I think I have seen a mother Buffalo throw her calf at least ten feet in one push, and it would always alight on its feet and not break its run.

When we reached Bent's Fort, Capt. McKee asked Col. Bent how the gold mines were on Cherry creek. The Col. laughed and said, he had not heard from them in about three months, and the last news he had from there were that Cherry creek was deserted, so by that he thought the amount of gold there must be rather limited, and then Capt. McKee told him that he had fitted up a company and had come all the way from Texas to dig gold from Cherry creek.

Col. Bent said, "Well, Capt., there has been another discovery made on what is called Russel's gulch which is a tributary of Clear creek, and I have no doubt but there is gold to be found there."

Capt. McKee asked where Clear creek was.

Col. Bent said, "Ask Will. He can tell you better than I can, for he has trapped all over that country."

I told the Capt. that Clear creek was about ten miles north of Cherry creek on the north side of Platte river and I said, "Capt., if Russel's gulch is up on the head of Clear creek, you could not get there this winter with horses, for at this time in the year the snow is from two to ten feet deep, and it is the coldest country you ever struck, and your Texas boys and yourself too would freeze to death before you got half way to the mines."

The Capt. asked Col. Bent if he had any idea how many miners there were up in the Russel's gulch mines.

He answered, "Yes, I saw them when they started on their prospecting trip, and there are six of them. There were seven, but one came back and went back to his home in Georgia.

"Green Russel was the leader, and the mine was given his name. I expect there will be a great stampede from the east especially from Georgia next spring, for the gold excitement always spreads like fire in dry grass."

Capt. McKee said, "Well, I believe I will go there anyway and see what there is in it. I can live there as cheaply as I can anywhere. There is plenty of game there, is there not?" he said, turning to me.

I said, "Yes, there is plenty of game all around the Platte river and Cherry creek, but if you go there, I advise you not to go further than the mouth of Cherry creek this winter. There is a grove of timber there that you can make your camp in, and you could put up a shack to protect you from the weather."

The Capt. and his company pulled out the second day after this talk, but it was very plain to be seen that the whole company was much discouraged in regard to the gold mines.

As they were leaving the Fort, I said to Capt. McKee, "When you come back in the spring, Capt., I hope I shall hear you tell about the grand success you have had in panning gold on Cherry creek this winter."

He said, "If there is any gold to be found in that country, I shall find it. That is what I came out here to do."

As soon as the mining company had gone, Col. Bent said to me, "Will, do you want to go and trade with the Indians for me now, or have you caught the gold fever too?"

I answered, "Col. I have not had the gold fever as yet, and I do not think there is any danger of my catching it, so I am ready to go to work for you trading with the Indians."

Col. Bent laughed and said, "If you haven't got the fever now, Will, I will bet your best hors, that you will catch it bad when the rush for the mines comes in the spring."

At that time I had no idea there would be any rush for the gold mines, for I thought the excitement would die out before spring, because so many had been disappointed in the fall, but in this I was mistaken, for by the first of May they commenced to come to the Fort on their way to the mines, and by the first of June one could see the trains stringing along for miles, and what was very amusing to me, when I asked them where they were going, they invariably answered, "Pike's Peak."

I remember one train that I met that spring down on the Arkansas river, below Bent's Fort. One of the men asked me, if I could tell them how far it was from there to Pike's Peak. I said, "No sir, I can't tell you how far it is, but I can show it to you. There is Pike's Peak right before you," and I pointed to the snowcapped mountain that could be seen for hundreds of miles.

He said, "Oh, I don't mean that. I want to find out where the Pike's Peak gold mine is."

I told him that I had never heard of such a mine. This seemed to surprise him, and in a few minutes the whole outfit was crowding around me, inquiring about Pike's Peak mine.

Then I told them what the report had been about the discovery of gold at Cherry creek and Russel's gulch.

One man asked if I could tell them where Denver was, and that was a question I could not answer, for I had never heard of a place called Denver before.

I asked him what Denver was. A new mining camp that had just been named, or what.

"Why" he said, "Denver is a city close to Pike's Peak."

I answered, "Strange, you must have made a mistake in the locality of the city you are seeking. I have traveled all over this country for years, and I never saw or heard of a place called Denver in my life."

Then they told me that Dr. Russel, one of the discoverers of the gold mine, had staid all night at the town where they came from in Missouri.

When he, the Dr., was on his way home to Georgia, last fall he had told them what wonderful gold mines had been discovered up in the mountains, and there was a large city building in the valley that was going to be the queen city of the west, and they had named the city "Denver."

I was young then, and of course my experience was limited, so I believed the story that the man told, not stopping to think that it might be exaggerated, as an older person might have done.

I was going down the Arkansas river on my last trading trip with the Indians for that season, and the story of the wonderful gold mines made me anxious to get back to Bent's Fort. I had very good success in this trade, and in two weeks I was back to the fort with my pack horses loaded down with Buffalo robes.

