singing the song just as I heard the young lady sing it the evening before. Every man in the crowd took off his hat, and they gave me three cheers.

On arriving at Bent's Fort we learned that furs were high, and notwithstanding our catch was light, Uncle Kit did fairly well.

He sold his furs again to Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux.

After Uncle Kit had settled up with all the other boys, he called me into the tent and said:

"Willie, I have settled with all the men now but you; how much am I owing you?"

Up to this time I had never received any wages from Uncle Kit, nor had I expected any, for I did not think that I had done enough for him to pay for my raising. I had always felt under obligations to him for picking me up when I was without a home and almost penniless, and had, as I considered made a man of me.

Uncle Kit told me that I was old enough now to do a man's work, and that I was able to fill a man's place in every respect. He took his purse from his pocket, counted me out one hundred and fifty dollars in gold; and not until then had I known that he had ordered me a fifty dollar suit of buckskin made at Taos, the fall before; and not until then had he told me that he was to be married on the tenth of July, and wanted Johnnie West and I to be there without fail. I asked him who he was going to be married to. He said her name was Rosita Cavirovious. She was a Mexican girl who lived in Taos. I did not know the lady but was acquainted with some of her brothers. I told Uncle Kit that I would surely be there.

Uncle Kit and Jim Beckwith now started for Taos, and Johnnie West and I began making preparations to start in hunting for Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux, as per contract nearly one year before.

Col. Bent said that he was very glad that we were ready to start in hunting, as they had been out of fresh meat at least half of the time that spring.

In that country bacon was high, being worth from twenty-five to thirty cents per pound, and early in the spring higher even than that.

This spring, as usual, there were some thirty trappers congregated at Bent's Fort, apparently to eat and drink up what money they bad earned during the winter.

Johnnie West and I started with a saddle-horse each and four pack- mules for a buffalo hunt; I still riding Croppy, the pony Uncle Kit had given me at St. Louis, but he was getting old and somewhat stiffened up in his shoulders.

We traveled up the Arkansas river to the mouth of the Purgatoire-- pronounced in that country Picket Wire--which was about thirty miles from Bent's Fort. Seeing a small band of buffalo some distance away, we took the pack-saddles off of the mules and turned them out to graze, mounted our saddle-horses and were off for the herd; but the wily beasts got wind of us and started off before we got within gunshot of them. After running them about a mile we overhauled them, both fired and each killed a yearling calf while on the run. I fastened my rifle to the pommel of the saddle, drew my pistol, and there being a very fine heifer that had dropped back to the rear, I spurred up by the side of her and was just in the act of firing, when old Croppy stepped into a praire-dog hole and fell with me,

Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side slapping me in the face with his hand.

I was badly bruised but no bones were broken, and as soon as I recovered sufficiently to know for a certainty that I was not dead, an examination of old Croppy developed the fact that his left shoulder was badly broken. I being too chicken-hearted to shoot him, got Johnnie West to put him out of his misery, and now I was left afoot and thirty miles from home. Johnnie West went back and got our pack-mules. We dressed our buffalo and had plenty of meat to load all of our mules, and some to leave there for the hungry cayotes. That night while we were cooking some of the meat for supper, the cayotes raised a howl and it seemed as though they would take possession of our camp in spite of us; but by firing a shot among them once in a while, we were able to keep them at bay.

In those days hunters never took along anything to eat, for a man that could not kill what he could eat was considered worthless.

The following morning we loaded our meat on the mules, lashed my saddle on top of one of the packs and started for Bent's Fort. I being bruised and crippled up from the effects of my fall, Johnnie let me ride his horse and he walked almost the entire way home.

Mr. Roubidoux on learning that I had left old Croppy dead on the prairie, said: "I have got the best buffalo horse on the plains, and I will make you a present of him;" and turning to his herder, he said, "go and bring Pinto in."

When the spotted horse was brought in, Mr. Roubidoux said: "Now, Will, I am going to make you a present of this horse, and I want you to keep him to remember me by."

I thought this the prettiest horse I had ever laid eyes on, and he proved to be as good a buffalo horse as Mr. Roubidoux had represented him to be.

On the third day of July, Johnnie West and I having enough meat ahead to last several days, we pulled out for Taos to attend the wedding of Kit Carson. Arriving there, Uncle Kit took us to his house.

He brought my new buckskin suit, and I know it was the handsomest of the kind I had ever seen. On the front of the trousers was the finest of bead work, representing horses, Indians, buffalo, deer and various other animals; and on the coat the same, except they were worked with beads and porcupine quills.

I was now twenty-one years old, and had never attended a wedding. The ladies present all being of Catholic faith, Uncle Kit and his bride were married in the Catholic church by the priest.

There were at that time about five hundred inhabitants in Taos, and every man, woman and child attended the wedding of Kit Carson.

After the ceremony was over all marched down about three blocks to where there had been a whole bullock roasted, also three sheep. The tables used were made of rude boards split out with a froe. There were no table-cloths, no tea or coffee, but plenty of wine and an abundance of meat, that all might "eat, drink and be merry."

While we were at the supper table Uncle Kit happened to get sight of Johnnie West and I, and, taking each of us by the hand, he led us over and gave us an introduction to his wife, and this was the first time I had ever been introduced to a lady. Uncle Kit introduced me as his Willie. Mrs. Carson turned to me and said:

"Ge-lem-a mo cass-a la-mis-mo ta-casso tades vases; meaning, Willie, my house shall be your home at any and all times."

As I do not write Spanish, I simply give the sound of her words as she spoke them-or as I would.

I was highly pleased with the manner in which Mrs. Carson addressed me, for no lady had ever spoken so kindly to me before, and I had supposed that after Uncle Kit was married I would have to hunt another home.

Supper being over, all repaired to the dance hall and enjoyed themselves dancing until sunrise the next morning, when they returned to the tables for breakfast. This time they had coffee and tea, but during the entire feast they did not have a bite of bread on the table.

Here I met Jim Beckwith, of whom there will be much more said at intervals later on.

Jim wanted me to accompany him to California the following spring, saying that he knew of a pass through the Sierra Nevada Mountains, which, if we could manage to get the tide of emigration turned that way, we could establish a toll road and make a fortune out of it. I said I would not promise him now, but would give him an answer later on.

The wedding being over, Johnnie West and I, after bidding Uncle Kit and his wife good-bye, started for Bent's Fort. Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux wanted to employ us to hunt for them the coming winter. Johnnie thought he could do better trapping, but I hired to them to hunt until the following spring.

Col. Bent always had from six to twenty boarders, having six men of his own, and I kept them in meat all winter, alone.

About the first of April--this being in 1854--I settled up with the Colonel, and having written Jim Beckwith the fall before that I would be on hand to go with him to California, I now pulled out for Taos.

I visited with Uncle Kit and his wife while at Taos, and found that what Mrs. Carson had said at the feast was true, for I was as welcome at their home as though I was one of the family.

Jim Beckwith had everything in readiness for our trip across the Sierra Nevada Mountains.

The day before starting, Uncle Kit asked us what route we would take. Jim said that we would go around by the headwaters of the Gila river, this being a tributary to the Colorado. On this trip we would cross that part of the country which is now Arizona. Uncle Kit said this was a good route, and that he had gone over it twice in company with Col. Fremont. He drew a diagram of the country, showing the route by streams, mountains and valleys; telling us also what tribes of Indians inhabited each section of the country that we would pass through. Among the different tribes spoken of was the Pimas, whom he said were friendly toward the whites, and insisted on our calling on that tribe, provided we went that way.

He had been at their village in 1845, and at that time they had told him he was the third white man they had ever seen.

