was from General Marcy. He had then
established himself in a trading port or
store at the crossing of Green River, where
he did a pretty lively trade with the
Indians and emigrants. He was prospering
until he was opposed by a Frenchman,
who of course stirred within Jim the most
bitter animosity, until it culminated in a
cessation of all social intercourse between them:
in fact, the Celt and the Saxon " cut" each
other, though I do not suppose there was
another white man within a couple of
hundred miles. At the time of General
Marcy' s arrival, this professional hatred
had reached such a point that he found
Baker standing in his doorway, with a
loaded and cocked pistol in each hand,
"pretty drunk and intensely excited. I
dismounted and asked him the cause of all
this disturbance? He replied, ' That thar
yaller- bellied toad-eatin' parley- voo over
thar, and me, we've been havin' a small
chance of a skrimmage to-day, we have,
Cap.' I remonstrated with him upon his
folly, but he continued: ' The sneakin'
polecat! I'll raise his har yet; I'll skulp
him, Cap, ef he don't quit these yeare
diggins.' It appeared that they had an
altercation in the morning, which ended in
a challenge: when they ran to their
respective cabins, seized their revolvers, and
from their doors, only about one hundred
yards apart, fired at each other. They
then retired into their cabins, took a drink
of whisky, reloaded their pistols, and
renewed the combat. This peculiar duel
hail been maintained for several hours
when I arrived, but, fortunately for them,
the whisky had produced such an effect
upon their nerves that their aim was very
unsteady, and none of their many shots
had taken effect." The general, being an
old friend of Jim's, took away his pistols,
and administered a severe lecture to him.
He acknowledged that when the whisky
was in him he had "narry sense."

Perhaps the most celebrated of all the
Rocky Mountain trappers, was Kit Carson—
to whose exertions Fremont was deeply
indebted, when caught in the winter snows,
though the old man used to sometimes
complain that the " Pathfinder" was rather
too stinted in the acknowledgment of his
services. Born in Kentucky, he came at
an early age to this wild region, and his
name was soon known among the records
of border warfare and dauntless deeds.
His narratives were full of interest, and
withal related with great modesty—a
characteristic by no means common to all
these " mountain cocks." His famous ride
of seven hundred miles, from Santa-Fé in
New Mexico to Independence in Missouri,
carrying despatches regarding the outbreak
of the Indian, war in tiie former county,
was by no means the most extraordinary of
his deeds. The distance was accomplished
in seven days from the date of starting.
When he arrived at his destination the
saddle was found stained with blood, and
the rider so exhausted that he had to be
lifted off his horse. Notwithstanding the
great reputation of the man for deeds of
daring, the reader may be at first surprised
that Carson was by no means formidable
in strength. On the contrary, I remember
him as a little man, about five feet four
inches in height, stout and rather heavily
built, but with a frame alert and active.
His hair was light brown, sprinkled with
grey, thin and long, and thrown behind
his ears. He was very quiet in his manner
and spoke in a soft, low voice, such as I
have frequently remarked is the case with
men who have passed an exciting life.
Towards the close of his life, Carson
became " Colonel" of irregular cavalry in New
Mexico. He had been frequently married
to Indian wives, and was married a few
years before his death to a New Mexican.
His children seemed to share both the
spirit of their father's and their mother's
race. One of his daughters, whom I remember
(since dead), was a remarkably
handsome woman. On one occasion, a half-
civilised " Texan Mustang" insulted her.
Instantly the woman's blood was up, and
before the bystanders could interfere, she
had " cleaned out" the ruffian so effectually
with a bowie-knife, that I question if he
ever recovered from his wounds. Kit died
last year, aged sixty. His deeds are re-
corded in many books and boys' tales of
adventure, with various exaggerations:
though the life of the man required no such
embellishments.

One scarcely less famous was old
"Pegleg Smith:" so called to distinguish him
from the numerous Smiths of the West on
account of a wooden leg, which he had
worn ever since anybody remembered him.
Old Pegleg's day was over before I knew
him, and all I remember of him was as
a garrulous old fellow in San Francisco,
no way backward to "take a drink" when
he found any one willing to invite him.
His adventures formed the subject matter
of a book published some years ago; and
if I recollect rightly, an article about him
appeared in one of the English magazines,