After I had settled with the Col., I said, "I reckon you would have won the wager if we had made the bet last fall, Col., for I am afraid I have a touch of the gold fever."

Col. Bent laughed and said, "I thought you would not escape, Will, but you are not the only one affected. I have news for you. Kit Carson and Jim Bridger will be here in a few days from Taos, on their way to the gold mines, and so you are just in time to go with them."

I then told Col. Bent the story the gold seekers had told me when I was on my way to trade with the Indians this last time.

He said, "You must not believe all the stories that are floating about, Will. If you do, you will only be disappointed, for in a time when people are excited, as they are now over the finding of gold, there will be all kinds of exaggerated stories told. Some of them will be told in good faith, and some will be to merely mislead too credulous people. So take my advice, Will, and keep cool and don't get rattled."

The next day, after I had the talk with Col. Bent, Uncle Kit and Jim Bridger stopped at the Fort on their way to the new gold field. Of course, Uncle Kit was as glad to see me as I was to see him, and was rather surprised when I told him that I was all ready to go with him to the mines.

Jim Bridger said, "What are you going there for, Will?"

I said, "I am going to help you pick up gold. I haven't any use for it myself, but I just want to help you, Jim."

Uncle Kit said, "I guess, what gold we pick up won't hurt any of us."

The morning after this we three pulled out, and on the fourth day out we landed on the ground where the city of Denver now stands.

It was the first of June in the year of fifty-nine, and as near as I can remember, there were six little log shacks scattered around the west side of Cherry creek, which at that time was called "Arora," and the east side of the creek was called "Denver," and this was the Queen city of the west that I had been told about and had come to see, and it was amazing to see the number of people that were coming in there every day. They came in all shapes. They came in wagons, in hand carts and on horse back.

The hand carts had from four to six men to pull them, and I saw a few that had eight men pulling one cart.

Uncle Kit, Bridger and I remained there four days, just to see the crowds that were coming in. We found out the way to Russel's gulch, and we decided to go up there.

We went by the way that is called "Golden" now, but of course there was no such place then, that being the general camping place before going up into the mountains.

When we made our camp on the bank of Clear creek, where the city of Golden now stands, I think we could have counted two hundred wagons in sight of our camp. Close to us there were four men in camp, and they had one wagon and two yoke of cattle between them.

The next morning they were up earlier than we were and were eating their breakfast when we crawled out of our blankets.

As soon as they finished eating, they hooked up their ox teams and drove down to the creek and stopped at the bank and commenced to throw their provisions into the water. As soon as Uncle Kit saw the men doing this, he said, "What do they mean? Are they crazy? I will go and see what is the matter."

As soon as he got in speaking distance, he asked them what they were throwing their provisions to the creek for.

One of the men stopped and answered, "We are going back to Missouri, and our oxen's feet are so tender that they can hardly walk, let alone pull this load."

Uncle Kit said, "Why don't you throw the stuff on the ground? If you don't want it yourselves, do not waste it by throwing it in the creek. Someone else may want it."

One of them said, "I had not thought of that," and they threw the flour and bacon and coffee and other small packages of food on the ground.

There must have been as much as twelve hundred pounds of provisions laying on the ground when they got through, and I saw the contents of two other wagons share the same fate that same day. How long that stuff lay there I do not know. We left there the next morning, and I noticed that it had not been touched.

I never saw so many discouraged-looking people at one time as I saw in those wagons that were camped around Clear creek. I visited a number of camps where six or eight men would be sitting around a little fire talking about their disappointment in not finding gold to take home to their families, and some of them were crying like children as they said the expense of fitting out their teams and themselves had ruined them financially.

This spot on Clear creek seemed to be the turntable for the gold-seekers. They either went up the mountain to the mines or became discouraged and turned around and went home, and I do not believe that one out of ten ever left the creek to go up the mountain.

The way from Clear creek to the mines at Russel's gulch was through the mountains, with nothing but a trail to travel on and the roughest country to try to take wagons over I ever saw.

I do not know how many miles it was, but I do remember that we had a hard day's ride from Clear creek to Russel's gulch, and we did not ride a half a mile without seeing more or less wagons that had been left beside the trail, and in many of the broken wagons the outfit that the owner had started with was in the wagon.



CHAPTER XII.

The night we struck the mines, we camped near the head of Russel's gulch. The next morning, after we had eaten our breakfast, we started out to take a look around, and Bridger said, "Where in the name of common sense do these people come from?" For look in any direction we would, there was a bunch of men with pick and shovel slung over their backs, and every little while we came on a bunch of men digging a hold in the ground.

