Christopher Carson | Page 7

of their
warriors would inevitably bite the dust ere the fugitives could be taken.
The Indians fully understood this. And when the morning dawned and
they saw that their victims had escaped, instead of pursuing, they
satisfied their valor in holding a triumphant powwow over the rich
booty they had gained.
It was a chill day and the wind moaned dismally over the bleak prairie.
But as far as the eye could extend no foe could be seen. Not even a tree
obscured the vision. The exhaustion of the fugitives, from their
thirty-six hours of sleeplessness and battle, and their rapid flight, was
extreme. They shot a few prairie chickens, built a small fire of dried
buffalo chips with which they cooked their frugal breakfast, and then,
lying down upon the rank grass, slept soundly for a few hours.
They then pressed on their pathless way toward the rising sun. Through
weary days and nights they toiled on, through rain and cold, sleeping
often in stormy nights drenched, upon the bare soil, without even a
blanket to cover their shivering frames. Their feet became blistered.
Passing beyond the bounds of the open prairie, they sometimes found
themselves in bogs, sometimes in tangled forests. There were streams
to be waded or to be crossed upon such rude rafts as they could frame
with their hatchets. Their clothes hung in tatters around them, and, most
deplorable of all, their ammunition became expended.
For days they lived upon roots and the tender bark of trees. Some
became delirious, indeed some seemed quite insane through their
sufferings. The man who was wounded, Mr. Schenck, was a gentleman
of intelligence and of refinement and of distinguished family
connections, from Ohio. A poetic temperament had induced him to
seek the romance of an adventure through the unexplored wilderness.
After incredible sufferings his wound became so inflamed that it was
impossible for him to go any farther. Prostrate upon a mound in the
forest his comrades left him. They could do absolutely nothing for him.

They could not supply him with a morsel of food or with a cup of water.
They had no heart even to bid him adieu. Silently they tottered along,
and Mr. Schenck was left to die. Through what hours of suffering he
lingered none but God can tell. Not even his bones were ever found to
shed any light upon his sad fate.
So deep became the dejection of these wanderers that often for hours
not one word was spoken. They were lost in the wilderness and could
only direct their steps toward the rising sun. After leaving Mr. Schenck
there were but nine men remaining. They soon disagreed in reference to
the route to follow. This led to a separation, and five went in one
direction and four in another. The five, after wandering about in the
endurance of sufferings which can scarcely be conceived of, fell in with
a party of friendly Creek Indians, by whom they were rescued and
treated with the greatest humanity. Of the other four two only
succeeded in escaping from the mazes of the wilderness.
Such were the perils upon which the youthful Kit Carson was now
entering from the pure love of adventure. He was not uninformed
respecting these dangers. The knowledge of them did but add to the
zest of the enterprise.
Crossing the plains of the interior of our Continent from the Missouri
river to the Rocky mountains, was a very different undertaking half a
century ago, from what it has been in more modern times. The route
was then almost entirely unexplored. There were no charts to guide.
The bold adventurers knew not where they would find springs of water,
where forage for their animals, where they would enter upon
verdureless deserts, where they could find fording-places of the broad
and rapid rivers which they might encounter on their way.
This is not a forest-covered continent. The vast plains of the interior,
whether smooth or undulating or rugged, spread far away for weary
leagues, almost treeless. The forest was found mainly skirting the
streams. Immense herds of buffaloes, often numbering ten or twenty
thousand, grazed upon these rich and boundless pastures. Timid deer
and droves of wild horses, almost countless in numbers, here luxuriated
in a congenial home. There was scarcely a white man in the land whose

eyes had ever beheld the cliffs of the Rocky mountains. And each
Indian tribe had its hunting-grounds marked out with considerable
precision, beyond which even the boldest braves seldom ventured to
wander.
About a score of men started upon this trip. They were thoroughly
armed, practiced marksmen, well mounted and each man led a pack
mule, heavily laden with goods for the Santa Fe market. Their leader
was commander-in-chief, whom all were bound implicitly to