I agreed to be back in eight days and see what arrangements had been made, and to let her know when I would be ready to take the girl.
When I got back, Jim asked me what I would do with the girl if I was successful in getting her away from the Indians. I told him I would take her to Fort Yuma.
"And what in the name of God will you do with her when you get toFort Yuma?" said Jim.
I told him that if Mrs. Jackson was there, which I was confident she was, that I would leave the girl with her, and that I had no fears but that the girl would be taken care of in the very best manner that Mrs. Jackson could provide for her.
Jim said: "If the girl is satisfied with the Injuns, why don't you let her alone? She don't know anything but Injun ways, and she never will."
I told him that my mind was thoroughly made up, and I would rescue that girl from the Indians or lose my scalp in the attempt. And now don't say any more about it, for it will do no good.
He said: "Go ahead and do as you please, as you have always got to have your own way about things, anyhow."
I said: "Yes, Jim; when I know I am right, I propose to have my own way."
This ended the conversation, for the time being, at least, for Jim saw that I was determined in the matter, and he said no more about it.
On the day appointed I took my two favorite saddle-horses and rode over to the Pima village. I started very early and arrived at the village about four o'clock in the afternoon.
After knocking about the village for a little while, my two Indian friends proposed that we take a ride.
Of course I knew the horseback ride was only a ruse to get a chance to tell me the plans laid by herself and the white girl for her escape, although she said that she just wanted to try my Pinto horse to see how he would ride.
And here I will say that I don't believe there was another Indian in that village who had any idea of the scheme that was being worked up between myself and those two Indians, for they would never say a word to me while within earshot of any of the tribe.
The other Indians thought I was courting Nawasa, and it was always the custom among those Indians for a young couple never to ride out alone.
It has always been a mystery to me why those young Pimas took such a deep interest in the white girl, for they were merely untutored Indians, having only a few years since seen the first white man, and had not seen many since then.
But those two young Indians seemed to be as kind-hearted persons as I ever met, and were the most intelligent Indians I ever saw, who were not educated, and I often regretted that I did not take them to some school and have them educated, for it would have been a great benefit to the people on the plains at that time.
But to go on with my story. We took our ride, and as soon as we were well away from the village Nawasa told me that she had seen the white girl and completed plans for her escape. She said that after making arrangements with the girl, she—Nawasa—had not gone to the Apache village, but had met the girl at the huckleberry patch most every day.
She said: "The girl will come to the berry-patch every day until we go there for her, provided the Indians with whom she lived would let her go, that she might be there to-morrow, and she might not come till the next day. The girl is willing to go with you, and we will go to the berry-patch to-morrow and wait till she comes."
The next morning the three of us started out ostensibly to pick berries.
After we were out of sight of the village the young Indian man took my Pinto horse and started in the direction of Fort Yuma, it being understood that he was to stop about half way between Fort Yuma and the place where we would meet the girl. He was to wait there until the middle of the afternoon, and if we were not there by that time he was to return to camp.
Nawasa and I went on to the berry-patch, but the white girl was not there. We had not waited long, however, until Nawasa looked up and said in Spanish, "There she comes now."
I looked and saw the girl running. She did not discover us until she was within about fifty yards of us, and when she saw us she stopped very suddenly and hung her head.
I did not know at the time whether she was ashamed or whether she had been with the Indians so long that she was really afraid of a white person; but Nawasa was not long in getting to her, and the girl would look at me and then look back, as though she had a notion to go back to the Apache village.
When I rode up to where she was, she dropped her head and would not look up for some little time.
I saw that her face was badly tattooed, but her body was not, and as she stood there, apparently undecided what to do, she was to me an object of pity, and her dejected countenance would, I think, have appealed strongly to even Jim Bridger's heart.
I told Nawasa to help her on behind me, for we must be off quick. Nawasa said: "She don't want to go." I then spoke to the white girl in Spanish, and said: "My dear girl, why do you hesitate? Get up behind me and I will take you to your own people. Why do you want to stay here and be a slave for those Indians?"
I wish I could give in detail the persuasive language used by that untutored but kind-hearted Indian girl, to get her to leave the Apaches. She would tell her that if she would only go with me that I would take her to her own people, and would tell her how happy she would be with them.
After a great deal of persuasion, as I sat on my horse I reached down and took her by one arm and told the Indian girl to help her up behind me. She took her by the foot and helped her on my horse, and mounting her own horse we flew out of that section about as fast as our horses were able to carry us.
I was riding Mexico, and he was one of the swiftest horses in that country, and he had great endurance, also.
We rode some distance before I said anything to the girl, though Nawasa had kept along at our side, talking to her all the time to keep her spirits up. Finally I spoke to her in the English language, but it was some time before I could get her to utter a word; I don't know whether it was through fear or bashfulness.
Four miles' ride brought us out of the timber into an open prairie, with low hills covered with bunch-grass, and here and there a bunch of prickly pears, so rank that one dared not attempt to ride through them. There were little mountain streams running through the country, with no kind of timber but willows, strewn here and there along the banks.
On we went, over the hills and across the valleys, putting our horses down to what they could stand and at the same time keeping a sharp lookout behind to see if the Indians were trailing us.
Our course for the first twenty miles, to where we met the young Indian, was a little north of west, and from there almost due west.
About two o'clock we arrived at the point where we were to meet the young Indian, and found him there, waiting.
We dismounted, and I was not long in changing my saddle from Mexico to my Pinto horse. This horse would weigh nearly eleven hundred pounds, and had good life and splendid bottom.
By this time the white girl was beginning to talk some.