Later in the forenoon we went to Green Russel's cabin, he being the man who had discovered the gold in that country. He had never met Uncle Kit before but had heard a great deal about him. When Carson told him his name, he invited us into his cabin. After we had talked with him awhile, he said, "I suppose you all think that I am to blame for all of this excitement, but if you think so, you are mistaken, so I will clear your mind and vindicate myself. A year ago last spring my brother, myself, and five other men came out here to prospect for gold. After we had prospected all over the country, we discovered this gulch, and we struck good pay dirt in the first hole we sank. We fixed up a couple of rockers and went to work, and the first week we took out a hundred dollars to a rocker. I told the boys that this was good enough for me, so each one of us staked off a claim, and to prove that each of us had a good claim, we sank a prospect hole on every claim, and we found that one claim was as good as another. There was only one of the party who had a family, that was my brother, the doctor, and as we all thought that we had a good thing, my brother concluded that he would go home and fix up his affairs this winter and bring his family out here in the spring, and he agreed to keep our finding a secret from everyone but his own family, but it seems that he did not keep his word but spread the news of our luck broadcast as soon as he struck the first white settlement, and the waste and destruction which you saw all along the trail from Clear creek to the gulch are the effects of his folly, although I believe that there are other mines as good as this in other parts of this country, but mining for gold is like other kinds of business. Only one man out of a hundred makes a success out of it."

The next day we were looking around, and we came upon two young men who said they were brothers, and they were so excited when we came near them that they could scarcely talk. They had been sinking a prospect hole and had just struck pay dirt.

We watched them pan out a couple of pans, and they certainly had struck it rich. After they had staked off their claims, Bridger asked them what name they would give their new discovery. They said, "There is a spring at the head of this ravine where we have often drunk and cooled ourselves, so we shall call our mine 'Spring gulch,'" and I was told by miners afterwards that these brothers had surely found a rich mine, for it extended the whole length of the ravine.

I met one of the brothers a number of years after the time I saw them panning out the gold, and he told me that he and his brother took twenty thousand dollars apiece out of that mine.

The next day we were knocking around the mining camp, and we ran across a man whose name was Gregory. He was from Georgia, and he had just discovered a quartz lead which proved to be very rich in gold.

He showed us some of the quartz that he had taken from it, and we could see the gold all through the rock. He said that when he sank down a hundred feet, it would be twice as rich in gold as it was at the top.

There was a town built at this place, and it was called Gregory, and in two years there were a half a dozen quartz mills built in that vicinity and quite a number more quartz ledges had been discovered, and they all paid well.

We had been in this region about two weeks, when I met one of the men that came with Capt. McKee. We were both surprised to see each other. I asked him what he was doing, and he said he was mining. He said the whole company was mining together on a claim they had taken up on south Clear creek about twelve miles from Russel's gulch, and they had fifty feet of sluice boxes and were taking out from five to seven dollars a day to a man, and had ground enough to last them two years.

He insisted on my going back with him to see the mine and said that I could have an equal interest with the others of the company if I would join them, and I have always regretted that I did not go and make them a visit at least for I never saw Capt. McKee again.

I was told afterwards that he made quite a good stake, and then went back to Texas and married and bought a home and lived and died on it about seven miles northeast of where Mineral wells is now, and I will say here that Capt. McKee was like many of his noble statesmen. He was brave, kindly, honest and true. One of nature's noblemen. He did not interfere with any man's business and allowed no one to meddle with his business, and if he professed to be a friend, he was a friend indeed, one that could be trusted in foul weather as well as fair.

Carson, Bridger, and I remained at Russel's gulch about three weeks, and we visited many claims and heard the shouts of the successful and the groans of those who failed, and we all three decided that we had got enough of mining by looking on without trying our hand at it, so we left the mining camp and pulled out for Denver, and from Russel's gulch to the foot of the mountain.

We were never out of sight of teams of every description, and nearly every person we met asked us how far it was to Russel's gulch.

We were about ten miles on the trail towards Denver when a man asked us this question, and Jim Bridger answered that if we were anywhere else in the United States it would be ten miles to Russel's gulch, but by that trail he reckoned it was about fifty.

The man said, "Doesn't the road get any better?"

Jim said, "I don't call this path a road, but if you do I will tell you that it gets worse all the way up."

When we reached the foot of the mountains at the crossing at Clear creek, we found more campers there than when we had left three weeks before. As we were riding along, Bridger said, "Where, do you suppose all these people came from?" Kit Carson answered, "Oh, they have come from all over the east. This excitement has spread like wild fire all over the country."

Up to this time we had seen but very few families in the crowds of gold seekers, but when we got to Denver on our return from the mines, we saw that a great many of the emigrants had their whole families with them, and it was surprising to see the number of cabins that had been built in so short a time, and we saw a number of teams hauling logs from the foot of the mountains to build more cabins, and there had been several little buildings built and furnished with groceries and dry goods since we had left there.

The evening we got to Denver we went a little ways up the Platte river to find a place to camp, and whom should we meet but our old friend Jim Beckwith. As Carson shook his hand, he said, "Why, Beckwith, I thought you had more sense than to be caught in a scrape like this."

Beckwith laughed and answered, "Well, Kit, I see I am not the only durned fool in the country. You seem to be caught in the same scrape with me," and for the next half hour it was amusing to hear the jokes these three old friends tossed at each other, for, of course, Bridger joined in.