The reader will understand that all the Indians in that section of the country at that time could speak Spanish, having learned it from the Aztecs, a tribe that lived in Old Mexico and were of Montezuma's race. They often came out into that country to trade with the other Indians.

All being ready we bade Uncle Kit and his wife good-bye, and were off for California. We crossed the Rocky Mountains up the Arkansas river and took the trail made by Col. Fremont in 1848 to the summit of the Rocky Mountains. We then crossed over the mountains onto the headwaters of the south fork of Grand river, and from here we headed almost south, passing through a country that had all been burned over. We could look ahead for miles and see nothing but burnt hills. Game was so scarce that we could barely kill enough to supply us with food, until we struck the north fork of Gila river. Here we found plenty of game. We traveled down the Gila three days, which brought us to the Pima--or as was sometimes then called Peone--village. This village was situated in a lovely valley about twenty miles long and ten wide. The soil was very fertile. The surrounding mountains were very high and covered with fine timber, while the foothills were luxuriant in the finest quality of bunchgrass, and along the little mountain streams were cottonwood and willows.

The Indians here were fairly well civilized, a fact worthy of note, as they had never had a missionary or priest among them. They also had a different mode of worship from the tribes of the Northwest. Their place of worship was what might be called a large shed constructed by setting posts in the ground and covered with poles, brush and the leaves of the century plant, these leaves being from three to five feet long and from six to ten inches wide. Their houses were also covered with these leaves.

I never saw but two of these plants in bloom. One was about fifty miles north of Sacramento and the other in Golden Gate Park, near San Francisco. It was said they held their flowers four months. These flowers are very beautiful, being four inches across and look as though they were made of wax.

But to return to my story. These Indians had three days of worship, also three days of feasting. On assembling at their place of worship, the chief chose four men from the audience, whom we would term preachers, but which they called abblers. They never pray, but the abblers stand up and talk to the audience, during which time the Indians preserve the very best order. The abblers tell them what they must do and what they must not do. When ready to break up, all join in singing, but never sing before preaching. Just how they learned this mode of worship was a mystery to me, and is yet, for that matter. We attended service while in the village and after preaching was over many of them invited us home with them.

There were about five hundred men in this tribe, all of whom were apparently very industrious, raising corn, melons, red pepper and other vegetables in abundance. They raised some very large melons, which were not excellent in flavor, however.

The Pimas were very kind to us while we were with them, often taking us out to their truck patches and pulling nice, large melons for us. I asked a very aged Indian where they got their seed corn, but he did not know, saying they had raised it ever since he could remember. They did their plowing with wooden plows, which they made themselves, being pulled by oxen that were hitched to the plows by a strong stick in front of their horns. For harrows they used brush, and they had shovels made of wood to dig with.

Notwithstanding they were in one sense uncivilized, they showed us more hospitality during the time we were with them than most white people would have shown to strangers.

These Indians keep their age by taking a piece of horn, pressing it out flat and punching a hole in the center. When a child is a certain age he has one of these tied about his neck, and every year the child is supposed to cut a notch in the piece of horn. I did not learn how old they had to be before they were supposed to keep their own age.

We found the chief of the tribe to be very obliging. He told us the Apaches were bad Indians, and that they had killed many white people--men, women and children.

When we were ready to leave the village, the chief came out and bade us good-bye, and gave us a cordial invitation to call on him when passing through the country.

We crossed the Gila river near where Colville now stands. Here was a tribe of very indolent Indians, that during this season of the year did not wear a stitch of clothing of any kind whatever. They were known as the Yumas.

We both emptied our rifles before crossing the river, knowing that they would get wet in crossing. I fired at a bird across the river and it fell to the ground.

At the crack of my rifle the Indians ran a few paces from me, dropped down and stuck their fingers in their ears. They told us in Spanish that they had never seen a wah-hootus before, meaning a gun with a loud report.

When Jim Beckwith went to fire his gun off, the squaws all ran away, but the bucks, being more brave, stayed, but held their hands over their ears. This tribe lived principally on fish.

The reader will remember that I had traveled over this same country in the year 1849 in company with Kit Carson and Col. Fremont, when on our trip to California.

After traveling about five miles we crossed a little sage-brush valley that was almost covered with jack-rabbits, and they were dying by the thousand. We could see twenty at one time lying dead in the sage-brush.

That night we camped on what has since been known as Beaver creek, and here we had to strike across the San Antonio desert, and having been across the desert I knew it would be eighty miles to water. Having two parafleshes with us for such emergences, we filled them with water to use in crossing this desert.

A paraflesh is made of rawhide expressly to carry water in, and are frequently used to peddle milk by the Mexicans.

The second day from Beaver creek we reached a little stream near the Goshoot village, this being the place where Uncle Kit finished buying furs to load his pack-train in 1848.

The next morning we reached the village. I had not seen any of these Indians for five years. Then I was a mere boy and now a grown man, but every one of the Goshoots knew me and were glad to meet me. We stopped that day and visited with them, and bought some venison and frigoles, or beans.

The next morning we resumed our journey to Los Angeles, crossing the extreme northeast part of Death Valley. From here on the country was all new to me, and had it not been for the kindness of the Goshoot Indians, we would have perished for the want of water.

When I told a good Indian in that village where we were going, he sat down and with his finger marked a diagram in the dust, showing the lay of the country that we must pass ever, every little blind spring near the trail, the different mountains and valleys, and made it so plain that we could scarcely have made a mistake on the trip.

On arriving at Los Angeles we found only one white man in the place, and he was the only person in the whole town that could speak the English language. He had arrived there some years before, married a Mexican woman and had got to be very wealthy. He tried to induce us to go farther up the coast, telling us if we started for San Francisco the country was full of Mexicans, and that they despised all Americans and would be sure to murder us on our way; but as we had started for San Francisco, we were determined to see that city if possible. After laying over one day with the old American we resumed our journey.

The next place we struck was Monterey, where is now the famous Hotel del Monte, about two hundred miles from Los Angeles. Here we did not find a man who could speak a word of English, and we found the Mexicans still more selfish than in Los Angeles.

We began to think that the old white man had told the truth, for we would not have been surprised at any time to have been attacked by a band of Mexicans.

While here I saw two persons that I thought to be curiosities. They were of Indian parentage, light complexion and had eyes of a pink color. One was a boy about twenty years old and the other a girl of sixteen, and were brother and sister. It was claimed that they could see well after night, but could not see their way on a bright, sunny day.

These Indians were said to be of the Mojave tribe, that inhabited a portion of the country some six hundred miles east of Monterey, near the Mojave desert. I have since learned that such freaks are called albinos.

The reader will no doubt wonder why we came this round-about away to get to San Francisco. The reason is that in coming a more direct course we would have passed through a country that was infested with wild tribes of Indians; that is, tribes hostile to the whites. There being only two of us the chances were it would have proved a very unhealthy trip for us at that time.

Arriving at San Francisco we found things very lively, this being about the time of the greatest gold excitement in California. Here was the first city of note that I had been in since leaving St. Louis; here also was the first time I had seen gambling going on on a large scale. There were all kinds of games and all kinds of traps to catch the honest miner and rob him of his money that he had labored hard to dig out of the ground.

That night Jim Beckwith and I took in the sights of the city. We went to the different gambling houses and had just finished our tour and were on our way back to the What Cheer house--that being the hotel at which we put up--the leading hotel in the city then. We were just passing one of the gambling dens, when we saw two men coming out of the door leading a man between them who was crying like a child, and exclaiming: "I am ruined! I am ruined!"