After having my saddle changed and on my horse, the Indian girl told her she would go no farther with us. She told Nawasa that she was afraid to go with me, as she was afraid that I would take her to Mexico and sell her for a slave, where she would have to work in the fields. But Nawasa assured her there was no danger, saying: "Esta umbra mooly ah-me-go," meaning, "This man is a great friend of mine;" and she again told her not to be afraid, for I would take her to her own people.
This seemed to give her some encouragement.
After the young Indian had shown me the direction to Fort Yuma, by landmarks, etc., I asked him how far it was.
He stepped out by the side of my horse, and after taking a good look at him, said in Spanish: "About three hours, or perhaps three and a half." I then told Nawasa to help the girl up again, and she did so.
When we were about to start, the two Indians came up to us and said: "Adios anlyose," which means, "Good-bye, my friend;" at the same time shaking hands with us both.
After riding a short distance I commenced talking to her in our own language.
It seemed that she had almost forgotten English, and when she would try to talk it she could not join the words together so as to make much sense of it. It was hard to understand her, but between English and Spanish together she could manage to talk so that I was able to understand her. However, her English seemed to improve by degrees, and I asked her if she would not be glad to get back to her own people, so they could dress her up and make a lady of her.
I do not believe that the poor girl had really thought of or realized her rude condition.
She said: "No, I can never be a white girl," and at the same time commenced crying, and said in broken English, "Now I remember seeing my mother dressed all nice, and plenty more women all dressed nice." It seemed after talking to her in her own language a short time she could call back to memory things that she had forgotten altogether.
I asked her how long since she was taken by the Indians. She had to study some time before she could answer, but finally in broken English, intermingled with Spanish, she said she thought seven years.
I asked if she was taken alone. She said, no, she had a little sister taken at the same time she was. I asked her where the little sister was, and she replied that she had died, and she thought she had been dead about three years.
I asked her if the Indians had killed her father and mother. She said: "Yes, and my little brother, too; and burned our wagon and all that was in it."
Then I said to her: "I don't see how you can love those Indians who had killed your father, mother and brother." She replied that she had no one else to love.
I then said to her, "You will soon be among friends, for I am taking you to a woman that will be as good to you as your own mother was," and at that moment we hove in sight of the Fort. I pointed to the Fort, and told her there was where the woman lived that I was taking her to.
We were now safe from an attack from the Apaches, and only a few minutes later I drew rein at Fort Yuma.
I first rode up to the guard, whose beat was in front of theCommander's tent, and asked where Lieut. Jackson's quarters were.He pointed to a tent not far from where we then were, saying:"That is his tent, and his wife is there, too."
As I rode to the Lieutenant's quarters, all eyes were turned in our direction. Mrs. Jackson came to the door of the tent and recognized me at once, and her first words were: "Chief, in the name of common sense, where are you from, and who is this you have with you?"
I said: "Mrs. Jackson, this is a girl I rescued from the Indians. She has no parents and no relatives, that she knows of, and I have brought her to you, thinking you would be a friend to her."
The reply of that noble woman was, "I will, with all my heart," and at that she assisted the girl in getting off the horse and led her into her own tent.
By this time Lieut. Jackson and all the officers of the Fort were there, and it seemed to me that the Lieutenant would never quit shaking my hand, and when he went to introduce me to the other officers who were present, laughingly said.
"What shall I call you? I have known you as the 'Boy Scout,' also as the 'Chief of Scouts.' I have known you when you were giving lessons in hunting, and now you have come in from a hostile Indian country with a white girl riding behind you. What shall I call you?"
I said: "Lieutenant, call me Will Drannan, the trapper, for I am now engaged in that business."
"Yes, I see you are," responded the Lieutenant with a hearty laugh, "and I see you have had splendid success in your new enterprise." He then asked me if I had trapped the girl.
I told him that I did not trap her, but that I got her away just the same.
The Lieutenant then introduced me to the officers, and had the orderly take charge of my horses. I was never kept more busy in my life answering questions than I was for the next two hours, relative to the girl and my plan of rescuing her.
Among the officers was a captain by the name of Asa Moore, who had heard all about this massacre only a short time after it occurred, and he said he thought there were some of the relatives living somewhere in California, but he did not know just what part of the state.
I had forgotten to say that on our way to the Fort I asked her name. It seemed at first that she had forgotten it, but after studying some little time she tried to speak the name, which at that time I understood to be Otus, but I have learned since that her name was Olive Oatman. She did not seem to remember her given name. The Indians had a name for her, but I have forgotten what it was.
Lieut. Jackson invited us into his tent, but when we got to the door it was barred.
Mrs. Jackson asked us to wait a few minutes until she got some clothes on Will's girl.
A few minutes later, when we were called into supper, Mrs. Jackson had washed the girl and had her dressed in calico.
Mrs. Jackson told us that after she got her dressed, the girl sat down and wept bitterly and said she did not know how to wear such clothing.
I remained at the Fort two days, and I must say that this girl improved both in talking and in manners during the time I was there far beyond our expectations.
When she would appear down-hearted or discouraged Mrs. Jackson would talk to her in such a kind and motherly manner that the girl would cheer up at once and would be anxious to try to make something of herself.
After spending two days at the Fort, and knowing that Jim Beckwith would be uneasy about me, I commenced making preparations to return.
Mrs. Jackson promised me that she would give the girl the very best care possible while she remained with her, and if she could hear of any of her relatives she would see that she got to them safely.
With this understanding I left the girl with Mrs. Jackson, but before I was ready to start the Lieutenant came to me and asked if I did not want a job of scouting. I told him that I did not at present, that I was going to Santa Fe and did not know when I would return again.
He then handed me a letter of recommendation, saying, "If you ever happen to want a position scouting, just show this letter and it will be of some benefit to you," and he assured me that if at any time he could assist me in any manner he would cheerfully do so.
