It was considered a great breach of etiquette to speak, or even smile, during this ceremony.
This Indian village was situated at Pawnee Rock, on the Arkansas river, in a beautiful valley, in what is now the southwest corner of Benton Co., Kan. The wick-i-ups were made of poles set on ends, gathered together at the top, and covered with buffalo skins from which the hair had been removed.
The Kiowas were, at that time, the most numerous tribe of Indians in the United States.
Early the next morning after our dog-feast and peace-smoke, our party was up and off, and I was particularly glad to get away, feeling that I would rather camp out and feed on buffalo, antelope, jack-rabbits and wild turkey than dwell in the lodges of Kiowas and be "honored" with banquets of the nicest dogs in all that region.
We took the Santa Fe trail and the buffalo were so numerous along the way that we had to take some pains to avoid them, as when they were traveling or on a stampede, nothing could turn or stop them and we would be in danger of being ground to atoms beneath their thousands of hoofs.
In two days more of travel we reached another Indian village, on another beautiful plain, in what is now Pawnee Co., Kan. Here the country was so level that one could see for miles in any direction, and the sun rising or setting, seemed to come up or go down, as a great golden disk, out of or into the earth. We could see many bands of wild horses feeding on the luxuriant grasses, and little did I think, then, that I would live to see the day when that broad and unfenced plain would be converted into homes for hundreds of the pale-faced race.
We were met on the outskirts of the village by White Horse, Chief of the Comanches, who, being an intimate friend of Uncle Kit, shook hands with us and conducted us to his own wick-i-up. There we unpacked the animals and piled up our goods, and White Horse detailed an Indian to guard the packs day and night.
After our horses had been picketed out to grass, the Chief took us into his lodge to dine with him, and here again we had boiled dog and the peace smoke.
White Horse insisted upon our being his guests until morning, it being about noon when we arrived, and as our horses were much jaded we decided to give them the advantage of such a rest.
The Comanche Chief was most exceedingly hospitable, in his way, and would not allow us to eat of our own provisions, but insisted upon our eating with him, and "trotted" out the best "grub" he had.
After breakfast the next morning our horses were brought in by the Indians, who also helped us to pack, and we struck the trail again, accompanied by White Horse and his daughter, who traveled with us all that day and camped with us at night.
That evening Uncle Kit killed a fine buffalo calf, and I thought it the best meat I had ever eaten—even better than dog.
The following morning the Chief and his daughter returned to the village, and we proceeded on our journey.
That day, riding along on my crop-eared pony, about fifty yards behind my companions, I chanced to look behind me and I saw what I thought to be a man, walking on a hill towards us, and he appeared to be at least twenty feet high. As he got further down the hill he appeared to grow shorter, until, I thought, he went down a ravine and out of sight.
I put spurs to Croppy and galloped up to Uncle Kit, and told him I had seen the tallest man on earth, declaring that the man was at least twenty feet high.
"An' you saw a man that high?" said Uncle Kit
"Indeed I did," I replied.
"Sure you saw him?" he asked.
"Yes, sir; and if you will watch you will see him come up out of the ravine, directly."
Uncle Kit, laughing, said: "It was not a man you saw, my boy, but a mirage," and he explained to me the phenomena, which I became familiar with in the years that followed.
Sometimes the mirages present to the vision what appear to be men, at other times bodies of water surrounded by trees, and often houses and whole towns. They appear before you on the dryest plains and then disappear as if the earth opened and swallowed them.
Early in June we reached Bent's Fort and met there Col. Bent and his son, Mr. Roubidoux and his son, and a man named James Bridger, of whom you will see a great deal, later on in this narrative. These men were all traders, buying furs and buffalo robes from Indians, white hunters and trappers.
We remained at Bent's Fort six weeks, and often during that time some one of the many hunters, trappers and traders, that made this place their headquarters, would ask Uncle Kit what he was going to do with that boy—meaning me. To all of which Carson would reply "I'm goin' to make a hunter and trapper of him."
During the six weeks at the fort I was out nearly every day with some of the men, and to me they gave the name of "Young Kit."
By the time we were ready to leave Bent's Fort, Young Kit became quite a rider, and Uncle Kit had been training me in the dexterous use of the rifle, shooting from my knee, lying on my back, resting the gun on my toes, lying flat on my belly, resting the gun on my hat, and in various other positions.
Having disposed of all our blankets, beads and all of the tobacco, except what was reserved for home consumption, we left Bent's Fort, crossed the Arkansas river and followed up Apishapa creek three days, when we came to the Rocky Mountains, among which we were during four days, passing Trinkara Peak then turning south toward a little Mexican village called Taos, where Uncle Kit made his home, he having a house of his own in that village.
On the morning after our arrival at Taos, Uncle Kit said to me at breakfast:
"Willie, there are a lot of Mexican boys here who would like to play with you."
Some of them were standing near in a group, gazing at me in much wonderment.
"But," continued Uncle Kit, "you will have to learn to speak their language in order to have much fun. Go with them if you wish, and tell me to-night how many words you have learned."
Then he spoke to the group of boys in their own tongue and told them I wished to play with them but couldn't speak their language, and wanted to learn.
We had a jolly time that day in many boyish games that I had never seen, and when I came home Uncle Kit asked me how many words I had learned.
"Three," I replied.
"Splendid!" he exclaimed. "'Twont be long fo' you are a fus'-class
Mexican."
One evening, after we had been in Taos about two weeks, Uncle Kit told me to put on my best suit and he would take me to a fandango. I was not sure what a fandango was but was willing to experience one, just the same, and, togged out in our best, we went to the fandango, which was simply a Mexican dance. Sort of a public ball.
I looked on that night with much interest, but declined to participate further than that. I learned better in a little while, and the fandango, with the tinkle of guitars and mandolins, the clink of the cavalleros' spurs, and the laugh and beauty of the Mexican senoritas, became a great pleasure to me.
Thus began our life at the little Mexican town of Taos, the home of that great hero of the West, Kit Carson.
CHAPTER III.
HUNTING AND TRAPPING IN SOUTH PARK, WHERE A BOY, UNAIDED, KILLS AND SCALPS TWO INDIANS—MEETING WITH FREMONT, THE "PATH-FINDER."
One evening in October as I was getting ready to retire for the night, Uncle Kit said to me:
"Now Willie, to-morrow you must put in the day moulding bullets, for we must begin making