We learned from the two men that he had come to the city that day with eight hundred dollars in gold, had bought a ticket for New York, and it was his intention to sail for that city the following morning. But he had gone out that night to have a farewell spree with his friends, got too much booze, started in gambling, thinking he might double his money by morning; but like thousands of other miners in those days, he "played out of luck," as they termed it, and had lost every cent he had. We walked on down to the hotel, and in a few minutes the three came into the hotel also, the one still crying like a baby. The proprietor only laughed and said it was a common occurrence for men to come to the city with even twenty thousand dollars, gamble it off in less than a week and then return to the mines to make another stake. But he said he had never seen a man before that took it as hard as this one did.

It was all new to me, and a little of it went a long ways.

That night after Jim Beckwith and I had retired, I told him that I had seen all of San Francisco that I cared to, and was ready to leave. However, we stayed two days longer, after which we pulled out for the Sierra Nevadas, by the way of Hangtown, a little mining camp situated at the American Fork. Here we crossed over a pass that Jim had told me of more than a year previous, which led us to the headwaters of the Carson river.

I proposed we give it the name of Beckwith Pass; and from that day to this it has been known by that name, and since has been made a splendid stage road.

After traveling down the Carson river some distance, we met a party of miners who informed us that a few days previous a band of Indians down on the Humboldt had made an attack on an emigrant train, cut off a portion of the train, stampeded the teams, killed all the people of that part of the train and burned the wagons.

They also informed us that Col. Elliott was down on what was known as Truckee Meadows with a company of soldiers, but, so far, was having very poor success killing Indians.

Col. Elliott had been sent out there with four companies of cavalry to protect the emigrants against the Pah-Ute or Piute Indians, which were very numerous down on the Humboldt, and around the sink of the Carson and as far up the mountains as Lake Tahoe.

Jim being very well acquainted with Col. Elliott, proposed we go around that way, thinking that the Colonel might be able to assist materially in turning the tide of emigration through his pass, his object being to get as much travel that way this fall as possible, and the following spring he would establish a toll road through that pass.

Col. Elliott was pleased at meeting Jim, and in the conversation said: "Beckwith, I am very glad, indeed, to see you. You are just the man I have been wanting this long time, for I haven't a scout in my entire command that is worth a cent to scout for Indians. I don't believe there is one of them that would dare to leave headquarters fifteen miles alone, and I want to employ you as chief of scouts."

Jim thanked the Colonel kindly for the honor, but told him he could not accept the offer as he had another matter he wished to attend to, and told him of the scheme he had on hand. But, he said, he had a young man with him that he could recommend highly for that position, and he gave me a great send off as a scout.

The Colonel insisted on our going with him to his private quarters for supper, which we did, and after having a pleasant visit with him, we returned to our own camp for the night.

When we were ready to take our departure for the evening, Col. Elliott said: "Mr. Drannan, can I see you privately to-morrow morning at nine o'clock?"

I told him that I would call at his quarters at that hour.

After Jim and I had reached our camp I asked him why he had misrepresented me to Col. Elliott in the way he had, when he knew I had never scouted a day in my life, knew nothing of scouting and had done very little Indian fighting.

Jim said: "You are a young man and have been mong the Indians long enough to be pretty well acquainted with their habits. There is not a single fellow in Elliott's outfit knows as much about scouting as my black horse, and if you ever intend starting in, now is your chance. That is the reason I gave you such a send off to the Colonel."

After thinking the matter over, I concluded that Jim was right in regard to it, and now was a good time to make a start.

After breakfast the next morning I met Col. Elliott at his quarters at the time appointed. He invited me in and set out a bottle of whiskey and a glass. I thanked him, but declined to drink.

"Where were you raised," said the Colonel, "that you do not drink whiskey? I thought you grew up in the Rocky Mountains."

I told him that I did, but was not raised to drink whiskey. I also told him that I had been brought up, since a boy fifteen years old, by Kit Carson.

The Colonel asked me many questions about Indians, their habits, my idea of fighting them and so on, after which he asked me if I would like a position as scout. I told him I would, provided there was enough in it to justify me.

The Colonel made me a proposition of one hundred dollars a month and rations, I to furnish my own horses. I could also turn my extra horses in with the Government horses and it would cost me nothing to have them herded. I accepted his proposition, agreeing to start in on the following morning. I also had an agreement with him that when I did not suit him, he was to pay me off and I would quit. Also, when he did not suit me, I was to have the privilege of quitting at any time, all of which was satisfactory to him, and I started in on the following morning as per agreement.

That evening about sunset three of Col. Elliott's scouts came in, and he gave me an introduction to them, telling them that I was going to be a brother scout. After supper I had a long talk with one of them, in which he posted me somewhat as to the different watering places, grass, etc.

From him I learned that they had not seen an Indian for three days, but had seen any amount of sign, every day, which was evidence that there were plenty of Indians in the country.

The following morning when I went for my orders I was much surprised at the Colonel saying: "Oh, damn it! I don't care. Go any way you please and as far as you please. The other boys say there is not an Indian in fifty miles of here, and if you find any you will do better than any man I have sent out, so far."

When I went to order my lunch, and told the negro cook to put up enough to last me until the next night, he looked at me and said: "Whar you going, boss?" Jim told him I was going out to get some cayote scalps. I now mounted Mexico--the horse that Mr. Reed had given me at the City of Mexico--and started off on my first scouting trip, taking an easterly direction until I had struck the old emigrant road.

After I had left camp the other scouts were talking among themselves, and none of them thought I would ever return. One of the scouts told Jim that I was the biggest fool that he had ever seen, to start out scouting in a strange region and not ask anything about the country, grass, water, Indians, or anything else.

"Don't be alarmed about that boy," said Jim, "he'll take care of himself in any man's country."

I had been taught by Uncle Kit that when I attempted to do a thing to carry it out at all hazards, if it was in my power to do so.

After I had ridden about twelve miles or so, and was just entering the mouth of a little ravine, on looking up the same ravine I saw three Indians who had just hove in sight over the hill. I dropped back from their view as quick as I could, which only took about two or three jumps of my horse.

The Indians having their backs toward me, I was confident they had not seen me. They were heading for the emigrant trail, that being what we called the wagon road across the plains in those days.

I rode around the point of a hill and tied my horse in a washout where he would be hid from view, climbed up the top of the hill and saw five warriors, riding direct for the trail. After watching them for a short time I hurried back to my horse, mounted him and rode as fast as Mexico could conveniently carry me over this sagebrush country--about a quarter of a mile in an opposite direction to which the Indians were traveling. Riding up to the head of a little ravine, where I could tie my horse in a place where he would not be discovered by the redskins, I dismounted, tied my horse and crawled up through the sagebrush to the top of the hill, where I could watch the movements of the Indians.

This was a rolling country, low hills covered with a heavy growth of sagebrush, and not a tree of any description to be seen anywhere.

I had discovered my game, but how to capture it was what puzzled me.

The reader can have a faint idea of the situation of a young man in a strange country and a sandy, sagebrush plain, who did not know where to find either water or grass. If I returned to headquarters they would escape me, and this being my first time out in the scouting business, I could not afford to let them get away. So, after holding a private council with myself, I decided these Indians were spies, who were scouting for a large party of Indians that were somewhere in this part of the country, and that they were looking for emigrants, and in case they did not see any such that day, they would no doubt go to water that night.

I laid there on the hill watching their movements and trying to devise some plan by which I could capture them then.

Could I only have had Jim with me, how easy it would have been to follow them to their camp that night, kill and scalp them and capture their horses.

In those days an independent scout was entitled to all the stock captured of the enemy by him.

I watched the Indians until they got to the emigrant trail, where they stopped and held a council, apparently in doubt as to which way they should go. After parleying for some five minutes they struck out on the trail. I watched them for about two miles, then they passed over a low range of hills and were out of sight.

