The Worcester spy. [volume] (Worcester, Mass.) 1898-1904, 1899-05-15

der the left shoulder blade. When
Bridger and l got out of the water, |
saw the arrow still sticking there. l
ran up to him and said: Uncle Kit,
let me pull that arrow out.
"All right" he said, but be careful,
Willie, and pull it out straight ana
don't break it off"
I succeeded in getting the arrow out
without breaking it, but the wound pled
fearfully. He soon got so weak that
he was not able to guide his saddle
horse, and we tailed him behind Bird
gers pack train. Bridger took the
lead then and 1 took the rear. When
we got out on to the ridges, six or eight
miles from the stream, we went into
camp, built up a good fire and under
took to dress Uncle Kits wound, but
we could get nothing at all to put on
it with the exception of the balsam
from white fir trees, and to make mat
tiers worse, we had hard, cold ram
that afternoon which caused cold TO
set up in the wound. We could heal
the wound over, but it would break
open again.
In going away from this point, we
went to where Virginia City now stands
and were in the Bannock country. The
Bannocks were very hostile and as
brave Indians as l had ever seen. On
going up the divide, near Coon canyon,
the Bannocks attacked us. 1t was in
in the forenoon and at times 1t looked
as though it would be impossible for
us to get away from them. They knew
nothing about firearms, and the report
of our guns seemed to frighten them
as much as the damage which we did.
Near the top of the divide, they had
us completely surrounded. We had
dismounted and were making breast
works with our pack-horses, when a
rain came up as hard as l had ever
seen in my life. Uncle Kit said it was
our time to get away from there. We
mounted our horses and, strange to
say, we did not see another Indian that
day. 1 believe that superstitious
idea took hold of them and convinced
them that the rain was sent to protect
us. Certainly it saved us from massa-
ere.
When we got to Fort Hall eighteen or
twenty trapperS were stopping there,
but Carson's wound was so bad that
he could not return to the trapping
grounds. Jim Bridger and 1 left him
at Fort Hall, where he could take care
Of himself, and we went up on the head
of Snake river, just below the Great
falls, forty miles from the fort. There
we put in the winter trapping and with
fair success. Every two weeks l would
go down to see how Uncle Kit was get
ting along. We thought at one time that
he was going to lose the use of his left
arm. The wound seemingly would heal
on the outside and then break
When spring came Bridger and l
loaded up our pack animals with what
furs we had and went down to Fort
Hall to get Uncle Kit. While we were
waiting there preparing to get away one
evening, some mountaineers were out
hunting bison about twelve miles north
east from Fort Hall. They saw man
coming toward them running his best
ticks. 1t was Jim Beckwith. They put
him on a horse and brought him to the
fort at dark. Jim had been spending
the winter on the Crow grounds, had
got into trouble, and they had threat
ened to kill him. His squaW wife told
him that the Indians were going to
burn him that day. Jim said it was
after daylight when she told him this,
and every mountaineer said it was more
than 100 miles from where jim had
started to the fort. He claimed tnat the
Indians had followed him all day, but
that he had outrun them.
Jim lived a number of years after
this, but this was his last run. The last
time 1 saw him was five years after
ward and then he was obliged to walk
with a stick from the fact that ne had
injured the muscles of both legs in his
terrible run.
After he had rested up we started
with him and Kit Carson for Taos. we
went in by Soda Springs and crossed
over on to the Sweet Water, a trlDu-
tary of Green river. When we got TO
the divide, looking down on the Sweet
Water, we saw large emigrant train
in camp. 1t was proposed that we
go down and camp with the emigrants.
After we had built cur camp winch
was 200 yards from the emigrants,
Uncle Kit proposed that we go over
ad have a talk with them. Now this
particular camp was made up of Mis-
sourians three families in one camp.
There were three young ladies among
them from IA to IS years old. At this
time my hair was very long, probably
reached to my elbows when it was
combed out. There were not seats
enough to go around, so I, being the
youngest Of the four, was left to stand
up. While I was standing and looking
on. one of the young ladies came out
and began examining my hair. This
almost broke my heart-I being very
pashful. Finally she asked me II she
could have a lock of my hair. or
course 1 hesitated about giving her an
answer, but Uncle Kit Carson spoke
up and said:
Willie, give the lady lock of your
hair; you have plenty of it,"
I said, "If you will sing me a song,
young lady, I will oblige you" ''All
right" she said and she sung 1.-THE
Dying Californian" 1 thought it was
the prettiest song 1 had ever heard in
my life. When she was through an
elderly lady handed her a pair of
shears to cut off the lock and the three
other young ladies came out to do
likewise. 1 said, Il can't stand this:
but if you will all three sing the song
again, you may each have a lock.
They sung it and each one of them
took a lock and we went back to
camp.
Rest assured that dreaded to go
back, as 1 expected they would joke
with me rather heavily. But there
wasn't a word said about it until the
next day. Travelling along, Bridger
cried out, willie, can't you sing us a
song?" 1 started in and sung the same
song through for them. Instead Of
guying me they cheered me.
We did not reach Taos until late in
the spring. Uncle Kit Carson never re-
covered from this wound, although he
lived a number of years. The physi-
clan who attended him in his last ill
ness told me that it was that arrow
wound that caused his death. It
formed a tumor on the inside and
when the tumor broke his last words
were: "Goodby, doctor"