When I was ready to start, Miss Oatman asked Mrs. Jackson what she should say to me. Mrs. Jackson told her to tell me good-bye, and tell me that she was very thankful to me for all I had done for her. But the poor girl could not remember it all. She could only remember the words "Good-bye, I thank you," at the same time shaking hands with me.
This was the last I ever saw of the girl, but have heard various reports concerning her since. I have been told that Mrs. Jackson raised money at the Fort to send her to San Francisco to have the tattoo marks removed from her face by the celebrated Dr. Fuller of that city, but they having been formed with vegetable matter, he was unable to remove them. I was also informed that she was afterwards sent to New York for the same purpose, but with no better success.
Only a short time ago, since coming to Idaho, I heard that she had really found some of her relatives somewhere in the state of Oregon, where she remained and raised a family; while a still later report is that she is married to a rich merchant and is living somewhere in the state of New York.
I have often thought of this poor girl since, and it has always been a question in my mind whether I did right in taking her away from the Indians after she had been with them so long; but if I did do right, and she or any of her relatives should by chance see this work and glance over its pages, I wish to say that to that kind-hearted Indian girl of the Pima tribe, Nawasa by name, and her brother belong the praise of rescuing Olive Oatman from the Apache Indians.
In the first place, had it not been for her and her brother, I would never have known of the girl, and even after I knew she was there, I could not have done anything without Nawasa's assistance, for she could not have worked more faithfully and earnestly if there had been a thousand dollars in the operation for her.
On my return trip I rode the first day to the Pima village and remained there that night.
I hired my young Indian friend to go among the Apaches and trade beads for furs, and he went home with me.
Nawasa was very anxious to know how I got through with the girl, but did not dare say anything while in camp; so the next morning when her brother and I were leaving she caught a horse and rode with us some distance. As soon as we were out of hearing of the other Indians, she and her brother commenced asking all sorts of questions concerning the girl; whether I thought she would be happy with her own people or not.
Those Indians had learned in some way that somewhere, a long distance away, the white people had great villages, and Nawasa asked if I thought the white girl would be taken to the large cities.
The young Indian and I arrived at our camp about four o'clock that afternoon and found Jim Beckwith in a splendid humor, for he was glad to see me. He had given up all hope of ever seeing me again, for he thought the Apaches had followed me up and killed me. I told him what I had brought the young Indian for, and he was well pleased with the arrangement.
We fitted him out with beads that cost us twenty dollars, and tin pans and blankets, agreeing to come to his village in two weeks for our furs.
When the two weeks were up we took our pack-horses and went to the village, and to our surprise he had traded off the beads and blankets to much better advantage than we could have done ourselves.
For this favor we gave him in compensation two pairs of blankets, four brass finger rings and four strings of beads; and the young fellow thought he had been well treated for his trouble.
It was now getting late in the season, and after buying all the furs the Pima tribe had we commenced making preparations to pull out for Taos, as we had about all the furs we could pack on our horses to advantage, having fourteen pack-horses in all.
We packed up and started, and made the trip without anything of consequence happening on the way. We did not see any hostile Indians and had very good success, only losing one pack and horse while crossing a little stream, the name of which I have forgotten; and arrived at Taos in the latter part of June.
It was late in the afternoon when we rode up to Uncle Kit Carson's home. He and his wife and little child were out on the porch, and as soon as we rode up, both recognized Jim Beckwith, but neither of them knew me, for when they had seen me last I was almost a beardless boy, and now I had quite a crop of beard and was a man of twenty-five years of age.
"Hello, Jim!" were Uncle Kit's first words, and he and his wife came out to the gate to shake hands with him.
"Well, how are you, anyhow; and how have you been since you left, and who is this you have with you?" said Uncle Kit, the last in a low tone of voice.
I had dismounted some yards distant, and on the opposite side of the pack-horse from them. Jim told Uncle Kit that I was a discouraged miner that he had picked up in California, saying: "He don't amount to very much, but I needed some one for company and to help me through with the pack-train, so I brought him along."
By this time I had made my way through the bunch of pack-horses and walked up to Uncle Kit and spoke to him, and I think I got the worst shaking up that I had had for a long time, and I don't think there ever was a father more pleased to see his son return than Uncle Kit was to see me.
Our horses were turned over to the hired man, who took care of them, and the next two days were spent in visiting Uncle Kit and his wife. Of course I had to tell them of the hardships I had undergone during my absence from home; my adventures, narrow escapes, etc.
I learned that Mr. Hughes had died during my absence; I also learned that Johnnie West was at Bent's Fort.
After resting two days we packed up again and started for Bent's Fort. Uncle Kit went along with us to assist in making a good sale of our furs, and we arrived there just in time, as the last train was going out for the season, and we sold them for a good price.
Here I met Jim Bridger, Johnnie West and a number of other acquaintances and friends who supposed I had been killed and scalped by the Indians. I was sorry to learn that Johnnie West, like the majority of the old frontiersmen, had fallen into the habit of drinking up every dollar that he earned.
While we were here, Uncle Kit made a proposition that himself, JimBeckwith, Jim Bridger and myself take a trip to the head of theMissouri river and put in the winter trapping.
He said he wanted to make this trip and then quit the business, saying: "I have business enough at home to attend to, but I have always had an anxiety to take a trip to the headwaters of the Missouri river."
The four of us returned to Taos, arriving there just in time to celebrate the Fourth of July, arriving on the second, and now I was home again in my fine buckskin suit. The night of the fourth we all attended a big fandango, and had a huge time. I was somewhat over my bashfulness by this time, and by the assistance of Mrs. Carson and two or three other ladies present, I was enabled to get through in pretty good shape. After that night's dancing, I felt that if I were back at the Fort, where I tried to dance my first set, I would show them how dancing first began.
