The third day we arrived at the place spoken of, this man Shewman got pretty well ginned up and started out to look for Uncle Kit, saying that he had heard a great deal of Kit Carson and of his fighting proclivities, and that he would lick him on sight.  One of Shewman’s friends, knowing Kit Carson by reputation, tried to induce him to let Kit alone and have nothing to do with him, but the more they said to him the madder he got, until finally he was raging with anger.

It happened that while he was in his rage, Uncle Kit, Jake Harrington and I, knowing nothing of Shewman’s mad fit, started out to look after our horses and had to pass near their camp.  Just as we were passing by their cabin, Shewman said: 

“There goes the d—­d white-faced American now.  Look at him, he looks just like a coward, and he is a d—­d cowardly cur, just like all the rest of the Americans.”

Uncle Kit stopped and addressed him in the following manner: 

“I am an American and I feel proud of the name, but I would have you understand that I am no coward.  I will fight you any way that you wish.”

Shewman said:  “If you want me to kill you, get your horse and I will get mine, and we will get one hundred yards apart and start at the word.  After we start, each fire when we please.”

This Uncle Kit agreed to, saying:  “There is my horse, I will be ready in three minutes.  Get ready as soon as you please; as you seem to want to fight, I will accommodate you.”

I had been with Uncle Kit now since 1847, and this was the first time I had ever seen him in any serious trouble, and I was surprised at the cool and unexcited manner in which he talked to Shewman.  He was apparently as cool as though he was just in the act of starting out buffalo hunting.  There was a smile on his countenance when he was talking to Shewman about the fight that was to take place, in which one of them was to lose his life.

I had been with Kit Carson long enough to know better than to say anything to him, but Jake Harrington followed him out to where his horse was, and started in to try to talk him out of the notion by telling him that Shewman was drinking.  He turned to Harrington and said:  “Jake, I thought you were an American, and would fight for the name.”  Harrington, seeing that Uncle Kit was determined in the matter, said no more.

Carson went out to where his saddle-horse was feeding, caught him and took a half-hitch around his nose with the riatta, jumped on him without any saddle, and by this time Shewman was on his horse also, with his rifle in hand.

Up to this time I had not said a word to Uncle Kit, but as I came up I asked him if he was not going to get his gun.

“No,” said he, “this is all the gun I want;” and he took out his pistol and rode away a few rods, so that Jake Harrington and I would not be in range of the bullets from Shewman’s gun, and stopped to wait for Shewman to give the word.  A number of Shewman’s friends tried to persuade him not to start, but their talk only seemed to add to his rage.  After they had exhausted all their persuasive powers, and seeing that he was so determined in the matter, they let him go.