BEGINNING OF AN ADVENTUROUS LIFE.--FIRST WILD TURKEY.--FIRST BUFFALO.--FIRST FEAST AS AN HONORED GUEST OF INDIANS.--DOG MEAT.

It was on the morning of May 3, 1847, that we rounded up the horses and Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes began packing them.

It being the first trip of the season some of the pack-ponies were a little frisky and would try to lie down when the packs were put on them. So it became my business to look after them and keep them on their feet until all were packed.

Everything being in readiness, I shook hands, good-bye, with my much-esteemed friend, Henry Becket, who had been helping me with the pack-horses, and who also coveted my crop-eared pony, very naturally for a boy. Then we were off for a country unknown to me, except for what Uncle Kit had told me of it.

My happiness seemed to increase, if that were possible. I was unspeakably glad to get away from St. Louis before Mr. Drake had learned of my whereabouts, and up to the time of this writing I have never been back to St. Louis, or Tennessee, nor have I heard anything of Mr. Drake or my ancient enemy, the angel of Erebus.

From St. Louis we struck out westward, heading for Ft. Scott, which place is now a thriving little city in southeastern Kansas, but then the extreme out-edge of settlement.

The first day out we traveled until about 2 o'clock in the afternoon, when we came to a fine camping place with abundance of gra.s.s, wood and water.

Uncle Kit, thinking we had traveled far enough for the first day, said:

"I reckon the lad is gittin' tired, Hughes, 's well as the horses, an' I think we'd better pull up for the day."

I was glad to hear this, for I had done more riding chat day than in any one day in my life, before.

Uncle Kit told me it would be my job, on the trip as soon as my horse was unsaddled, to gather wood and start a fire, while he and Mr. Hughes unpacked the animals. So I unsaddled my horse, and by the time they had the horses unpacked I had a good fire going and plenty of water at hand for all purposes. Mr. Hughes, meantime, got out the coffee-pot and frying-pan, and soon we had a meal that I greatly enjoyed and which was the first one for me by a camp- fire.

After we had eaten, and smoked and lounged for a while, Uncle Kit asked me if I did not wish to try my rifle.

Of course I did.

So taking a piece of wood and sharpening one end that it might be driven into the ground, he took a piece of charcoal and made on the flat side of the wood a mark for me to shoot at.

"Now Willie," said Uncle Kit, "if you ever expect to be a good hunter you must learn to be a good shot, and you can't begin practicin' too soon."

I had never fired a gun, but I had made up my mind to be a mighty hunter and so started in for shooting practice with much zeal.

Uncle Kit gave me few instructions about How to hold the gun, and I raised the rifle to my face and fired the first shot of my life.

I do not know how close my bullet came to that mark, nor how far it missed, for the wood was untouched. But I tried it again and with much better success, for this time I struck the stick about eight inches below the mark. This was great encouragement and from that on I could scarcely take time to eat meals in camp, in my anxiety to practice, and I was further encouraged by Uncle Kit's approval of my desire to practice.

One evening I overheard Uncle Kit say to Mr. Hughes, "That boy is going to make a dead shot afterwhile."

This gave me great faith in my future as a hunter and Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes seemed to take great delight in teaching me all the tricks of rifle marksmanship.

After we had traveled about two days we came to a belt of country where there were wild turkeys in great numbers, and on the morning of the third day out, Uncle Kit called me early, saying:

"Come Willie, jump up now, an' le's go an' see if we can't git a wild turkey for breakfast." He had heard the turkeys that morning and knew which direction to go to find them.

I rolled out and was quickly dressed and ready.

When near the turkey haunt Uncle Kit took a quill from his pocket and by a peculiar noise on the quill called the turkeys up near to him, then took aim at one, fired and killed it.

"Now Willie," he said, "do you think you can do that to-morrow morning?"

I told him that I thought if I could get close enough, and the turkeys would stand right still, I believed I could fetch one. And I desired to know if it was certain that there would be turkeys where we were to camp that night.