We remained at Taos until August first, then, all being ready for our northern trip, each man taking his own saddle-horse and five pack horses, we made the start for the headwaters of the Missouri river. We crossed the Platte where it leaves the mountains, and the next day we met a band of Arapahoes, who informed us that the Sioux were on the war-path, and that Gen. Harney was stationed on North Platte with a considerable body of soldiers. The day following, after having crossed the Cache-la-Poudre, we reached Gen. Harney's camp. The General, being a good friend of Uncle Kit and Jim Bridger, insisted on our being his guests, so we took supper with him and camped there for the night.
While at the supper table, Jim Beckwith told the General who I was and what I had been doing the last three years, following which I took Lieut. Jackson's letter from my pocket and handed it to the General. I had never seen the inside of the letter myself. The General read the letter the second time, and looking up at me, he said:
"Yes, I'll give you a job; you can start in to-morrow if you like."
Before I had time to answer him, Uncle Kit spoke up, saying: "General, I have employed him for the next six months and I cannot get along without him."
At this the General said: "Mr. Carson, your business is not urgent and mine is, and I insist on the young man taking a position with me for the remainder of the summer."
I said: "General, I did not show you that letter with the intention of asking you for employment, but simply to show you the standing I have with the people where I have been."
"Young man," he replied, "I don't wish to flatter you, but there is not a man in my service that I could conscientiously give such a letter."
When he saw that we were determined to proceed, he tried to persuade us that we could not make it through, "For," said he, "the whole country is full of hostile Indians between here and there, and they are killing emigrants every day." Which was true.
The following morning we pulled out again, aiming to push through and get into the bad lands as quickly as possible, knowing that when once in there we would not be attacked by a large band of Indians, there being no game in that region for them to live on.
The second day out from Gen. Kearney's quarters, about the middle of the afternoon, we were looking for a place to camp for the night, when we saw eleven Indians coming for us full tilt. Jim Bridger was riding in the lead, I being the hindmost one. Jim being the first to see them, he turned as quick as a wink and we all rode to the center. Each man having a saddle-horse and five pack-horses, they made good breastworks for us, so we all dismounted and awaited the impolite arrival. I drew my rifle down across the back of one of the horses when the Indians were two hundred yards away, and Uncle Kit said: "Don't fire yet. All wait until they get near us, and I will give the word for all to fire at once. Each man take good aim, and make sure of his Indian; use your rifles first and then draw your pistols."
He did not give the word until they were within about one hundred yards of us, and when he did, we all fired. I saw my Indian fall to the ground. We then drew our revolvers, and I got in two more shots before the Indians could turn their ponies so as to get away.
At the first shot with my revolver I did not see the Indian fall, but at the second shot I got my man.
We killed seven from the little band, only leaving four. They seemed to realize at once that they had bit off more than they could chew, and in about three minutes they were out of sight, and that was the last we saw of them.
We did not get a man wounded, and only one horse hurt, and that very slightly.
This was our last trouble with Indians until we were across theYellowstone.
The next day after crossing that river we saw on our right, about a quarter of a mile away, twenty Crow Indians coming for us. They gave us chase for five or six miles, until we struck suitable ground. As soon as that was obtained we stopped to make a stand, and as soon as they were in sight around the hill they were within gunshot, and we all fired. I think I wounded my Indian in the leg, and killed his horse. Jim Beckwith said he saw three Indians fall to the ground. This, however, was the last trouble we had with the Crow Indians on that trip.
The next day we arrived at Fort Benton, on the Missouri river. There we met a number of trappers in the employ of the Hudson Bay Company, and not an independent trapper in the outfit. Strange, but true, the trappers in the employ of that Company always hated the sight of an independent trapper.
Here we stayed over two days, trying to gather some information as to our route, and, strange as it may seem, we could not find a man who would give us any information as to the route we wished to go, which was only about two hundred miles from there.
Trapping had never been done in that region, and these men knew that this was because of hostile Indians there. They were not men of sufficient principle to even intimate to us that the Indians were dangerous in that section, but let us go on to find it out for ourselves, hoping, no doubt, that the Indians would kill us and that there would be so many independent trappers out of the way. From here we took the divide between the Missouri river and the Yellowstone, aiming to keep on high land in order to steer clear, as much as possible, of hostile Indians.
Uncle Kit said he was satisfied that there was a large basin somewhere in that country, but did not know just where or how to find it.
It was in the evening of the fifth day when we came upon a high ridge, and almost due west of us and far below we could see a great valley, since known as Gallatin Valley, where Bozeman, Mont., now stands.
When we came in sight of this beautiful region, Uncle Kit said: "Boys, this is the country I have been looking for, and I'll assure you if we can get in there and are not molested, we can catch beaver by the hundred."
We had not been bothered by Indians, nor had we seen any sign of them since we left Fort Benton.
We had been on high ground all of the way, and we thought now when once in this valley we would be entirely out of the way of the Crows, and the Bannocks and Blackfoot Indians would be the only tribes to contend with.
From where we first saw the valley, we started to go down the mountain. The next day, as we got lower, we could see plenty of Indian sign. Striking a canyon, that we thought would lead us down to the valley, we gave it the name of Bridger's Pass, which name it has to-day. As we neared the valley we saw more Indian sign, and from the amount of it, it seemed that the country must be alive with them. When within about five or six miles of the valley, we saw a band of Indians to our right, on the ridge.
Jim Bridger said: "Boys, they are Crows, and we are in for it."
They did not come in reach of us, but kept along the ridge above us. We could see by looking ahead that near the mouth of this canyon there was a high cliff of rocks.
We expected to be attacked from those rocks, and we had to be very cautious in passing this point. But to our surprise they did not make the attack. Here we began to see beaver sign in abundance. I don't think that I ever in my life saw as much of it on the same space of ground as I saw there, for every little stream that emptied into that valley was full of beaver dams.