After they had their fun with each other, Carson asked Beckwith what he was doing there. Beckwith answered, "I have staked off a claim here, Kit. It is not a claim either. It is a farm," and he pointed to a little bunch of timber a short distance from our camp. "I intended to build a cabin in that grove of timber," which he afterwards did, and he lived there about thirty years and died there about fourteen years ago as I was informed a year ago, when I was in Denver for the first time since Carson, Bridger and I camped on his claim.

When Jim Beckwith told us that he had taken up land and was going to build on it and make himself a home there, I wondered what he would do to make a living. The land seemed to be fertile enough, but I did not see any chance to sell what he might raise if he tried farming, but I was told that he cultivated the land for awhile and then it was too valuable. So he cut it up into lots and sold it, and now it is covered with business houses and residences, and all this change has taken place in forty-nine years.

As I stood and looked at the streets and blocks of houses, I found myself almost doubting that that was the spot where we had camped forty-nine years ago. When memory called back to my mind what a barren, desolate country it was at that time, it almost seemed incredible that such a large city could be built and such a vast change be made in less than fifty years, and not only in this particular spot but for miles and miles all through the surrounding country.

While we were in camp, I was down on the banks of Cherry Creek one day, and there were fifteen or twenty Indians sitting on the bank, and among them was a squaw who had a pistol in her hand. She seemed to be playing with it when several white men came along, and one of them was intoxicated. This one went up to the squaw and, taking hold of the pistol, tried to wrench it from her hand, and in the struggle the pistol was discharged and the man dropped dead. Some of his companions threatened to take vengeance on the Indians, but there were so many other white men standing around that had witnessed the whole affair and knew the Indians had done nothing to be molested for, they would not allow the Indians to be troubled. So the men took the body away, and that was the end of the affair.

That evening a band of Kiawah Indians came into the town and camped where the statehouse now stands. I happened to meet some of them, and being acquainted with them I stopped and talked with them, and they told me that they were going to have a peace smoke and a dance next day, and they wanted me to join them, which, knowing it would not be wise to decline, I promised to do.

When I went back to camp, I told Uncle Kit and the others of the invitation I had received and accepted. Uncle Kit said, "I guess we are too old to take a part in the dance, but we can go and look on and watch the fun." We did not go to the Indian camp until near noon the next day; and I think there were two or three hundred white men, women and children standing around the camp when we got there, and the majority of them had never seen an Indian before.

As Uncle Kit and Bridger and Beckwith did not wish to take a part in the performance, they kept out of sight of the Indians, and I went into the camp, and as soon as I arrived the Indians commenced to form the circle for the peace smoke.

We had all just taken our seats, and the head chief was in the act of lighting the pipe when he sang out, "O Wah," at the top of his voice, and in an instant every Indian sprang to his feet and started to run. I could not think what was the matter until I looked around and saw a man a short distance from us with a camera in the act of taking a photo of us, but he never got the picture, for not an Indian stopped running until his wigwam hid him from view.

The man with the camera looked the disappointment he felt as he came to me and asked if I were acquainted with those Indians.

He said, "What in creation was the matter with them? What made them get up and run? I would rather have given fifty dollars than miss taking that picture."

I could scarcely answer him I was so choked with laughter. But I managed to tell him that I reckoned the Indians thought that he had some infernal machine pointed at them that would blow them all to the happy hunting grounds.

He asked me if I would go and tell the chief that the camera would not hurt them and try to make them understand what he was doing with it. He said, "If you can persuade them to let me take a photo of them, I will pay you well for your trouble."

I told him I would try, but I was doubtful of his getting the picture.

So I went to the chief's wigwam and tried to explain to him and to persuade him to have him and all the band sit for their pictures to be taken.

The chief shook his head and said, "Hae-Lo-Hae-Lo white man heap devil," which meant "I will not that the white man would do them some evil," and then he said he was afraid that the white man with the big gun wanted to kill all his warriors, and all that I could say would not change his mind.

Carson, Bridger and I staid at Denver three weeks, and then we went back to Bent's Fort, and when we left Denver, the town and the country in every direction was covered with wagons belonging to emigrants that the excitement about gold having been discovered in the mountains had brought to Denver and the surrounding country.

We reached Bent's Fort late in the afternoon and had not been there over an hour when three men and a boy came in on foot and brought the news that the Indians had attacked a train of emigrants and killed them all. The emigrants were on their way back east, from Cherry Creek, where they had been led to believe that gold had been discovered.

The men that brought the news of the massacre were so excited that they could not tell how many people had been killed or how many wagons were in the train. They said that the train had just broke camp and started on their way when they heard the report of guns at the head of the train, and in a moment more the Indians came pouring down upon them, shooting everyone they met with their bows and arrows. "And," continued they, "when we saw them shooting and yelling, we broke and run before they got to us, and we did not stop until we got here." They said all this in a frightened, breathless way, that showed how excited they were.

