[Footnote 19:  Blunt projecting mountains.]

Fremont sat up until about one o’clock reading his letters from the United States.  Kit Carson and Owens, wrapped in their saddle blankets, had picked out their beds near the fire, as the night was cold.  On concluding the reading of his correspondence, Fremont turned in and was soon sound asleep.  All was quiet for awhile, when Kit Carson heard a noise that awaked him; the sound was like the stroke of an axe.  Rising to his feet, he discovered Indians in the camp.  While in the act of reaching for his rifle, he gave the alarm, to his slumbering companions; but, two of them were already sleeping their last sleep, for the fatal tomahawk had been buried in their brains.  One of these victims was the brave Lajeunesse, while the other was a full-blooded Delaware Indian.  As Kit Carson left the fire, where he was too conspicuous an object, he saw several warriors approaching towards it.  There lay near to it four other Delawares, who, on hearing the alarm, sprang to their feet.  One of them by the name of Crane, seized hold of a rifle which, unfortunately, was not his own, and was not loaded.  The poor fellow was not aware of this important fact.  He kept trying to fire it while he stood erect, and manfully received five arrows, all of which penetrated his left breast, and either one of which was sufficient to cause his death.  At last, he fell.  On grasping his gun, Kit Carson remembered that the evening before, he had discharged it for the purpose of cleaning it, and while doing so had accidentally broken its cap tube, and consequently he had not reloaded it.  As this flashed across his mind, he threw the rifle down and drew from his belt a single-barrelled pistol, with which he made at the warrior who was so safely throwing his arrows into his companion.  When sufficiently near, Kit Carson fired, but as the fellow kept dodging about, he only succeeded in cutting the string that held the tomahawk to its red owner’s arm.  Maxwell now shot at this same brave and hit him in the fleshy part of one leg; and, as he was turning to run, which was the case with most of the Indians by this time, a bullet from the rifle of a mountaineer passed through his heart and arrested his progress.  The whites were now fully awakened to their danger, and about ready to commence the fight; but the enemy had scattered.  If all the savages had shown the same quickness and coolness as did their foremost warrior, the probability is that the most, if not the whole of the party would have been massacred.  As it was, the attack was well planned, but poorly carried out.

The result of the affair was, that Fremont lost three brave men, and had one other wounded slightly.  It now became evident that the party had fallen into a snare which was intended for Lieutenant Gillespie and his small force, but the coming up of Fremont had caused the assassins to find they had caught a Tartar.

Fremont and his party apprehended no danger that night; consequently, they did not post a guard, and as the men were very tired they slept very soundly.  Before lying down, several of them had fired off their rifles, and, after cleaning them, they had neglected to reload them.  This was the first and last time they were guilty of such a mistake while in an Indian country.