The Indians kept in sight of us until we struck the valley, which was just at sunset. We traveled until dark, when we stopped and built up a big fire. As soon as our fire was burning good we mounted our horses and rode about one mile on to open ground. Dismounting, we loosened all our saddles, both pack and riding- saddles, and picketed all our horses as close together as we could.
We made our bed in the center, keeping a guard out all night. Jim Beckwith was the first man on duty, and my turn came second. By the time I went to relieve Jim the moon was up, and he told me to keep a keen lookout in the direction of the creek, "For," said he, "I am almost sure I saw an Indian in that direction about half an hour ago."
Of course this put me on my guard, and I kept my eye peeled in great shape. About my second trip around the horses I looked in the direction of the creek and thought I saw an Indian coming on all fours.
He would only come a few steps and then stop. Being below me, I could not get him between me and the moon, so I concluded I would meet him half way. I got down on all fours and watched him, and when he would start I would move ahead, keeping my eye on him, and when he would stop I would stop also.
This I did so that to move at the same time he did, he could not hear the noise made by me. When I was close enough I laid flat on the ground, shut my left hand, and placing it on the ground, resting my gun on my fist, took good aim and I got him.
At the crack of my gun the whole crowd were on their feet, and a moment later were at the scene of war. We went to the place where it lay, and beheld a very large white wolf lying there, "dead as a door nail."
This was the first time I had ever made such a mistake, and it was some time before I heard the last of it.
The next morning when we got up, instead of being one band of Indians in sight, there were two. We made up our minds that we had discovered the finest trapping ground in America, and had a poor show to get away from it, but we went ahead and got our breakfast, just as though there were no Indians in sight of us, but we concluded we had better leave this part of the country, so we pulled out southwest across the valley, having no trouble until we struck the West Gallatin river.
Here the beaver dams were so thick that it was difficult to find a place to cross. After prospecting some little time, we struck on a buffalo trail crossing the river, and we concluded to cross on that trail. I was in the lead, but did not proceed far until we saw the mud was so deep that we had to retrace our steps. When we faced about to come back, of course I was thrown into the rear, and just as we had turned the Indians made an attack on us from the brush. I fired four shots at them at short range with my revolver, the others firing at the same time. Just as we were out of the brush, my favorite horse, Mexico, which was the hindmost horse in my string, was shot down, having five or six arrows in his body. I sprang from my saddle and the other boys halted until I cut my dying horse loose from the others, which was only a second's work, and we made a rush for the open ground, which was reached in a few jumps. The Indians did not show themselves on the open ground, but kept hid in the brush. We rode up and down the stream for an hour and a half, but could not find a place that we could cross for Indians and mud. Every place we would attempt to cross, the Indians would attack us from the brush.
This, however, was all an open country, excepting immediately along the stream, where was an immense growth of underbrush. After making several attempts to cross and being driven back, Jim Beckwith proposed that we put spurs to our horses and ride as fast as they could carry us for three or four miles up the river, that we might be able to cross before the Indians would be able to get there, "For," said he, "this brush seems to be full of redskins."
This being agreed to, we all started at full speed up the river, and after running some distance we saw a large buffalo trail leading across the river. Jim Bridger being in the lead, said: "Here is a big buffalo trail, let's try crossing on it." We were about one-fourth of a mile from the river, and Uncle Kit, who from some cause had dropped behind, sang out: "All right, let's hurry and get across and out of the brush on the other side before them redskins get here."
At this we all made a rush for the river, and just as we were going out on the other side the Indians attacked us from the brush. They shot Uncle Kit's hindmost horse down before he was out of the mud and water, and he had to get off in two feet of mud and water to cut his dying horse loose from the string of horses. We killed two Indians here. Uncle Kit, while he was down cutting his horse loose, shot one who was just in the act of striking him with a tomahawk. We made our way to open ground as quick as possible, rode about a half a mile and then stopped and loaded our pistols.
Uncle Kit said: "Boys, how in the world are we to get out of this?The whole country is alive with Indians."
Jim Bridger said: "Kit, you are the man that got us in here, and we will look for you to get us out."
"All right," said Kit, "mount your horses and let's be off." And he gave orders to ride abreast when the ground would permit.
By riding in this manner we could corral quicker. What is meant by corralling is that each man has his string of horses as we have before stated, and when attacked each man rides to the center, and the horses are a great protection to the men in time of battle. We traveled some four or five miles without seeing an Indian, but all this time we were on open ground.
Finally we came to a little stream, a tributary to the Madison river, and when crossing this we were again attacked by the Indians, who were secreted in the brush.
This was a surprise, for we had not seen an Indian since we left the West Gallatin. Here we had a fight that lasted full twenty minutes. We were about the middle of the stream when they opened fire on us.
Uncle Kit said: "Come ahead, boys;" at the same we commenced firing at the Indians, and every foot of that stream had to be contested, from the middle, where they first opened fire on us, to the shore. I saw two dead Indians in the water, and there might have been more, but I did not have time to stop and look for Indians, either dead or alive. I had seen the time that I was hunting for Indians, but at this particular time I didn't feel as though I had lost any.
Uncle Kit was now in the lead and I was bringing up the rear. Just as we were out of the water and he was removing the saddle from his horse, he got two arrows through his buckskin hunting shirt, and was very slightly hurt.
We managed to stand them off until he removed the saddle from the dying horse to another, after which we pulled for open ground, all escaping unhurt, excepting the slight scratch Uncle Kit received from the arrow.
The redskins did not follow us away from the creek.