I now mounted Mexico and rode as fast as I could, not directly after them, but as near as I could to keep out of their sight; and at the same time I felt confident that should they discover me, that there was not an Indian pony in that whole country that could catch Mexico, either in a short or long distance.

After riding some five miles or so, I dismounted and tied my horse to a sagebrush, and climbed to the top of the highest hill between me and where I supposed them to be. I discovered them about a mile away, and they were just leaving the trail, riding up a ravine that led to the north. They dismounted and put their ponies out to grass. There also appeared to be a little meadow where they stopped, and I concluded there must be water there, too. I took in the situation at a glance and could see that I would have to ride a long distance to get near them. Just immediately beyond them was a little hill that sloped off down to the meadow on which they were camped, but in any other direction a person could not ride without being discovered.

I went back to my horse, mounted and took a circuit of about ten miles, having to travel that distance in order to keep out of their sight. Coming in from the north, I rode almost to the top of the hill; here I dismounted, tied my horse, crawled to the top of the hill, and on looking down could see them almost under me, the hill was so small and steep. They were busily engaged in skinning a jack-rabbit, and about that time I felt as though I could eat a hind quarter of it myself if it had been cooked; for I had been too busily engaged that day to stop and eat a lunch.

Here I lay in the sagebrush trying to devise some plan by which I could do away with them and capture their horses.

It was now about four o'clock in the afternoon, and this being about twenty miles from headquarters, I would not have time to ride there and return with soldiers before they wold break camp in the morning.

For me to attack them alone looked like a big undertaking.

There being a little grass for their horses, I now concluded they would remain until morning. So I crept back to where my horse was tied, took out my lunch and sat down and ate it, at the same time debating in my mind the best course to pursue.

I remembered what Col. Elliott had told Jim, that he did not have a scout that dared go fifteen miles from camp and now if I should return to camp and report what I had seen, he would start soldiers out, and by the time they could reach the ground the Indians would be gone, and there would be nothing accomplished, consequently I would, no doubt, be classed with the balance of the scouts in the opinion of the Colonel. While on the other hand, should I be successful in laying a plan by which I could do away with the Indians and take their scalps to headquarters as evidence of my work, it would give me a reputation as a scout.

I was confident they had not seen me that day, and knowing, too, the Pah-Utes had not been disturbed by Col. Elliott's scouts, they would no doubt lie down when night came, and I might steal a march on them and amid their slumbers accomplish the desired deed.

Having been brought up by one of the bravest frontiersmen that traversed the plains at that time, and who always taught me to respect a brave man and hate a coward, I made up my mind to make the attack alone, provided the Indians did not put out guards that night.

After I had finished my lunch I examined both my single-shot pistols--I still having the one presented to me by my old friend Joe Favor, three years before at Bent's Fort, also the knife, which the reader will remember weighed two and one-fourth pounds-- and creeping back to the top of the hill I watched them cook and eat the jack-rabbit. As it grew dark I drew nearer, and when it was about as dark as it was likely to be that night, I crept up to within a few yards of them. They had a little fire made of sagebrush and did not lie down until very late.

I was so near that I could hear them talking, but I could not understand their language, as I had never been among them, but I was confident they were Pah-Utes, because I was in their country.

After they had smoked and talked matters over, which I supposed was in regard to the next day's scouting, they commenced to make preparations to sleep. In the crowd, apparently, were three middle-aged warriors and two young ones, not yet grown. The three older ones laid down together, while the two young ones made their beds about fifteen feet away from the other three.

After they had become quiet I commenced crawling closer, as there was some fire yet and I wanted to get their exact location before I made the attack.

I felt confident that I could kill one of them the first blow with my knife, and then I could kill the other two with my pistols. But this would still leave two to one and I with nothing but a knife; however, after going this far I was determined to make the attack at all hazards.

When I had crawled up within a few feet of their bed, one turned over and muttered something in his own tongue, which I could not understand. I made sure I was not detected, and after lying still for some time I concluded they were all asleep, and I soon made up my mind that I had better make the attack at once and have the matter settled oneway or the other. After taking in the entire situation I decided to make the attack with my knife. I took the pistol from my right holster in my left hand, thereby giving me a better chance after emptying the one pistol to easily grasp the other one with my left hand.

I knew that if I could get a fair lick at one of them with my big knife, which I always kept as sharp as a razor, that he would make little, if any, noise. My plan of attack being completed, I crawled up near their heads, and all appeared to be sound asleep.

I decided to take the one on my right first, so that in case the other two should attempt to arise I would be in a position to shoot the one on my left and at the same time cut the other one down with my heavy knife. But it was my intention to kill all three of them with my knife, if possible, in order to save both pistols for the two young ones, as I expected a hard fight with them, for I felt sure they would be on to me by the time I got through with the other three, at the very best I could do.

I now raised up on to my feet and aimed to strike the one on my right about the middle of the neck. I came down with all my might and killed him almost instantly. I served the second one the same way, but by this time the third one had raised to a sitting position, and I struck him in the shoulder and had to make a second lick to kill him. By this time the other two had been aroused, and, as near as I could tell in the darkness, one of them was crawling in the opposite direction on his hands and knees, while the other one was coming at me on all fours. I shot him with the pistol that I held in my left hand, and I then thought I was almost safe. Just at that moment the other young buck was on his feet, with bow in hand but no arrows. He dealt me a blow on the side of the head, which staggered me but did not knock me down, and before I had time to recover, he dealt me a second blow, but it did not stagger me so much as the first, but it brought the blood quite freely from my nose, at the same time I made a side stroke at him, but struck too low. I then drew my other pistol from the holster and fired, shooting him through the chest, and though he fell mortally wounded, he again raised to his feet and dealt me another blow, which was a great surprise to me, but just one stroke of my big knife severed his jugular and he yielded up the ghost.

Now my task was done. At the risk of my life I had accomplished the desired end, and my reputation as a scout would be established.

I knew the other scouts were having some sport at my expense while I was away, for I had overheard two of them in a conversation that morning make some remarks about Col. Elliott's tenderfoot scout.

I had said nothing to them, but this made me all the more determined in the undertaking, and now I had turned the joke on them, and, as the old saying goes, "he who laughs last laughs best."

I could see by the light in the east that the moon would be up in a short time, so I went and got my saddle-horse from where I had tied him, and who, by this time was very thirsty and hungry, as he had had nothing to eat and no water since morning. I watered him, then picketed him out for about two hours on the little meadow, by which time the moon had risen.

I then scalped the five Indians and tied their scalps to my belt. They would be good evidence of my day's work when I should meet the Colonel at his quarters. This being done, I tied the five Indian horses together and started for headquarters, arriving there about noon the next day.

Just as I had put the horses in the corral and before I had time to dismount, Col. Elliott's orderly came on the dead run, saying: "Col. Elliott wishes to see you at his quarters at once."

I turned about and rode over to the Colonel's tent, and when I had saluted him, he said: "Sir, whose horses are those you just turned into that corral?"

I said: "Sir, those are my horses, as I understand that any stock captured from the Indians by an independent scout, he is entitled to."

"Mr. Drannan, do you tell me that you captured those horses from an Indian?"

I said: "Col. Elliott, yes, sir; and here is something more I captured with them." At that I threw down the five scalps at his feet.

He looked amazed as he gazed at the scalps, but said nothing for a few moments.

About this time the orderly announced Jim Beckwith at the door. The Colonel said let him come in, and just as he entered the door, Col. Elliott said:

"Beckwith, where do you suppose this scout got those scalps?"

Jim picked up the scalps, examined them thoroughly, and said: "I'll bet my black horse that he took them from the heads of five Pah-Ute Indians."