Col. Bent sent the men and boy into the dining room to get something to eat, and Uncle Kit followed them, to try to get some more definite information regarding the massacre. After awhile Uncle Kit came back, and Col. Bent asked him what he thought of the news the men had brought. Carson answered that the men in the dining room did not know anything, and that he thought they were a party of emigrants who were disappointed and angry at their luck, and they had tried to vent their spite on some Indians they had met by firing on them, and had got the worst of the fight.

"You know, Colonel, that the Comanches have not troubled any white people in a number of years without they were aggravated to do so."

Col. Bent said, "Well, Kit, are you going down there to investigate the matter?"

Carson answered, "Yes, and won't you send three men along to bury the dead?"

Col. Bent said, "Certainly, Kit, and anything else you want. When do you want to start?"

Carson said, "We will start now."

Carson, Bridger, myself and three other men left the fort for the scene of the massacre, which we reached at the break of day the next morning, and the sight that met our eyes was a horrible one. We found twenty-three dead bodies close together, apparently where the attack had commenced, and down near the river, in the brush, we found five more, and also four living men who were not hurt, but frightened nearly to death.

After Carson had talked with these men a while and they had recovered a little sense, they told how the dreadful thing occurred.

They had just pulled out from camp that morning when they met the Indians. There were several men on horseback riding on ahead of the wagons. When they met the Indians, they commenced to shout "How-How," and the horsemen began to fire on the Indians without the Indians doing a thing to provoke them, and then the Indians had turned on them and killed every white person they could find, but that they had not been seen by the Indians, as they ran down the river and hid in the brush.

We searched thoroughly the brush all around for quite a distance, but we could find no more living or dead.

We could not find out by these men how many there were in the train any more than we could of the men that came with the news to the fort.

We began to bury the dead, and the four men commenced to look after the teams and wagons.

In a little while they came back driving three teams, and said they had found them hooked together, feeding along quietly, and they found that nothing had been touched or carried away from the wagons.

After Uncle Kit had learned the cause of the massacre, I think he was the most out of humor that I ever saw him. He said, "Such men as the ones who fired on those Indians deserve to be shot, for they are not fit to live in any country," and turning to Bridger he said, "Jim, it has always been such men as they that has made bad Indians and caused most all the trouble the whites have had with them, and still the Indians are blamed for it all, and have to suffer for it all. I hope I shall live to see the day when these things will be changed in this respect, and the Indians will have more justice shown them."

But I am very sorry to say that Uncle Kit did not live to see this accomplished. It was fifty years ago that Kit Carson expressed that wish in regard to the Indians, but it has never been gratified, for in all that time the Indians have been driven from one place to another and not allowed to rest anywhere long at a time, and in my opinion certainly have not had justice done them by the white race, and I will say this from my own experience, that when an Indian professes to be a friend he is a friend indeed, in storm as well as sunshine.

I will tell an instance that occurred four years ago when I was in Indian Territory. I was sitting on the street in one of the towns when an old Kiawah Indian came along, and looked at me quite sharply and walked on a few steps, then turned and looked at me again, and then he came back to me and slapped me on the shoulder and said, "A-Po-Lilly," which meant "Long time ago me know you." I looked at him and said, "No, you are mistaken, I do not know you," and then he told me where he had met me and what I had done for him, and as he recounted what had happened I remembered the incident.

The time I had first met him I was out hunting and met him in the forest. It was in the Territory of Wyoming, and he had had a fight with the Sioux, and they had shot his horse, and he was hungry and tired and footsore. I took him to my camp and fed him and kept him all night, and the next morning I gave him a horse so he could ride back to his tribe in more comfort, and I had not seen him since that morning, and this happened forty years before I saw him again, and he remembered me. He shook hands with me, which is a custom the Indians have not outgrown, and left me, but in a few minutes he returned with at least forty of his tribe with him, and I had to shake hands with every one of them. Some of them could speak good English, and they told me the story he had told them about my being kind to him, and they all called me their friend. This incident shows that the Indian appreciates kindness.

After we had buried the emigrants, which took nearly two days to do, Carson asked the men who had escaped being massacred where they were going and what they intended to do.

One of them answered, "If you men will stay with us all night, we will talk it over and decide what we had better do."

Carson said we had better stay with them that night, so we made a fire and prepared supper, and while we were eating we saw several more wagons coming down the trail near the river.

Uncle Kit said to the men that were with us, "Now is your chance, boys. You can join this train and go home with them."

When the teams drove up, the three men and the boy we had left at the fort were with them.

They all camped there with us, and after talking with the men, we found out that none of them claimed the teams and wagons that had been found. The owners of them had all been killed. The survivors did not know what to do with the wagons and their contents, and they appealed to Uncle Kit for advice in the matter.

Carson said, "I do not see that you can do better than take them along with you. If you leave them here, somebody will come along and take them, and they belong as much to you as to anyone."

So the next morning they rigged up five wagons with three yoke of cattle to a wagon, leaving eight wagons with their contents standing where their owners had left them when the Indians had killed them.

