Captain W.F.  Drannan, Chief of Scouts

With the exception of Carson, we were all scared

As soon as they were gone, I took the Scalp off the dead Chief’s head

The first thing we knew the whole number that we had first seen were upon us

Waving my hat, I dashed into the midst of the band

Fishing with the girls

They raced around us in a circle

The mother bear ran up to the dead cub and pawed it with her feet

The next morning we struck the trail for Bent’s Fort

I took the lead

I bent over him and spoke to him, but he did not answer

[Illustration:  With the exception of Carson, we were all scared.]

CHAPTER 1.

At the age of fifteen I found myself in St. Louis, Mo., probably five hundred miles from my childhood home, with one dollar and a half in money in my pocket.  I did not know one person in that whole city, and no one knew me.  After I had wandered about the city a few days, trying to find something to do to get a living, I chanced to meet what proved to be the very best that could have happened to me.  I met Kit Carson, the world’s most famous frontiersman, the man to whom not half the credit has been given that was his due.

The time I met him, Kit Carson was preparing to go west on a trading expedition with the Indians.  When I say “going west” I mean far beyond civilization.  He proposed that I join him, and I, in my eagerness for adventures in the wild, consented readily.

When we left St. Louis, we traveled in a straight western direction, or as near west as possible.  Fifty-eight years ago Missouri was a sparsely settled country, and we often traveled ten and sometimes fifteen miles without seeing a house or a single person.

We left Springfield at the south of us and passed out of the State of Missouri at Fort Scott, and by doing so we left civilization behind, for from Fort Scott to the Pacific coast was but very little known, and was inhabited entirely by hostile tribes of Indians.

A great portion of the country between Fort Scott and the Rocky Mountains that we traveled over on that journey was a wild, barren waste, and we never imagined it would be inhabited by anything but wild Indians, Buffalo, and Coyotes.

We traveled up the Neosha river to its source, and I remember one incident in particular.  We were getting ready to camp for the night when Carson saw a band of Indians coming directly towards us.  They were mounted on horses and were riding very slowly and had their horses packed with Buffalo meat.

With the exception of Carson we were all scared, thinking the Indians were coming to take our scalps.  As they came nearer our camp Carson said, “Boys, we are going to have a feast”.

On the way out Carson had taught me to call him “Uncle Kit.”  So I said, “Uncle Kit, are you going to kill an Indian and cook him for supper?”