The Colonel smiled and said: "Drannan, if you will tell us all about the whole affair, I will treat."

I related the adventure in brief. Dinner being ready, the Colonel set out the whiskey and cigars and told me to call on him that afternoon, as he wished to have a private conversation with me.

I picked up the five scalps and started to dinner, and as I passed by the kitchen I threw them under the negro cook's feet and told him to cook them for dinner for my friend and me--referring to Jim Beckwith. When he saw the scalps he exclaimed: "Laws a massa, boss! whar you git dem skelps? Marse Meyers said dey wasn't an Injun in fifty miles o' hyar."

While we were eating dinner, Jim said to me: "Don't you know them fellers didn't think you'd ever come back?"

I asked him what fellows, and he said: "Why, those scouts. One of them told me you was the d--est fool he ever saw in his life, to go out scouting alone in a strange country, and that the Pah-Utes would get you, sure."

I said I did not think it worth while to ask those scouts anything about Indians or anything else, for I didn't think they had been far enough from camp to learn anything themselves.

That afternoon when I was announced at the Colonel's tent, I was met in a somewhat different manner by him to what I had been that noon, for he raised the front of the tent and said: "Come right in Drannan, why do you hesitate?"

After having a social chat with him and rehearsing to some extent the fight which took place the night before between myself and the five Pah-Utes, he proposed to make me chief of his scouts. He said: "Now, Drannan, I will tell you what I wished to see you about. I have five scouts besides you, and I am going to make you chief of all my scouts, and you can handle them to suit yourself."

I told the Colonel that I did not desire any promotion whatever, for in the first place I would not be doing my self justice, and that it would not be doing justice to the other scouts, and I thought it would be of more benefit to both him and his other scouts, to go alone, as I had started out.

He asked me why I would prefer going alone. My reply was that a person in that business could not be too cautious, and I did not know what kind of men he had, and just one careless move would spoil the plans of the best scout in the world.

The Colonel admitted that I was right, but insisted on selecting one man from his five scouts to assist me, saying: "If he don't suit you, after trying him two or three days, report to me, and you may select any one from my scouts that you like." And to this I consented. I told him that I would be ready to start out the following morning, and if he had any orders to give me to give them now, as I would start very early. He said that he had no orders to give, but that he had selected Charlie Meyers to accompany me; and he proved to be a good man and a good scout.

The next morning I ordered three days' rations for two men, and Charlie Meyers desired to know if I was going to Salt Lake City or New York. I told him I was going out hunting, and if I struck fresh signs of game I proposed tracking it to wherever it went.

That day we took the divide between Carson and Humboldt, south of the emigrant trail, making a ride of forty miles that day, and then a dry camp--a camp without water. The following morning we rode about five miles, and came on to a big Indian trail that had been made the evening before. We pushed on as fast as we could, all the time keeping a sharp lookout, for we were now in the heart of the Pah-Ute country, and could not be too careful. About half past three o'clock we came to where the Indians had camped the night before, on a tributary of the Humboldt. At this camp three antelope had been devoured, so we knew that there had been a large band of the redskins at that feast. It was also evident that they were not very far ahead of us, as their fires had not entirely died out.

Continuing the pursuit we were now getting close to the emigrant trail, and it was plain that the Indians had headed west, which convinced me that they were looking for emigrants, and if so they would not go far before they would either go into camp or leave the trail. It proved that after following the emigrant train a short distance they had taken to the hills. The country was a sea of sagebrush, and frequently we would start a jack-rabbit or antelope that we would have been pleased to roast for supper, but dared not shoot.

When near the top of a hill I would dismount, and leaving my horse with Meyers, would crawl to the summit of the hill and peep over in order to discover whether or not the Indians were in sight, and then return, mount my horse and ride at a rapid gait until near the top of another hill, when the same maneuver would be repeated.

At last we came to a sharp ridge and I dismounted. I remarked that if we did not find those Indians soon we would have to make another dry camp that night. It was now nearly sunset, and on crawling to the top of the ridge and looking down on a nice little valley not more than a half-mile distant, I saw that they had just gone into camp and had not yet got all their ponies unpacked.

I had a good chance to make a rough estimate of their number, which I thought to be about two hundred warriors.

I rushed back to Meyers and told him that I had located them, and that one of us would have to ride back to headquarters that night and report, and asked him whether he would rather go or stay and watch the Indians.

"Why not both go," he asked.

I told him that by the time the cavalry could get there the Indians might be gone, and one of us must stay and see where they went to.

We were now, as near as we could tell, about thirty-five miles from camp, as that afternoon we had been traveling west, in the direction of headquarters.

After thinking the matter over, Meyers concluded that he would rather make the ride than stay. I told him to be off at once, but before starting, he said to me: "Suppose the Indians should discover you while I am away?"

I replied that I would like very much to have them discover me, when I knew the soldiers were in sight or within ten miles, for I would like to run them into such a trap, and that I was not afraid of any horse in their band catching Mexico in any distance.

I instructed Meyers not to spare horseflesh on the way, and to tell Col. Elliott to start two companies of cavalry as soon as possible.

We shook hands and he started, and that was once that he made good time. It being after seven o'clock when he started, he reached camp at fifteen minutes after eleven that night.

When he had gone I started in to lay my plans for the night.

It was yet so light that I could get a good view of the surrounding country, and about three miles from the Indians' camp I could see the highest hill anywhere around. I decided at once that if I were on that high hill I could see every move of the Indians, besides I could look up the Humboldt and see the soldiers, or at least the dust raised by them, while they were yet a long way off.

This peak lay north of the trail, and the trail ran east and west.

As soon as it was dark I mounted my horse and rode to the peak and tied him to a sagebrush in a sinkhole, that looked as though it might have been put there on purpose, for my horse was hidden from every direction.

I now went to the top of the hill, and there being a dense growth of sagebrush, I was perfectly safe from discovery when daylight should come.

I did not have to wait long after daylight, for just as the sun was creeping up over the hill and shedding its rays on the little valley where the two hundred braves had had such a pleasant night's rest, dreaming, perhaps, of emigrants, horses, provisions and other stuff that they would probably capture the following day, I looked up the Humboldt and saw the two companies of cavalry coming.

The Indians seemed in no hurry to leave, and were perhaps waiting for the five scouts to return and report, never thinking that they had been killed and scalped, and that the same paleface who did the deed was then watching their every movement and laying plans for their destruction.

I got my horse in about a minute, mounted and rode across the country to meet the cavalry, taking a route so that I would not be seen by the Indians.

I met the soldiers--who were commanded by Capt. Mills and Lieut. Harding--about four miles from the Indian camp, and they came to a halt.

I told them about the number I thought there were in the Indian band and the lay of the country, as nearly as I could. The Captain and Lieutenant stepped to one side and held a council, and after talking the matter over they called me and said they had about decided to attack the enemy from both above and below at the same time, and, as I had seen the ground, they asked my opinion in the matter. I told them I thought it an excellent plan, and then Capt. Mills turned to Lieut. Harding and said: "Which do you prefer, to make the upper or lower attack? Take your choice."

He then asked me if they could get to the head of the ravine that the Indians were camped on and not be seen by them. I told him that I could show them a ravine that led from the emigrant trail to the head of the valley on which they were camped, and marked out a plat of the country in the dust, showing the course each company would have to take, telling them that the company making the upper attack would have to travel about a mile farther than the one making the attack from below. He then asked me if the companies could see each other before the Indians could see them. I informed him that they could not, but that I could show him a hill where he could station a man and he would be able to see both companies, but the Indians could not see him, and when the company from above should reach the top of the hill that man could signal to the other company to charge.