As they were ready to pull out, Uncle Kit went to them and asked them to give him their names and where they lived, "for," he said, "if I ever hear where any of the people lived who owned the property you have taken with you, I want to write to you so you can give them to their families."

We then bid them all good bye, and they started on their journey home, Carson having advised them not to molest the Indians no matter how many or how few they might meet on their way, and then the Indians would not molest them, as they were a friendly tribe, and that was the last we ever saw or heard of that party.

We now turned back to Bent's Fort and reached there just before night. Col. Bent's herder took care of our horses.

That night Carson, Bridger and I consulted together, and Bridger and I decided to go with Uncle Kit to his home at Taos, Mexico, and stay a month with him, but fate seemed to step in and change my plans.

The next morning when the herder went out to get our horses he found a man crawling along, trying to get to the Fort, who was nearly starved and so weak that he could hardly speak.

The herder put him on his horse and brought him to the Fort, and we gave him some food. He said this was the first time he had broken his fast in four days, and then he went on to tell that he and his comrades, which were four altogether, had been among the first to come out to Cherry Creek in search of gold the spring before, and after they got there, they were so disappointed to find that there was not enough gold there to pay them to stay that they concluded to go and prospect on their own hooks. Each of them had taken as much provisions as he could carry, with his gun and blanket, pick and shovel, and they had struck out into the mountains. They had kept on at the foot of the mountain until they passed the Arkansaw river, and here they went up into the mountains and soon lost their way.

"How long we were traveling or where we went, I do not know," continued the unfortunate man, "and finally we forgot the day of the week. As long as our ammunition lasted, we did not lack for something to eat, and foolishly we sometimes shot game we did not need, and after a while our ammunition gave out, and when that happened it was not long until all the other stuff was gone, and we could not tell where we were until we got out of the mountains and saw Pike's Peak, as we knew what direction Pike's Peak was from Cherry Creek.

"We knew then what direction to take to get back. The second night after we left the mountains, one of the boys was taken very sick, and as we could not think of leaving him to die alone, and we had nothing to eat for him or for ourselves, and I being the strongest, they picked me to go and try to get relief. It has been four days and nights since I left them, and I do not believe I have slept over two hours at a time since I started, I was so anxious to find help to go to them. And besides, I was so hungry I could not rest. Many a time I have walked as long as I could keep my eyes open, and I would drop down beside a log and fall asleep before I struck the ground and slept an hour or two, and then awoke with that dreadful gnawing in my stomach. Then I got up again and struggled on, but I could not have gone much farther when the herder got up to me, for my strength was nearly gone, and I should have given up and died very soon. Nobody knows what I have suffered on this trip, except they that have gone through the same ordeal. We have about one hundred dollars between us, and we are willing to give it to anyone who will go and carry something to eat and help my comrades to come here."

The looks of the man and the pleading way he talked and the faithfulness to his friends in trying to get help to them was more pathetic than any romance could describe it, and could not help but appeal to the heart of any man.

With the light of deep sympathy in his eyes, Uncle Kit stepped forward and, stretching out his hand toward the unfortunate, exclaimed, "Do not worry another moment; your comrades shall have assistance at once, or as soon as I can reach them," and turning to me, Uncle Kit said, "Willie, come outside with me a moment," and when I looked at him after I had followed him, I saw the tears on his cheeks. I had known Kit Carson several years, but this was the first time I had seen him moved to tears. He said, "Willie, my boy, can't you find these men as well as anyone?"

I answered, "Yes, sir; if this man can give me any clue to follow, I will find them in short order, for I have been all over those mountains and through the valley several times, and know the country well."

He said, "Well, I thought you could fill the bill if any one could, Willie; and now go and have three horses saddled, and I will have some grub fixed up, and by that time the man will have finished eating and will be more fit to talk to you."

My horses were soon ready, and I went in to see the man. When I went into the room where he was, I found him lying on a cot, and after I had talked with him a few moments, I decided in my mind he had left his comrades not far from where the city of Trinidad now stands. He gave me the description of nearly all the mountains and streams he had crossed on his way to the Fort after he had left his friends, and I thought if he had been correct in his description of his route I could find the suffering men without much difficulty. When I went out to where the horses were waiting for me, I found Uncle Kit had packed about forty pounds of grub on one of the horses. Col. Bent handed me a pint flask of whiskey, saying, "Now, if these men are alive when you find them, give them a small quantity of this, but be very careful not to give them too much at a time, and the same care must be taken in giving them food."

As I was starting, Uncle Kit said, "Now, Willie, if you are successful in finding the men, I hope to hear from you in two or three weeks. Jim and I will leave here today for Taos, and you will find us there when you come home," and he gave me his hand, and with a lingering pressure said, "Goodbye, and God speed you on your errand of mercy, my boy."

