His hardy mule, accustomed to all weathers, is browsing near by.
The floor of his camp, spread with buffalo robes, looks warm and inviting.
His two comrades are soundly asleep with their rifles on their arms, ready
at the slightest alarm to spring to their feet prepared for battle.

There is a raging storm wailing through the tree-tops. The howling of the
wolves is heard as, in fierce and hungry packs, they roam through these
uninhabited wilds. Carson, reclining upon his couch, in perfect health and
unfatigued, caresses the faithful dog, which clings to his side, as he
looks out upon the scene and listens to the storm. What is there which the
chambers of the Metropolitan hotel can afford, which the hardy mountaineer
would accept in exchange?

Slowly our party of trappers ascended the river, gathering many furs on
their way. It was an unexplored region, and they could never tell what
scene the next mile would open before them. One morning as they were
turning the majestic bend of a ravine, they came upon a beautiful little
meadow, where the mountains retired for nearly a quarter of a mile from
the stream, and where the waters of the river flowed gently in a smooth,
untroubled current. They were ascending the river which flowed down from
the south. A beautiful vista was opened before them of green valleys and
gentle treeless eminences, while far away in the distance rose towering
mountains.

Upon this lovely meadow there was a large village of Flathead Indians.
Their conical lodges, constructed of skins, were scattered thickly around,
while the smoke of their fires curled gently through an opening in the top
of each lodge. Children were playing upon the greensward, shooting their
arrows, throwing their javelins, and engaged in sundry other barbaric
sports. A party of the Indians had just returned from a hunting expedition
laden with game. Warriors and women were scattered around in small groups,
discussing the events of the day and preparing for a great feast. Young
Indian girls, of graceful form, looked very attractive in their
picturesque attire of fringed buskined leggins and glittering beads.

Kit Carson at once recognized these Indians as his friends, the Flatheads.
They knew him and gave him and his comrades a cordial greeting. O, the
blessings of peace! How many are the woes of this world which are caused
by man's inhumanity to man. The trappers were led by their Indian friends,
with smiling faces and kind words