As soon as we were on open ground we stopped and built a fire and dried our clothing, for we were as wet as drowned rats. To build a fire we had to pull small sagebrush that grew here and there in the open prairie in that country. While we were drying our clothing and eating a lunch, we had our horses feeding near us, but did not dare let them scatter for fear of an attack, which we were liable to experience at any moment. After we had our clothing pretty well dried out and having had a little something in the way of refreshments, on looking off to the northeast about two miles distant, we saw a big band of buffalo and a lot of Indians after them.
We concluded that we had remained here long enough, so we mounted and pulled out again.
The balance of the day we kept on open ground, and saw numerous little bands of Indians, but were not molested by them until late in the afternoon.
About sundown, while traveling down a little narrow valley, all of a sudden about fifteen Indians, all well mounted, made a charge on us. We corralled at once. By this time our horses had learned to corral pretty quick, and when they were in gunshot we opened fire on them. I fired at one with my rifle and got him, for I saw him fall to the ground, and I got another with my pistol. I do not know how many were killed, but they went away a much less number than they came. We all escaped unhurt, but Uncle Kit lost another horse, making in all four horses that day.
We moved on again and traveled about five miles and made another camp, but did not build a fire. Our horses were picketed near camp, and that night we stood guard the same as the night before, but I did not see any Indians crawling up on all fours. The morning following we were off very early, and traveled some four miles before we came to water. Coming to a nice little brook, we stopped and took our breakfast. Here we had a chance to have killed an antelope, but did not dare shoot.
After taking something for the inner man, we proceeded on our way. We did not have any more trouble with Indians, not even seeing any until we got to what is known as Stinking Water or Alder creek, near where Virginia City, Mont., now stands. In traveling down this stream, which is quite crooked, and just as we were rounding one of those points of the hill running down to the creek, riding in the lead I saw two Indian wick-i-ups about half a mile ahead, just in the edge of the brush. I at once gave the signal to turn back, and we got out of sight without being discovered by the Indians.
We turned our course, somewhat, making a circuitous route, and when we were just opposite the wick-i-ups, Jim Bridger and Uncle Kit climbed to the top of the hill, taking my glasses with them, and took in the situation. When they returned to where we were they were feeling much more encouraged, saying: "Thank God we are rid of the Blackfoots and Crows; those are the Bannocks. We are now in their country, and they are not so numerous nor so hostile as the Crows and Blackfoots." That night we camped on Stinking Water, near Lone Butte, picketed our horses close around camp and stood guard the same as the two nights previous.
The next morning we were up early and off again, aiming to cross the main divide and go over to Fort Hall, expecting to find there a great many trappers and raise a crowd sufficient to come back and trap on the Gallatin river this winter.
At that time Fort Hall was a great rendezvous for trappers.
Now we were beginning to feel more encouraged and to think our chances were pretty good, but that evening, while traveling up Beaver Canyon, which, I think the railroad runs up now, from Pocatello, Idaho, to Butte City, Mont., the Bannocks attacked us about fifty strong.
They held us there for about an hour, and had it not been for a thunder storm that came up, I don't think one of us would have got out of that canyon, for they had us completely surrounded. They killed two horses from Jim Bridger's string and wounded Uncle Kit in one shoulder severely.
When the thunder storm came up the Indians were gradually closing in on us, and it commenced to thunder and lightning, and it actually rained so hard that one person could not see another two rods before him.
While it was raining so hard, we mounted and rode out of the canyon.
I never saw it rain harder in my life than it did for a half hour. When we were on open ground and it had quit raining, we stopped, and Uncle Kit said: "Now who says the Almighty didn't save us this time by sending that shower of rain just at the right time?"
That night we camped near the summit of the Rocky Mountains, dividing the waters that run into the Pacific and Atlantic oceans. Uncle Kit suffered all that night from his arrow wound, the arrow going under his shoulder blade, and when we examined the wound we found it much deeper than we had any idea of. This was the last trouble with Indians on that trip.
The next morning we started very early, and were three days making Fort Hall, having no trouble whatever on the way. On arriving at the Fort we were very much disappointed in regard to raising our crowd to go to the head of the Missouri river to trap the coming winter. There were only about twenty trappers at Fort Hall at that time, and they appeared to have no particular objections to living a little while longer. Those of them who had never interviewed the Blackfoot and Crow Indians personally were pretty well acquainted with them by reputation, and they said they did not care to risk their lives in that country. We remained here two weeks, after which time—Uncle Kit's wound getting considerable better—Jim Bridger, Uncle Kit and myself concluded to go on to the waters of Green river and trap the coming winter.
While here, Jim Beckwith fell in with a man by the name of Reese, who said he had trapped on the headwaters of Snake river the winter previous, and that trapping was good there. He induced Beckwith to go to that section of the country, saying it was only one hundred miles from Fort Hall. This trapping ground was immediately across the divide of the Rockies and south of the Gallatin, where the Blackfoot and Crow Indians were so bad, but Reese thought they could get out the next spring before the Indians could get across the mountains.
So he and Beckwith started, and at the same time we pulled out for the head of Green river. They went to the head of Snake river, and I afterwards learned that they trapped there all winter with splendid success, but trapping being so good they stayed too late in the spring. One morning about the last days of April, after they had just eaten their breakfast and were making preparations to go to look after their traps, they were attacked by about one hundred Blackfoot Indians. Reese was killed the first shot, and Jim then saw that his only show was to run, which he did. It was about sunrise when they made the attack. Jim Beckwith fled, with the Indians in hot pursuit. It was claimed to be one hundred miles from there to Fort Hall, and that same evening, before dark, he was in Fort Hall, and he went all the way on foot.
