It was here in this camp that I first met Christopher Carson, or Kit Carson, as he was called.  From his wide acquaintance with the Indians on both sides of the Rocky mountains; from his personal knowledge of the many tribes of the red men; from his bravery under all circumstances in which he has been placed, Kit Carson stands at the head of all the hardy pioneers of the Great West.  It is now more than twenty years, since I first met him on the Mohave river, about eighty miles from San Bernardino.

He was accompanied by an American and half a dozen Mexicans or half breeds, who were assisting him to drive some sheep.  As he rode up, he saluted me with Buenos dias Senor, which means ‘good day sir.’  I answered the salutation in the same language, at the same time clasping his hand as he dismounted, and introduced himself as Kit Carson.  He is about five feet eight or nine inches high, and weighs about one hundred and sixty pounds.  He had a round, jolly looking face, a dark piercing eye, that looked right through you, and seemed to read your every thought.  His long brown hair hung around his shoulders.  His dress consisted of buckskin coat and pants, with leggins coming up to his knees, and in which he carried, in true Mexican style, his Machete or long two-edged knife.

His coat and pants were heavily fringed, in which the quills of the porcupine bore a conspicuous part.  A cap of fox-skin surmounted his head, with four coon’s tails sticking out around the edges of the cap.  On his feet were moccasins.  His never-failing rifle was strapped to his back, as also a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, which latter contained bullets, lead and moulds.  Around his waist there was a heavy belt, which was fastened by a large, highly polished silver buckle.  Attached to the belt, were a pair of revolvers and a hunting knife.

The noble steed by which he stood, was gayly caparisoned, in true Mexican style.  In many places his trappings were covered with gold and silver.  His bridle also glittered with silver ornaments and buckles.

Thus Kit Carson stands before you, the beau ideal of a mountain man, or trapper, always ready to help every one in distress, or to avenge an injury, and no matter what the odds, would fight to the death, believing that if he went under, fighting for his friends, it was all right.

Kit Carson was a host in himself.  It is my belief that he was feared, singly and alone, more than any other trapper in the Indian country.  For my own part, in an Indian fight, many a one of which I have been in, I would rather have Carson than twenty common men.  His name struck terror to an Indian.  And if it were known that Kit, with a companion or two, was on their trail, they would flee faster than they would from a whole regiment of Uncle Sam’s men.  If Kit was after them, they might as well commence their death song at once, and prepare for their happy hunting grounds, for he would surely catch them any where this side of that.