The Life and Adventures of Kit Carson, the Nestor of the Rocky Mountains, from Facts Narrated | Page 9

the voice of thunder and
the unseen bullet.
The bold traveller, whose pathway lies over those great highroads
which lead to the Pacific, must still watch for the red man's ambush by
day; and, by night, sleep under the protecting vigilance of the faithful,
quick-sighted sentinel. The savage never forgives his own or his
ancestor's foe. Every generation of them learns from tradition the trials
and exploits of its tribe. From earliest boyhood these form the burden
of their education in history; and, on performing the feat of courage or
strength which admits them to the councils of the braves, their nation's
wrongs are uppermost in their thoughts, causing them to thirst for a
revenge which sooner or later gives them a grave, making themselves,
in turn, an object of revenge.
It has already appeared that when Kit Carson entered upon his first
expedition, game was to be had in abundance. His route lay across the
western wilds to Santa Fé. All this distance the bulk of provisions,
consisting of a small quantity of flour and bacon, had to be transported
by himself and his companions. These articles were kept as a reserve,
and were looked upon as luxuries; for, that man was estimated to be a
very poor shot who could not obtain, with his rifle, all the animal food
he required for his individual sustenance. These hunters, however, well
understood the laws which govern and the advantages which follow
division of labor. Everything was so arranged, both for this and
subsequent expeditions, by which a regular hunter was appointed, and
each man assigned some particular duty according to his capacity.
These appointments were usually made by the leader of the party,
whose supervision was acknowledged by general consent on account of
his known experience and capability. This plan was the more necessary
in order to avoid confusion.
The caravan had hardly launched out on its long and tedious tramp,
when an accident occurred which came very near proving serious in its
results. For several days the men had been greatly annoyed by wolves
who appeared more than usually ravenous and bold.[2]
[Footnote 2: There are two species of these animals found on the

western prairie. One is small, called the Jackal; the other much larger.
The latter, or larger species, are found of various, colors, but more
frequently grey. The color, however, varies with the season and often
from other causes. Many of their habits are strikingly similar to those
of the domestic dog, with the simple difference that the wolf is
unreclaimed from his wild state. The connecting link between the
prairie wolf and the domestic dog is the cur found among the Indians.
The Indian cur, by a casual observer, could be easily mistaken for a
prairie wolf. Near the Rocky Mountains, and in them, these animals are
found of immense size; but, being cowardly, they are not dangerous.
The first night a person sleeps on a prairie is ever afterwards vividly
impressed upon his memory. The serenade of the wolves with which he
is honored, is apt to be distinctly remembered. It is far from agreeable,
and seldom fails to awaken unpleasant forebodings concerning the
future; and, the idea that these fellows may be soon clearing his bones,
is not very genial to the fancy. To the wolf the graveyard is anything
but consecrated ground; and, if a person is very chary of his cadaver, he
had better not leave it on the Western Plains. The wolf is quite choice
in his viands whenever the opportunity offers, and will, at any time,
leave the carcass of an Indian for that of a white man. Old frontiersmen,
speaking of the wolves, usually style them as "their dogs;" and, after a
night when these animals have kept up an incessant barking, they will
express wonder by asking what has been disturbing "their hounds." The
flesh of the mountain wolf, when cooked, has something of the smell
and taste of mutton, but it is very rank.]
In order to frighten the wolves, the teamsters would occasionally shoot
them. One of the members of the expedition was obliged to take a fresh
rifle from a wagon. In taking the gun out, the hammer of the lock
caught against some projecting object, which caused it to be partially
set. Having become freed, however, before it was fully set, it came
down and fired the gun. The contents of the barrel were sent through
the man's arm. No member of the expedition was conversant with
surgical knowledge. Here was an occasion to shake the nerves of any
feeling man; and, beneath the rough exterior of the western ranger,
there runs as deep a stream of true humanity as can be found anywhere
on the American continent. Every suggestion was offered and every

effort