In this run Beckwith burst the veins in his legs in numerous places, making him a cripple for life. The last time I saw him was at his own home, near Denver, Colo., in 1863. At that time he was so badly crippled that he had to walk with two canes, and after telling me the condition he was in, he showed me a number of running sores that were caused by the bursted veins. For Jim Beckwith, now dead and gone, I will say, he was a hero in his day. For bravery he was far above the average, and at the same time he was honorable and upright. He was a man whose word was as good as gold, and one who was possessed of great strength and had a constitution equal to that of a mustang. The worst thing that could be said of Jim Beckwith was that he was his own worst enemy, for he would spend his money for whiskey as fast as he earned it.
Uncle Kit, Jim Bridger and myself wintered on the waters of the Green river and trapped, but had very poor success, this country having been trapped over so much that the beaver were scarce and hard to catch, and Uncle Kit's wound bothered him all winter, and in fact as long as he lived.
After winter had broken up we started for New Mexico, via NorthPark. Our idea in taking that route was to avoid the hostileSioux.
We were successful in getting through without having any trouble with Indians, whatever, arriving at Bent's Fort about the first of June. We sold our furs again to Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux. Joe Favor having gone out of business, I engaged with Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux to go among the Arapahoe Indians to trade for furs and buffalo robes.
Uncle Kit Carson pulled out for home and when he was starting he said he had done his last trapping and he was going home to his sheep ranch and take things easy. "For," said he, "I had the wust luck last winter that I ever had in my life, when I had 'lowed to have the best. I'm gittin old enough to quit."
Before he left he told me that whenever I felt like it he wanted me to come to his place and make my home as long as I pleased.
Col. Bent fitted me out with twenty-five pack animals and two Mexican boys to assist me, and I started for the Arrapahoe country, one hundred and twenty-five miles distant. I was supplied with beads, blankets and rings to trade to the Indians for furs and buffalo robes.
On my arrival at the Arrapahoe village I learned that there were not many furs on hand, as the Sioux had been so hostile the past fall and winter that the Arrapahoes had not been able to trap or hunt much, consequently we had to visit all the little hunting parties belonging to that tribe, in order to get furs and robes enough to load our pack train.
After remaining about two weeks I got a fair load and started on my return, making the round trip in little over one month, having had no trouble whatever with Indians or otherwise. On my return to Bent's Fort I found John West, who had been trapping in the Windriver mountains in company with two other men I did not know. They had been successful the past winter and had sold their furs for a good price, and now Johnnie had plenty of money and was having what he termed a glorious good time, spending from ten to forty dollars a day.
After I had settled up with Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux I went to Taos with the determination that I would take it easy the balance of this season.
Col. Bent offered to bet me a horse that I would not stay in Taos one month. He told me that if I would go to Taos and rest up a month and return to the fort and hunt for them the balance of the season he would make me a present of a better horse than the other one he gave me, but I told him that he was mistaken, and that he never owned a better horse than Pinto. I knew that Pinto was getting old and had had many a hard day's ride, but I could get on him to-morrow morning after breakfast, and be in Taos before sundown, which was a distance of eighty miles. I made a bargain with them to return to the fort in a month from that time and hunt for them until something else turned up.
On my arrival at Taos I found Jim Bridger stopping with Uncle Kit, and he made me a proposition that we go and stop with the Kiowa tribe that winter and buy furs and buffalo robes. I agreed to that provided that Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux would agree to buy the furs and robes of us. They were the only traders in that country since Joe Favor had retired from business.
In one month I returned to the fort as per contract and started in hunting.
There was so much stock around the fort that I had to go from ten to twenty miles to find deer, and sometimes further to find buffalo.
After I had hunted about three weeks Jim Bridger came over to try to make a bargain with the company in regard to buying furs and buffalo robes.
Up to this time the Kiowa had not traded any at this fort. In fact, there had been but little trading done among them, yet they were in the heart of the buffalo country in the fall of the year, being located on the Arkansas river, one hundred miles west from the Big Bend. We made a bargain to work for Bent and Roubidoux by the month, they to furnish us.
They thought the best plan would be to buy a load of robes and return with it, and then go back again, for by so doing we would not have to run chances of being robbed by other tribes as we would by waiting until spring to pack over to the fort.
We started about the first of November for the Kiowa village, with thirty-two pack-horses and a Mexican boy to help us. This was just the time of year that the buffalo were moving south for the winter, and they travel much slower and are much harder to frighten than in the spring when they are traveling the other way. I attributed this to their being so much fatter in the fall of the year, for in the fall one would never see a poor buffalo except it was either an old male or one that had been crippled; and their hides are much more valuable than those taken off in the spring.
On arriving at the village we found that the Indians had a new chief, whom neither of us were acquainted with. His name was Blackbird. The old chief, Black Buffalo, who fed us on dog meat when we were on our way from St. Louis to Taos, ten years before, having died, Blackbird was appointed in his place, and we found him to be a very intelligent Indian. He said his people were glad to have us come among them and that they would be pleased to trade with us.
We stayed there about two weeks before offering to buy a hide or fur of them, but would show our goods quite frequently in order to make them anxious, and by doing so we would be able to make a better bargain with them.
After staying there about two weeks we told the chief that on a certain day we would be ready to trade with his people, putting the date off about one week.
When the day arrived the Indians came in from all quarters to trade furs and robes, bringing from one to one dozen robes to the family. The squaws brought the robes, and the bucks came along to do the trading, and we got many a first-class robe for one string of beads, which in St. Louis would cost about ten cents. We traded for enough furs in one day to load our entire pack-train of thirty-two horses.
The next morning we loaded up our furs and pulled out, telling the chief that we would be back in one moon—meaning in their language, one month—which would keep us busy, it being about four hundred miles to Bent's Fort, and as we were heavily loaded we would have to travel slow. The Mexican boy would ride ahead and the pack horses would follow him, while Jim and I brought up the rear. We experienced no trouble in getting all the buffalo meat we wanted, for those beasts were quite tame at this season of the year, and they would often come near our camp. So near, in fact, that we could sit in camp and kill our meat.