And I mounted my horse and left the Fort, and was off on my long, lonely journey over trackless prairies and through mountain passes that had perhaps never been trodden by a white man beforehand. No one can realize how lonely this journey was. I did not think much about it myself until I made my camp the first night. After I had staked out my horses and built a fire, I began to realize what a dreadful state the lost men must be in, for if I was so hungry, who had eaten a good meal at noon, what must they be suffering who had had nothing to eat in five days? The thoughts of the suffering men whom I hoped to rescue from death kept me awake most of the night, and I fully decided that this was the last time I would try to sleep until I knew whether they were living or dead. I was up with the dawn the next morning, and on the way, and I thought if I did not meet with any bad luck to detain me I would be in the vicinity of the men I sought by night.

From this time out I knew I must be very careful to look for signs of the lost men, as hunger might drive them to leave the place where their comrade had directed me to look for them. When I was a little west of where the city of Waltzingburge now stands, and the darkness was beginning to close down, I saw the glimmer of a little fire off to the right, at what looked about a half mile from me. I thought it might be an Indian camp and directed my course that way, but when I was within sight of it and was within a hundred yards or so of the fire, I could not see a soul stirring around it, but I kept on up to the fire, and suddenly my horse came near stepping on a man who lay on the ground with bare feet and nothing under or over him. I sprang from my horse and bent over him and spoke to him, but he did not answer or move. I then took hold of his shoulder and shook him gently, and he seemed to rouse up a little. I said, "What are you laying here for?" and he murmured in a voice so weak I had to bend my ear close to him to hear, "I have laid down to die."'

I pulled the flask of whiskey from my pocket and raised him on my arm and wet his lips with a few drops of the whiskey. I repeated this several times, as he seemed to have relapsed into unconsciousness, and I was afraid I was too late to save him or bring him back to consciousness.

I laid him down and built the fire anew and unpacked my horse and got my blankets and made a pallet and lifted him on it. Lifting him seemed to revive him, and the firelight showed me that he had opened his eyes, and he put his hand on his stomach and whispered, "Oh, how hungry I am."

I gave him a small sup of whiskey, and, taking a piece of buffalo meat from my pack, I soon had it broiled, and with some bread I began to feed him in small morsels. I continued to do this for perhaps half an hour, as he was too weak to swallow much at a time, and I had to wait some moments before giving him another morsel, and between times I gave him a taste of the whiskey. Up to now I had no idea he was one of the men I was hunting for.

It was perhaps an hour from the time that I commenced to feed him when he seemed to come to himself, and I thought that he was strong enough to answer me, so I asked him how he came to be here in the weak, almost dying condition that I had found him in, and then he told me who he was and how he came to be there, and I knew he was the only survivor left alive of the three whom I had started out to find.

He said that he had not had a bite to eat in seven days, only what nourishment he could get by chewing his moccasins.

He had soaked them in water until they were soft and then broiled them on the coals and eaten them.

I told him how his comrade had been picked up near Bent's Fort in an exhausted condition, and how he had begged someone to go to the relief of those he had left starving, and that I had started out to find them if I could.

He said the one who first fell sick died the same night their comrade left them to get help, and that the other one and himself were not strong enough to dig a grave to bury him in, so they left him just as he had died and crawled away, and they kept on together until near the next night, when the one that was with him took sick and could go no further.

"And," said he, "I built a fire and we lay down, and I was so weak that I fell asleep and slept until morning, and when I awoke my companion was dead and cold. So I was all alone. I could do nothing for him any more than he and I could for the other one. I left him also and started on alone, but I could not go far, for I grew so weak. Then the thought came to me that I could eat my moccasins if I soaked them soft and broiled them over the coals. After I had eaten them, I was a little stronger and kept on until I reached this place, when my strength gave out again, and I built a fire, as I thought for the last time, for I did not expect to ever leave here. When you came, I heard your voice, but I thought I was dreaming."

After I had listened to his sad story, I gave him some more to eat and more whiskey, which seemed to revive him, and he gained strength very fast, and when the morning came he could sit up and seemed quite composed, although he was no more than the shadow of a man. But by noon he could walk around and seemed very anxious to be moving. Late that afternoon I saddled the horses and assisted him to mount one of them, and we left the place. He said he had thought that place would be his last resting place.

We had ridden slowly for about five miles when we came to a stream of cool water, and where we could have a shady place to lie down and rest, and I made a camp there and spread a blanket for my sick man and prepared some supper for us both. I had to remind him many times to be careful and not eat too much in his weak state, for he was so hungry and the food tasted so good that he found it difficult to restrain himself from eating more than was good for him.

For two days it seemed almost impossible for him to get enough to eat, and although I pitied him, I knew I must not give him all he would have eaten.

The morning of the third day after I found him, he seemed more rational than he had since I had been with him. That morning he asked where we were going, and when I told him we were going to Bent's Fort, where his comrade was waiting for us, he seemed surprised. He did not remember that I had told him how the herder at the Fort had found him, and that it was through his faithful struggle to get help for his starving friends that I had started out to find them. When I told it all to him again, he sat and cried like a child.

He said: "How can I ever pay this friend for suffering so much for me, and you, a stranger, for seeking to find me in the trackless wilderness?"

And then he told me what each of his comrades said before they died.

