During the wait at St. Louis, Henry Becket was with me nearly all
the time, and when we were not haunting the gun factory, we were,
as much as possible, in Mr. Carson's room at the hotel, listening
to stories of adventure on the plains and among the mountains.

I became, at once, very much attached to Mr. Carson and I thought
there was not another man in the United States equal to him--and
there never has been, in his line. Besides, since the death of my
mother he was the only one who had taken the slightest interest in
me, or treated me like a human being, barring, of course, the
Beckets and those persons who had helped me on my long walk from
Nashville to St. Louis.

Finally Mr. Carson--whom I had now learned to address as Uncle
Kit--said to me, one morning, that as my gun was about completed
we would make preparations to start West. So we went out to a
farm, about two miles from St. Louis, to get the horses from where
Uncle Kit had left them to be cared for during the winter.

We went on foot, taking a rope, or riatta, as it is called by
frontiersmen, and on the way to the farm I could think or talk of
nothing but my new rifle, and the buffalo, deer, antelope and
other game that I would kill when I reached the plains. Uncle Kit
remarked that he had forgotten to get me a saddle, but that we
would not have to wait to get one made, as there were plenty of
saddles that would fit me already made, and that he would buy me
one when he got back to town.

When we reached the farm where the horses were, Uncle Kit pointed