Upon our arrival at the fort Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux were well pleased with the success of the trip, and we at once started back after the second load. We found more furs and robes there awaiting our arrival than we could load on our horses. In all we made four trips that winter, and Col. Bent told me some time afterward that they cleared a thousand dollars on each cargo.
When spring came Jim Bridger and I went to Taos and visited UncleKit for about a month.
This was now the spring of 1859 and the excitement over the gold mines around Pike's Peak was running high. We all knew where Pike's Peak was, for any day when it was clear we could see it very plainly from Bent's Fort or Taos, but we did not know just where the mines were. Jim proposed that we take a trip out there and see about the mines. So we talked the matter over until I was finally attacked with that disease which was then known as "the gold fever."
About the first of June we made a break for the gold fields. We crossed the Arkansas river near Fountain ca-booyah (or something like that)—(Fountain qui Bouille, Boiling Fountain)—and did not go far from there until we struck a wagon road, which showed there had been much travel, and we could see that it had not been long since a wagon passed.
We were very much surprised at a wagon road in this portion of country, but there it was just the same. We did not travel on this road very far until we overtook a large train of emigrants, and on making inquiry we learned that they were on their way to Pike's Peak.
Jim Bridger laughingly remarked: "If you are not careful you will pass Pike's Peak before you go there, for there is the mountain," pointing to the Peak, the foot of which we were just then passing. At this another man said: "We are going to Cherry creek to the mines. Do you know how far it is?"
I told him it was twenty miles to the head of Cherry creek. He then asked me how far it was to Denver. I told him I had never heard of any creek or river by that name in this country. "But," he said, "I mean Denver City." But Jim and I had never heard of the place. He said Denver City was on Cherry creek in the gold mines.
We passed on, crossing the main divide between the Arkansas and the Platte rivers, striking the head of Cherry creek, then traveled down Cherry creek to the mouth, on a now well-beaten wagon road, the dust in places being six inches deep or more.
When we were within a mile of the mouth of Cherry creek I looked ahead, and for the first time I saw Denver, there being then as I supposed about fifty tents and campers' houses in the place. We stopped to take a look around and saw people coming in, every hour of the day, over the Platte and Arkansas river routes, and could see all kind of conveyances from a hand cart to a six-horse team. While there I saw a number of carts come in drawn by men alone, all the way from two to eight men to the cart.
After stopping around Denver two days and taking in the sights, we pulled out for the mountains to a place called Gregory, about forty miles from Denver, where it was reported they were mining.
The mines were located on North Clear creek and there were only two claims being worked.
Gregory, the man that this little camp was named for, was working a claim and said he was taking out some gold, and a man by the name of Greene Russell was working another claim.
They were both old Georgia miners.
This man Russell told me how the excitement got started. He said that himself, Gregory and Dr. Russell, a brother of his, and three other men had come out there the fall before, and early that season had discovered gold on Cherry creek, and also a little on the mountain stream where they were then at work. Dr. Russell being a man of family, concluded to return to his home that fall. He and the rest of the crowd cautioned him to say nothing about what they had struck, for they did not consider they had found anything to warrant an excitement and a stampede, as it was termed in mining parlance. The Doctor promised he would not mention it even to his most intimate friends. But it seems he did not keep his word, but commenced to spread the news as soon as he struck the settlements, telling wonderful stories of the gold around Pike's Peak, which set the people wild. They seemed to think there had been another California struck which caused a repetition of the stampede ten years before. During the winter the news spread all over the State and they came from every quarter.
Russell continued: "Now you can see the effect of it. If I had known my brother would have told such outrageous stories I would not have allowed him to go home." He said he thought there were a few claims outside of the ones they were working that would pay, but beyond that he did not think it would amount to anything.
After remaining here one week we concluded we had gold mining enough to last us some time, so we started back for the foot of the mountains, and the first night we camped at the place where Golden now stands, the place where South Clear creek flows from the mountains.
At this time there were at least five hundred wagons to be seen at one sight, camped on this creek. We camped near the crossing of Clear creek, and there was almost a constant stream of people coming in.
Late that evening four men came into camp with four yoke of oxen, a wagon, and an outfit for mining and with a good suppy of grub— enough to last them a whole season. They camped that night a few yards from us. On finding that we had just returned from the mines they came over to learn what news we had. We told them what we had seen and what Mr. Russell told us.
After they had heard our story, one of them said. "Well, boys, I'm a goin' back to Missouri. What are the balance of you goin' to do?"
They talked the matter over for some time and finally all concluded that old Missouri was a pretty good country and they would all start back in the morning.
One of the crowd said: "What will we do with our provisions? We can't haul it back for our cattle are so tender footed now that they can hardly travel." Another said: "What we do not want ourselves we will give to those hand-cart men over there." But another one in the crowd who perhaps was more like the dog in the manger that could not eat the hay himself nor would not let the cows eat it, spoke up and said: "No, we will not do any such thing! What we do not want to take along to eat on our way back we will throw in the creek."
The next morning after they had eaten breakfast two of them got up into the wagon and selected what provisions they wanted to take along with them, after which they threw the remainder out on the ground and the other two carried it and threw it into the creek. It consisted of flour, dried fruit, bacon, sugar, and I noticed one ten gallon keg of molasses.
I was told that this was an everyday occurrence. As we had seen the elephant and had about all the mining we wanted, for awhile, at least, we saddled up our horses and started for Taos, by the way of Bent's Fort.
Three days' ride took us to Bent's Fort, and we had a thousand and one questions to answer, for this was the first news they had got from the mines around Pike's Peak.