I told them that if they would sing a song, they might have a lock of my hair.
A little, fat Missouri girl, spoke up and said: "Will you let any one that sings have a lock of your hair?"
I assured her that I would.
"And each of us that sing?" interrupted another young lady.
I said each one that would sing could have a lock, provided there was enough to go around.
I now had the ice broken, and could begin to talk to the ladies and crack a few jokes with them.
The little, fat, chubby young lady, that first started the conversation, sang a song entitled "The Californian's Lament," which was as follows:
Now pay attention unto me,
All you that remain at home,
And think upon your friends
Who have to California gone;
And while in meditation
It fills our hearts with pain,
That many so near and dear to us
We ne'er shall see again.
While in this bad condition,
With sore and troubled minds,
Thinking of our many friends
And those we left behind,
With our hearts sunk low in trouble
Our feelings we cannot tell,
Although so far away from you,
Again we say, farewell.
With patience we submitted
Our trials to endure,
And on our weary journey
The mountains to explore.
But the fame of California
Has begun to lose its hue—
When the soul and body is parting
What good can money do?
The fame of California
Has passed away and gone;
And many a poor miner
Will never see his home.
They are falling in the mountains high,
And in the valleys, too;
They are sinking in the briny deep,
No more to rise to view.
This I thought the prettiest song I had ever heard in my life. Environment so colors things. In other words, "circumstances alter cases."
The lady at once demanded a lock of my hair as compensation for services rendered, and I removed the buckskin wrap and told her to take a lock, but cautioned her not to take too large a bunch, for fear there might not be enough to go around. The young lady, seeing that I was very bashful, had considerable trouble in finding a lock that suited her. A number of the young ladies sang together, after which several of them took the scissors and cut a lock of hair from the head of the young trapper.
I wondered at the time why it was that all the young ladies had a pick at me, for there was Johnnie West, a fine looking young man, who was continually trying to engage some of them in conversation, but they did not want to talk to any one but me, and it amused Uncle Kit not a little to see the sport the young ladies were having at my expense.
Before leaving, I told the young lady who sang the first song that I thought it was the prettiest song I had ever heard, and requested her to sing it again. She replied that she would if I wished, and she did.
The next day about ten o'clock as we rode along, feeling drowsy from the warm sun, Jake Harrington turned around in his saddle, yawned and said: "Well, Will, can't you sing the song for us that you learned from those little Missouri gals last night?"
I told him I thought I could, and commenced clearing up my throat, at which the entire crowd smiled above a whisper; but I surprised the crowd by starting in and singing the song just as I heard the young lady sing it the evening before. Every man in the crowd took off his hat, and they gave me three cheers.
On arriving at Bent's Fort we learned that furs were high, and notwithstanding our catch was light, Uncle Kit did fairly well.
He sold his furs again to Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux.
After Uncle Kit had settled up with all the other boys, he called me into the tent and said:
"Willie, I have settled with all the men now but you; how much am
I owing you?"
Up to this time I had never received any wages from Uncle Kit, nor had I expected any, for I did not think that I had done enough for him to pay for my raising. I had always felt under obligations to him for picking me up when I was without a home and almost penniless, and had, as I considered made a man of me.
Uncle Kit told me that I was old enough now to do a man's work, and that I was able to fill a man's place in every respect. He took his purse from his pocket, counted me out one hundred and fifty dollars in gold; and not until then had I known that he had ordered me a fifty dollar suit of buckskin made at Taos, the fall before; and not until then had he told me that he was to be married on the tenth of July, and wanted Johnnie West and I to be there without fail. I asked him who he was going to be married to. He said her name was Rosita Cavirovious. She was a Mexican girl who lived in Taos. I did not know the lady but was acquainted with some of her brothers. I told Uncle Kit that I would surely be there.
Uncle Kit and Jim Beckwith now started for Taos, and Johnnie West and I began making preparations to start in hunting for Col. Bent and Mr. Roubidoux, as per contract nearly one year before.
Col. Bent said that he was very glad that we were ready to start in hunting, as they had been out of fresh meat at least half of the time that spring.
In that country bacon was high, being worth from twenty-five to thirty cents per pound, and early in the spring higher even than that.
This spring, as usual, there were some thirty trappers congregated at Bent's Fort, apparently to eat and drink up what money they had earned during the winter.
CHAPTER IX.
MARRIAGE OF KIT CARSON.—THE WEDDING FEAST.—PROVIDING BUFFALO MEAT, IN THE ORIGINAL PACKAGE, FOR THE BOARDING-HOUSE AT BENT'S FORT.
Johnnie West and I started with a saddle-horse each and four pack- mules for a buffalo hunt; I still riding Croppy, the pony Uncle Kit had given me at St. Louis, but he was getting old and somewhat stiffened up in his shoulders.
We traveled up the Arkansas river to the mouth of the Purgatoire—pronounced in that country Picket Wire—which was about thirty miles from Bent's Fort. Seeing a small band of buffalo some distance away, we took the pack-saddles off of the mules and turned them out to graze, mounted our saddle-horses and were off for the herd; but the wily beasts got wind of us and started off before we got within gunshot of them. After running them about a mile we overhauled them, both fired and each killed a yearling calf while on the run. I fastened my rifle to the pommel of the saddle, drew my pistol, and there being a very fine heifer that had dropped back to the rear, I spurred up by the side of her and was just in the act of firing, when old Croppy stepped into a prairie-dog hole and fell with me.
Johnnie West had just fired his second shot and killed a fine three-year-old heifer, when he looked and saw old Croppy lying there, and I stretched out beside him, apparently dead. The first thing I knew after the fall, Johnnie West was sitting by my side slapping me in the face with his hand.