He said they were all raised together in one town in Missouri and were as dear to each other as though they had been brothers, and all their parents were in Denver, Colorado, where the four sons had left them when they started out prospecting for gold, and he said with tears in his eyes, "How can I ever tell their mothers what we all suffered, and how the two died and their bodies left laying unburied?"

After we had talked as long as I thought was best for him to dwell on the sad events, I cheered him up as well as I could. I assisted him to mount the horse I had selected for him to ride, and we pulled out on the trail for the Fort.

He was so weak that we could not ride over ten miles a day, and we were seven days going back the same distance that I had traveled in two when I struck out to find them.

The day before we reached Bent's Fort, I shot a young deer just as we were going into camp, and as he was eating some of it, he said it was the sweetest meat he'd ever eaten.

We landed at Bent's Fort on the evening of the seventh day after I started back with him. His comrade was sitting outside of the Fort when we came in sight, and when he saw us he hurried to meet us, and when we were in speaking distance of each other he said:

"Bill, I had given up all hope of ever seeing you again," and he did not wait for his friend to dismount, but reached up and took him off in his arms, and men who were used to all kinds of sights turned away with tears in their eyes at the sight of that meeting.

After they were seated together in the Fort and were more composed, they began talking about how they should tell the parents of the comrades who had died in the mountains.

One said, "I can never tell them," and the other said, "We must, for they will have to be told, and who else will do it?"

They now turned to me and asked if I would take them to Denver, and what I would charge them for doing it. I said, "Boys, I will take you to Denver, and when we get there you can pay me whatever you can afford to pay, be it much or little."

So it was decided that we should leave the Fort in the morning, and, as we were nearly ready to start, the man who had brought the news and had remained at the Fort while I went to find his comrades asked Col. Bent how much his bill would be for the time he had staid there. Col. Bent said, "You do not owe me a cent," and taking a twenty-dollar gold piece from his pocket, the Colonel handed it to one of the men, saying as he did so, "But you can give this to Mr. Drannan, for he is the one that deserves this and more for what he has done." We mounted our horses and left the Fort and struck the trail for Denver.

Nothing occurred to impede our journey, and we arrived at Denver on the third day after we left Fort Bent.

We camped on Cherry Creek on the edge of town.

I said: "Now, boys, I will take care of the horses and cook supper, and you two can strike out and see if you can find your folks, and if you have not found them by dark, come back here and get your supper and stay with me tonight."

They had not been gone more than half an hour when I saw them coming back, and an elderly man and woman and a young lady were with them.

When they came to me, the man whom I had found unconscious in the mountains said:

"Father and mother, this is the man who sought and found me and saved my life."

The father took my hand, and, in a voice that trembled with emotion, said, "I can never thank you enough for what you have done for my boy and his mother and me, for he is our only son, and I think our hearts would have broken if he had shared the sad fate of his two comrades."

The mother gave me her hand without speaking, but her tear-stained face and smiling lips thanked me more than words could have done. The young girl, whom the elder man presented as his daughter, thanked me in a sweet voice for bringing her brother back to them, and when all got through, I felt almost overpowered with their gratitude.

They insisted on my going home with them to stay all night, which I did, and the next morning I had the pleasure of meeting the father and mother and two brothers of the other man.

After I had talked with them all a while, one of the young men asked me what they should pay me for all the trouble I had taken upon myself in their cause.

I told them that I would take the twenty dollars that Col. Bent had given him for me, and as the morning was wearing away, I bid them good bye and left them and started on my journey to Taos, New Mexico, and my much-looked-forward-to visit to Uncle Kit, and that was the last time I ever saw any of these people. But a year ago I was at Denver and had occasion to call at the office of The Rocky Mountain News, which, by the way, is the oldest newspaper published in the state of Colorado, and while I was talking with the editor, he alluded to the incident I have just spoken about and said that the man whom I had found unconscious at the camp fire in the mountains lived and died at Denver, and that he was always called "Moccasin Bill," from the fact that he ate his moccasins while trying to find his way out of the mountains, and that for several months before he died he seemed to dwell upon that event and always mentioned how I'd rescued him from certain death on that to him never-to-be-forgotten occasion.

When I arrived at Taos, I found Uncle Kit and his family all in good health, and I found Jim Bridger there having what he called a grand good rest.

As soon as I had been greeted by Uncle Kit and the others of the family, he asked me how I had succeeded in my quest of the lost, and when I told him all the particulars, he said:

"Willie, my boy, that was one of the best things you have ever done, and it is something for you to be proud of doing, and I am proud of having a share in directing you what to do, and I am very proud of my boy."

I answered, "Uncle Kit, you have always taught me to do my duty on every occasion, as I have noticed you always do yourself, and it has been the example you have set before me as well as the instruction you have given me from my boyhood until now that has made me what I am, and I should be very sorry to do anything to make you ashamed of or cause you to regret that you took the little homeless, wandering orphan and gave him a father's care and protection, and I shall always try to make you love me whether I can do what will make you proud of me or not."

THE END.