At that time Lieut. Harding turned to Capt. Mills and said: "If the boy scout will go with me I will make the upper attack, as he has been over the country and knows the lay of the ground."

Of course I consented, and we marched to the mouth of the ravine just mentioned.

I pointed out the hill referred to, and the Lieutenant placed a man on top of it, and we proceeded.

Just before we reached the top of the other hill, Lieut. Harding halted and formed his men in line, placing them about ten feet apart, saying: "I have only a hundred soldiers, but I want it to appear that I have a thousand."

When we first came in sight of the Indians, some were lying stretched out in the sun, some were sitting down, while a few were out looking after their horses, everything indicating that they had just had their breakfast and were lounging around, not having the slightest idea of an enemy in twenty miles of them, and we took them wholly unawares.

When the Lieutenant formed his men in line before raising the top of the hill, he asked me to take charge of his left wing and he would take charge of his right. As soon as we came in sight of the Indians, he gave the order to charge.

This was the first thing of the kind I had ever witnessed, and when I cast my eyes down the line of soldiers I thought it the grandest sight I had ever seen. This was also the first engagement for either of the companies.

In all the scrimmages I had been in with the redskins, the one that made the most noise was the best Indian fighter; so when the Lieutenant gave the order to charge, I raised a yell, as I thought this to be one of the essential points of a charge, and wondered why the rest of the boys did not do the same. However, after hearing a few of my whoops they picked it up, and each began yelling at the top of his voice, and by this time we were among the Indians.

The two companies had about the same distance to run after sounding the charge, but Lieut. Harding was at the scene of conflict a few moments ahead of Capt. Mills, thereby giving the Indians time to scatter. This was attributed to the fact that Capt. Mills had to charge up grade while Lieut. Harding had down grade, which they had not thought of before making the arrangement, and the ground being mostly sand made a great difference in the speed of the horses.

Meyers and I made a rush for the Indians' horses, but the soldiers all stuck together, and seeing that a number of Indians were at their horses already and mounted, we abandoned the idea at once. Had one platoon made a dash for the horses and stampeded them, we would no doubt have got more Indians.

After emptying both of my single-shot pistols I drew my knife, and just at that moment an Indian shot Meyers through the arm with an arrow and he sang out to me that he was wounded. Another Indian then made a dash at Meyers with his bow and arrow in hand, so I charged after him and made a slash at him with my knife, but he saw me in time to slide off on the opposite side of his horse. I could not stop the blow so I struck his horse in the back and brought him to the ground, and the Indian ran for dear life.

About this time a soldier came riding along, and I knew from his actions that his pistol was empty (the soldiers had no firearms in this engagement except pistols), and I asked him why he did not draw his sabre and cut them down. He said he had no orders to do so.

To that I did not reply, but I thought this a queer way of fighting Indians, when a soldier had to stop in the midst of a battle, fold his arms and stand there to be shot down while waiting orders to draw his sabre. A moment later they received orders to use their sabres, and they went to hewing the Indians down.

I saw an Indian with two or three feathers in his hair, and I took him to be the war chief. He was coming direct for me with bow and arrow in hand, and I made a desperate rush for him and made a strike at him with my knife, but he threw up his arm and knocked off my lick, at the same time a measly redskin shot me through the calf of my leg, pinning me to the mochila of my saddle.

The mochila is a large covering for a saddle made of very heavy leather and comes low on the horse's side, thereby affording great protection to horses in cases like this. This shield is of Spanish origin, but they were used by all mountaineers as well as Mexicans.

I was leaning over when the arrow struck me and pinned me to the saddle, so that I could not straighten up, for I was almost on the side of the horse when I received the arrow.

Capt. Mills, seeing the predicament I was in, came to my rescue and cut the war chief down with his sabre, just in time to save me from getting another arrow.

The Captain pulled the arrow out of my leg, which had a very large spear made of hoop iron, and it tore a bad hole in my leg when he pulled it out. By this time the redskins were scattering in all directions, some on foot and some on horseback.

As soon as I was free I saw a band of about fifty horses not far away, and asked the Captain to detail some of his men to assist me in running them off. The Captain dashed off to his orderly who he told to take a platoon of men and go with the boy scout to take charge of those horses.

In this charge we got fifty-two horses and killed four Indians. We drove the horses out on the hill where they would be out of the way and where the Indians would not get them, and the Sergeant left his men to guard them until further orders.

As I rode back to the scene of battle I looked up the road and saw four wagons coming. I asked the Sergeant where those wagons were going, and he said they were ambulances, coming to haul the wounded to headquarters, saying they had started at the same time the cavalry did but could not keep up, consequently they did not arrive until after the battle was over.

About the time I returned to the battlefield the bugle sounded calling the soldiers in from the chase, and on looking over the ground, four dead soldiers and twenty-seven wounded were discovered. There were sixty-three dead Indians in sight, and more, no doubt, were scattered around in the sagebrush.

The battle being over we had our breakfast. I also had my horse put out to grass, as he was very hungry, not having had anything to eat since noon the day before, and not much then.

After breakfast was over the soldiers buried their four dead comrades and loaded the wounded into the ambulances and started for headquarters, arriving there about nine o'clock that night. Charlie Meyers had a wound in his arm that laid him up all summer, and I was not able to ride for two weeks; although I had the best of care.

From that time on I was known as the boy scout, and the next day after our return, Col. Elliott appointed me chief of scouts with rank and pay of captain, which was one hundred and twenty-five dollars per month. He also provided me with private quarters, my tent being pitched near his own, and notwithstanding that I was only a mere boy the other scouts all came to me for orders and counsel, and I often wondered why men who knew nothing of scouting nor the nature of Indians would stick themselves up as scouts.

Two weeks from the time I got wounded the Colonel asked me if I thought I was able to ride, saying that the news had just come to him that the Indians had attacked a train of emigrants, killed some of them and driven off their stock. This depredation he said had been committed in the Goose Creek mountain country about one hundred and twenty miles east of us. Col. Elliott said that he was going to send out a company of soldiers there, and if I felt able I might accompany them, which I did.

All being in readiness, I selected two scouts to assist me, and we pulled out, taking with us a pack-train with one month's provisions.

We had a rough and tedious trip, as not one of the entire crowd had been over the country and did not know a single watering place, so we had to go it blind, hit or miss. I had not gone far when I found that I had made a sad mistake, as notwithstanding my leg appeared quite well when I started out, yet, after one or two days' riding, it got quite sore and pained me severely, and the longer I rode the worse it got.

Five days' ride and we were at the place where the emigrants were camped. Another small train had pulled in with them as they were afraid to cross the desert alone.

That night Capt. Mills called the men of the train together to ascertain whether or not they wished to look after their stock, but they did not seem to know themselves what to do. They were quite sure that the Indians had driven the stock south, as they had tracked them some distance in that direction. Capt. Mills asked me what I thought of finding the stock, and I told him that if it was driven south, of which the emigrants seemed quite sure, it was more than likely that the Indians and stock were several hundred miles away, and that it would be next to impossible to get any trace of them, and in my opinion it would be like trying to find a needle in a haystack.

After considering the matter the emigrants concluded that I was right.

Those of them who had lost all their stock were a pitiful sight indeed, women and children were weeping, and particularly those who had lost their husbands and fathers in the fight with the Indians.

There were no women and children killed, as the Indians did not attack the train, being apparently only bent on capturing the horses and cattle. They had killed the guards and also the men that ran out to protect the stock.

One who has never witnessed a like affair can scarcely comprehend the situation of a widow left out there with three or four children in this desolate region, utterly destitute. It was a gloomy situation, indeed, and a sight that would cause the hardest-hearted man to shed tears.

Those who had lost their stock made some kind of arrangements to ride with those that had come later.