"Oh, yes;" said he, "thar'll be plenty of 'em for some days yit."

Early the next morning Uncle Kit called me as usual, and said, "Git up now, an' see what you can do for a turkey breakfast."

Instantly I was on my feet, Uncle Kit showed me the direction to go, loaned me his turkey-call quill, which, by the way, he had been teaching me how to use as we rode the day before.

I shouldered my rifle and had not gone far when I heard the turkeys, up the river. Then I took the quill and started my turkey tune. Directly a big old gobbler came strutting towards me and I called him up as near to me as he would come, for I wanted to make sure of him.

Uncle Kit had told me about the "buck-ague" and I knew I had it when I tried to draw a bead on that big gobbler. I had never shot at a living thing, and when I leveled my rifle it was impossible to control my nerves.

The turkey seemed to jump up and down, and appeared to me to be as big as a pony, when I looked at him along the rifle. Two or three times I tried to hold the bead on him, but could not. Now I wouldn't have missed killing him for anything, in reason, for I feared that Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes would laugh at me.

At last, however, the sights of my gun steadied long enough for me to pull the trigger, and to my great delight--and I may as well admit, surprise--Mr. Gobbler tumbled over dead when I fired, and he was so heavy as to be a good load for me to carry to camp.

Now I was filled with confidence in myself, and became eager for a shot at bigger game; antelope, deer or buffalo.

In a few days we pa.s.sed Ft. Scott and then we were entirely beyond the bounds of civilization.

From that on, until we reached our destination, the only living things we saw were jack-rabbits, prairie-dogs, antelope, deer, buffalo, sage-hens and Indians, barring, of course, insects, reptiles and the like, and the little owls that live with the prairie-dogs and sit upon the mounds of the dog villages, eyeing affairs with seeming dignity and wisdom.

The owls seem to turn their heads while watching you, their bodies remaining stationary, until, it has been said, you may wring their heads off by walking around them a few times. I would not have my young friends believe, however, that this is true. It is only a very old joke of the plains.

The first herd of buffalo we saw was along a stream known as Cow Creek and which is a tributary to the Arkansas river. We could see the herd feeding along the hills in the distance.

Here was good camping ground and it was time to halt for the night. So as soon as we had decided on the spot to pitch camp, Uncle Kit directed me to go and kill a buffalo, so that we might have fresh meat for supper.

That suited me, exactly, for I was eager to get a shot at such big game.

Uncle Kit told me to follow up the ravine until opposite the herd and then climb the hill, but to be careful and not let the buffalo see me.

I followed his instructions to the dot, for I had come to believe that what Kit Carson said was law and gospel, and what he didn't know would not fill a book as large as Ayer's Almanac. I was right, too, so far as plainscraft was concerned.

Uncle Kit had also directed me to select a small buffalo to shoot at, and to surely kill it, for we were out of meat.

It so happened that when I got to the top of the hill and in sight of the herd again the first animal that seemed to present an advantageous shot was a two-year-old heifer.

I dropped flat on the ground and crawled toward her, like a snake.

Once she raised her head, but the wind being in my favor, she did not discern me, but put her head down and went on feeding. I succeeded in crawling quite close enough to her, drew a bead on her and fired. At the crack of the rifle she came to the ground, "as dead as a door-nail," much to the surprise of Uncle Kit and Mr. Hughes, who were watching me from a distance.

When the animal fell, I threw my hat in the air and gave a yell that would have done credit to an Apache warrior.

Uncle Kit and I dressed the buffalo and carried the meat into camp while Mr. Hughes gathered wood for the night-fires.

I could scarcely sleep that night for thinking of my buffalo, and could I have seen Henry Becket that night I would almost have stunned him with my stories of frontier life.

The novice is ever enthusiastic.

The following morning we woke up early, and off, still heading up the Arkansas river for Bent's Fort, and from here on the buffalo were numerous, and we had that sort of fresh meat until we got good and tired of it.