But I never yit drew a bead on a squaw or papoose, and I despise the man who would.
'Taint nateral for men to kill women and pore little children, and none but a coward or a dog would do it.

Of course when we white men do sich awful things, why these pore ignorant critters don't know no better than to foller suit.

Pore things! Pore things! I've seen as much of 'em as any man livin', and I can't help but pity 'em, right or wrong! They once owned all this country, yes, Plains and Mountains, buffalo and everything, but now they own next door to nuthin, and will soon be gone.' "Alas, poor Kit! He has already 'gone to the Happy Hunting Grounds.' But the Indians had no truer friend, and Kit Carson would wish no prouder epitaph than this.

In talking thus he would frequently get his grammar wrong, and his language was only the patois of the Border; but there was an eloquence in his eye, and a pathos in his voice, that would have touched a heart of stone, and a genuine manliness about him at all times, that would have won him hosts of friends anywhere.

And so, Kit Carson, good friend, brave heart, generous soul, hail and farewell! "Hoping these rough recollections may serve your purpose, I remain "Very respectfully, "Your obedient servant, "JAMES F.RUSLING." The following tribute to the matchless scout, hunter and guide is from the Salt Lake Tribune: He wrote his own biography and left it where the edition will never grow dim.