The day before starting the emigrants rolled all their wagons together that they did not have teams to haul, also the harness, and in fact everything they could not haul, and burned them, so that the Indians would not derive any benefit from them.

I merely note a few of these facts to give the reader a faint idea of the trials, troubles and hardships that the early settlers of the "wild West" had to pass through, not only in crossing the plains, but, as will be shown later in this book, in many instances after settling in different parts of this western country.

The day before starting, Capt. Mills suggested that as my wound was giving me so much trouble, I should return to headquarters in company with the train of emigrants, and asked how many men I wanted to guard them through. I told him that I would not feel safe with less than twenty men. The Captain thought that twenty would not be sufficient, so he made a detail of twenty-five men and issued rations to last us eight days.

Capt. Mills and the men he had reserved remained in this section of country to guard emigrants that might be traveling westward, as the Indians were now working in this part of the country since our battie with them on the Humboldt.

Having completed all arrangements we pulled out with one hundred and twenty-five wagons, all told, in the train, but as some of the oxen were very tender footed we had to travel very slowly. I divided my men into squads of twelve each, and changed guards at morning, noon, evening and midnight.

I also started six guards ahead every morning, with instructions to keep from one to three miles from the train on either side, according to the lay of the country. The second day one of the scouts returned from the south and reported having seen six Indians southwest of the train; this was about ten o'clock in the forenoon. I turned and rode off with the scout, saying nothing to anyone in the train. He piloted me to where he had seen the Indians, and sure enough there were the tracks of their ponies in the sand. The scout returned to the train and I followed the trail of the Indian all day, but never got sight of an Indian. When dark came I turned about and rode to camp, arriving there at twelve o'clock that night.

The people in the train were very much pleased to see me return, for they had felt much uneasiness as to my safety, fearing that I might have fallen into the hands of the Pah-Utes. This ride, however, laid me up for two weeks, and I had to go the balance of the way in an emigrant wagon.

The captain of this train had a jaw breaking name that I never heard before or since. It was Sam Molujean, and I know he was the most excitable man that I ever saw. When Capt. Molujean got excited he could not talk at all for stuttering, so one day the guards concluded to have a little sport at the expense of the Captain. We were now nearly opposite where about a month previous a battle with the Pah-Utes had been fought, and the advance guards were riding back to the train--it now being time to corrall for dinner. They met Capt. Molujean, who asked if they had seen any Indians.

One of the guards informed him that there were sixty-odd up the ravine. This set the Captain wild. He wheeled around and rode back to where I was in the wagon and started in to tell me what the guard had said, but he could not utter a word.

After listening to him a minute or so I told him if he would get some one to tell what he wanted I would answer his question. I suppose I was somewhat impatient, as I was suffering from my wound. At this one of the guards rode up with a smile on his face, and I asked him if he could tell me what Capt. Molujean was trying to say to me, He related to me what they had told him in regard to the sixty-odd Indians up the ravine, referring to the Indians that had been killed in battle between the soldiers and Pah-Utes.

We had a good laugh at the Captain's expense, after which I told him the Indians the guard had reference to were all good Indians.

"Oh! is that so?" he exclaimed, and these were the first words he had been able to utter. "But," he continued, "I did not know there were any good Indians in this country; I thought all of them were savage." I told the Captain that those Indians were dead, and that all dead Indians were good ones. This was a stunner for the Captain, and I do not think that the joke has ever penetrated his massive skull.

We did not see any more Indians or any sign of them on the trip.

On reaching headquarters we found Jim Beckwith awaiting our arrival. He had been out with three other men whom he had hired to help him blaze a road across the mountains through his new pass. He had finished his work on the road and returned to Col. Elliott's camp, knowing that if he could get one train to go his way it would be a great help toward getting the tide of immigration turned in that direction the following season.

Here Beckwith took charge of the train, Col. Elliott recommending him very highly, and telling the emigrants that if they would only obey his orders he would pilot them through in safety.

Before starting, Jim asked me to come over and spend the winter with him, saying that he was going to build a cabin on the other side of the mountains, lay in a big supply of provisions, and as after that he was going to do nothing, he wanted me to help him.

I promised to go and winter with him if it was possible for me to do so, as at this time I did not know but what I might have to go to San Francisco to have my leg treated the coming winter.

From here the emigrants were to pay Jim to pilot them across the mountains to a little mining camp called Hangtown, which was about one hundred and twenty miles east of Sacramento. They made the trip without any trouble. I saw one of the emigrants the next spring and they spoke in very high terms of Jim Beckwith.

Two weeks after the incidents related in the previous chapter, Capt. Mills came in with another train of emigrants, not having seen an Indian on the trip, and from this time on there was no danger of such trains going from that region through Beckwith Pass, and as the road was now broken by the other train, these emigrants could cross the Sierra Nevadas without a guide.

About this time four men with pack animals came along who claimed to be from Salt Lake. They reported that they had seen Indians one day traveling east of headquarters. I took two men and started out and was gone about a week, but did not see an Indian, or a track or sign of one, and when we returned the Colonel concluded that he had been misled by the packers.

Col. Elliott now ordered me to take fifty men, with two weeks' provisions, and go as far as we could with that amount of rations, or until we should meet some emigrants. We were gone about three weeks, but did not see either Indians or emigrants. The fact is, that it was getting so late in the fall that the Indians had all gone south, and the emigrants were not moving on the desert at that season.

On our return the Colonel had everything ready and we pulled out for San Francisco. We camped the first night at Steamboat Springs, a place that has since grown to be a famous health resort. On the second day we passed over the country where now stands Carson City, the capital of Nevada. At that time, this region, like all of that country then, was a wild, unsettled, sagebrush desert, or mountain wilderness.

The morning we left Eagle Valley the Colonel rode in advance of the column with me, and I saw there was something on his mind. In a little while he said he would like to kill a deer with big horns, so that he could send it--the horns--to his father in New York, who had never seen a deer, and he added that notwithstanding he--the Colonel--had been on the Pacific coast two years, he had never killed a deer in his life. I told him that I would fix it for him to get one the very next day, and he was as pleased as a child.

That night we camped by a big spring at the mouth of a great canyon, and about the spring stood a number of large pine trees. Many persons who had passed that way had carved their names in the bark of the trees, and among the names were two that were quite familiar to me. One of these was the name of Capt. Molujean--I wondered how he had done it without stuttering--and the other was the name of James Beckwith. On the same tree was written with lead pencil: "Sixty miles to Beckwith's Hotel."

On my favorite horse, Pinto, I rode out with the Colonel for a deer hunt. While riding along the canyon about two miles from where the command had camped, I saw a large doe crossing the canyon and coming down the hill toward us. I signaled the Colonel to halt and I shot the doe, breaking her neck, while sitting on my horse. I then told the Colonel to secrete himself behind a tree and he would soon see the male deer, and he would stand a good show to get a fine pair of horns. In a few moments two deer came tracking the one I had shot.

"Be ready, now," said I, "and when he stops let him have it." So when the deer were within about fifty yards I gave a keen whistle and they stopped, stock still. The Colonel fired and brought the big buck to the ground. The other, which was a small one, started to run, but I sent a bullet after it that made more venison.

We now had plenty of meat, and the Colonel was as proud over killing that deer as I was over my first pair of boots.

We stopped here until the command came up, dressed the venison and went on our way rejoicing.

Soon we were ascending the Sierra Nevada Mountains, and about three o'clock we struck the snow-line.

