Thirty-One Years on the Plains and In the Mountains | Page 7

room in the hotel Mr. Carson would tell me stories
about hunting and trapping, and notwithstanding the intense interest of
the stories the days were longer, because I so much wished to be among
the scenes he talked of, and my dreams at night were filled with all
sorts of wonderful animals, my fancy's creation from what Mr. Carson
talked about. I had never fired a gun in my life and I was unbearably
impatient to get my hands on the one that was being made for me.
During the wait at St. Louis, Henry Becket was with me nearly all the
time, and when we were not haunting the gun factory, we were, as
much as possible, in Mr. Carson's room at the hotel, listening to stories
of adventure on the plains and among the mountains.
I became, at once, very much attached to Mr. Carson and I thought
there was not another man in the United States equal to him--and there
never has been, in his line. Besides, since the death of my mother he
was the only one who had taken the slightest interest in me, or treated
me like a human being, barring, of course, the Beckets and those
persons who had helped me on my long walk from Nashville to St.
Louis.
Finally Mr. Carson--whom I had now learned to address as Uncle
Kit--said to me, one morning, that as my gun was about completed we
would make preparations to start West. So we went out to a farm, about
two miles from St. Louis, to get the horses from where Uncle Kit had
left them to be cared for during the winter.
We went on foot, taking a rope, or riatta, as it is called by frontiersmen,
and on the way to the farm I could think or talk of nothing but my new
rifle, and the buffalo, deer, antelope and other game that I would kill
when I reached the plains. Uncle Kit remarked that he had forgotten to
get me a saddle, but that we would not have to wait to get one made, as
there were plenty of saddles that would fit me already made, and that
he would buy me one when he got back to town.
When we reached the farm where the horses were, Uncle Kit pointed
out a little bay pony that had both his ears cropped off at the tips, and

he said:
"Now Willie, there is your pony. Catch him and climb on," at the same
time handing me the riatta.
The pony being gentle I caught and mounted him at once, and by the
time we had got back to town money could not have bought that little
crop-eared horse from me. As will be seen, later on, I kept that pony
and he was a faithful friend and servant until his tragic death, years
afterward.
In two days we had a pack-train of twenty horses rigged for the trip.
The cargo was mostly tobacco, blankets and beads, which Carson was
taking out to trade to the Indians for robes and furs. Of course all this
was novel to me as I had never seen a pack- saddle or anything
associated with one.
A man named Hughes, of whom you will see much in this narrative,
accompanied and assisted Uncle Kit on this trip, as he had done the
season before, for besides his experience as a packer, he was a good
trapper, and Uncle Kit employed him.
CHAPTER II.
BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTUROUS LIFE.--FIRST WILD
TURKEY.--FIRST BUFFALO.--FIRST FEAST AS AN HONORED
GUEST OF INDIANS.--DOG MEAT.
It was on the morning of May 3, 1847, that we rounded up the horses
and Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes began packing them.
It being the first trip of the season some of the pack-ponies were a little
frisky and would try to lie down when the packs were put on them. So
it became my business to look after them and keep them on their feet
until all were packed.
Everything being in readiness, I shook hands, good-bye, with my
much-esteemed friend, Henry Becket, who had been helping me with

the pack-horses, and who also coveted my crop-eared pony, very
naturally for a boy. Then we were off for a country unknown to me,
except for what Uncle Kit had told me of it.
My happiness seemed to increase, if that were possible. I was
unspeakably glad to get away from St. Louis before Mr. Drake had
learned of my whereabouts, and up to the time of this writing I have
never been back to St. Louis, or Tennessee, nor have I heard anything
of Mr. Drake or my ancient enemy, the angel of Erebus.
From St. Louis we struck out westward, heading for Ft. Scott, which
place