To one who has never gone from comparative summer in a few hours' ride, to the depths of winter and a considerable depth of snow, the sensation is a strange one. Of course, I had often done that before. But having more leisure to think of it now, and having more to do with the snow, I thought of its strangeness, and I am reminded of a little girl whom I have become acquainted with long since those days, and the effect that the first sight of snow had upon her. She was born in San Francisco, and had not seen any snow up to the time when she was three years old. Her parents were coming east with her on a railroad train, which runs over about the same ground that we were on at the time I was there with Col. Elliott. Awakening in the morning in a sleeping-car on top of the Sierras, the little one looked out, and seeing the vast fields of whiteness, she exclaimed: "Do look, mamma; the world is covered with sugar."

As we ascended the mountains the snow became so deep in a little while that we were forced to camp. The next morning the herders were directed to take the stock ahead in order to tramp down the snow to make a trail, but in four miles it became so deep that it was impossible to proceed further in that manner, and then the Colonel detailed fifty men to shovel snow, but having only a few shovels, wooden ones were made that answered the purpose, and while we were shoveling, the horses were also frequently driven back and forth over the trail, and in three days we had a passable road for the wagons.

At the end of the three days we reached the edge of the snow on the opposite side of the mountains, and there being a beautiful camping ground and the first night out of the snow for some time, the luxury of it was fully appreciated by all hands.

On a pine tree here I again saw signs of my old friend, Jim Beckwith, for there was written: "Twenty miles to Beckwith's Hotel." So you see that even in that faraway country, and at that early day, even the pioneer had learned the uses of out-door advertising.

The next morning we took an early start and traveled hard all day, anticipating with much pleasure that at night we should enjoy all the luxuries of the season at Beckwith's Hotel. And we did, to the extent that this region and the markets of San Francisco could afford.

We reached [proofers note: unreadable text] about sunset that evening, and the command went into camp and I went to Jim's new log house. He had built one and had started in to build the second, having two carpenters at work finishing them up.

After supper Col. Elliott and all his officers, both commissioned and non-commissioned, came to Jim's house, where, after a social chat and having cracked a few jokes, which latter was really a part of the business connected with this life, Col. Elliott pulled off his overcoat, laid it and his hat on a bed, stepped up near the table and said:

"Mr. Beckwith, I wish to say a few words to your friend, Mr. Drannan, in behalf of myself and the other officers present." Jim told him to go ahead, which he did, telling how faithful I had been and what valuable services I had rendered both to him and the emigrants. He went on and made quite a lengthy speech, in conclusion of which he said: "Mr. Drannan, as a slight token of our appreciation of your services while with us, I now present to you this pair of glasses," whereupon he handed me a fine pair of field glasses which he took from his overcoat pocket, "and here are two navy revolvers that Capt. Mills and Lieut. Harding wish to present to you as a token of their friendship."

This took me wholly by surprise, as I had not expected anything of the kind, and I was so dumbfounded that all I could say was to thank them for the presents, the thought never having entered my head that my services had been so highly appreciated by the officers of those four companies.

Col. Elliott said that in case he should go out on the plains the following summer, which in all probability he would, he wanted me to go with him without fail. I promised him that I would, provided I was in the country when he started out.

After Col. Elliott had closed his remarks and taken his seat, Jim Beckwith arose and made quite a speech in his plain, rude language, addressing his remarks principally to Col. Elliott, in which he said: "Colonel, I would not have recommended this boy to you so highly if I had not been with him long enough to know that when he starts in to do a thing he goes at it for all there is in him, and, as I told you, he has been with Kit Carson ever since he was a boy, and I knowed that if he didn't have the everlasting grit in him, Kit Carson wouldn't have kept him around so long. I am very glad indeed, Colonel, that he has filled the bill, and now the Injun fightin' is all over for this season and 'twill be some time before we all meet again, if we ever do. I have nothing of value to present to you, but such as I have is as free as the water in the brook."

At this he produced a gallon jug of whiskey, set it on the table, gave us some glasses and told us all to help ourselves. This wound up the evening's exercises, and after each had tipped the glass about three times we broke up the lodge and each went on his way rejoicing.

Before the Colonel left that night he told me that we would divide the captured horses the next morning. I told him that all I wanted was the five horses that I had captured from the five Indian scouts when I first started in to scout for him, but the next morning [proofers note: unreadable text] out when the horses were brought in and made the division. There were sixty-three of them, and he left fifteen to my share.

I stayed at Jim Beckwith's for about two weeks, and his carpenters having the houses completed, we saddled up four horses and took them to Hangtown. It was a distance of twenty miles to Hangtown, which at that time was one of the loveliest mining towns in California. There were between four and five thousand inhabitants in and around the place. During the day it appeared dead, as there was scarcely a person to be seen on the streets; but at night it would be full of miners, who, it seemed, came to town for no other purpose than to spend the money they had earned during the day.

This winter passed off, apparently, very slowly, being the most lonesome winter I had put in since I struck the mountains.

Along about the middle of February our groceries were running short and Jim went to Hangtown for supplies. On his return he brought me a letter from Col. Elliott, asking me to come to San Francisco at once.

I asked him what he thought of it, and he told me by all means to go.

I told him I would have to stop in San Francisco and buy me a suit of clothes before going out to the fort to see Col. Elliott. He thought this was useless, saying: "Your buckskin suit that Kit Carson gave you is just what you want for a trip like that."

I thought that if I wore such a suit in civilization the people would make light of me, and I hated the idea of being the laughing stock for other people,

Jim said: "It is Col. Elliott you are going to see, and he would rather have you come that way than any other."

I took my suit down and looked at it, and it was a fine one of the kind. I had never worn it since Uncle Kit's wedding, so it was practically new. I decided to wear it, and the next morning I started for San Francisco, Jim accompanying me to Hangtown to take the horses back to his ranche.

At Hangtown I took the stage for Sacramento, which, by the way, was the first time I had ever ridden in a stage-coach.

We started from Hangtown at five o'clock in the morning and at twelve o'clock that night the driver drew rein at the American Exchange Hotel in Sacramento. The coach was loaded down to its utmost capacity, there being nine passengers aboard. The roads were very rough at this season of the year--being the latter part of February--and I would rather have ridden on the hurricane deck of the worst bucking mustang in California than in that coach.

This hotel was kept at that time by a man named Lamb.

That night when the proprietor assigned the passengers to their respective rooms he asked us if we wished to take the boat for San Francisco the next morning. I told him that I did, whereupon he asked me if I wanted my breakfast. I told him that I did, saying that I didn't want to go from there to San Francisco without anything to eat. This caused quite a laugh among the bystanders; but I did not see the point, for at that time I did not know that one could get a meal on a steamboat, for I had never been near one.

Just as I stepped on the boat next morning, a man rushed up to me with a "Hello there! how are you?" as he grasped me by the hand. Seeing that I did not recognize him, he said: "I don't believe you know me." I told him that he had one the best of me. He said: "You are the boy scout that was with Capt. Mill last summer, and you rode in my wagon." Then I recognized him. His name was Healey, and at the time was running a restaurant in San Francisco, and he insisted on my going to his place when I got to the city, which invitation I accepted. His establishment was known as the Miners' Restaurant.

Mrs. Healey and her little daughter, eleven years old, knew me as soon as I entered the door, and were apparently as glad to see me as though I had been a relative of the family.

The next morning when I offered to settle my bill they would not take a cent, but requested me while in the city to make my home with them.

That day I went out to the Fort, which was three miles from the city, and on arriving there the first man I met was Lieut. Harding, who at once conducted me to Col. Elliott's quarters.

That afternoon we made the rounds of the Fort, and Col. Elliott, when introducing me, would say: "This is the 'boy scout,' who was out with us last summer, and whom you have heard me speak of so often."

I made my home with Col. Elliott and his wife during my stay at the Fort, which was two weeks.