"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. He cried out in French that he was ready, and at that moment they both started their horses at full speed toward each other. When within thirty yards, Shewman fired, and at the crack of his gun, Jake Harrington clapped his hands and shouted: "Good! good! Uncle Kit is safe." We could not see any sign of his being hit, and when a few yards nearer each other, Uncle Kit fired, and Shewman fell to the ground mortally wounded, the bullet passing through his body just above the heart. Shewman lived until Uncle Kit got to him, then he acknowledged that it was all his own fault, and that it was good enough for him. As soon as the fight was ended, Jake Harrington and I ran into camp to notify the rest of our crowd, thinking that we would have to fight the entire Canadian outfit of trappers, but we found it quite different, for after the fight they were more friendly toward us than before. We stayed two days and helped to bury Shewman. This was the first white man that I had ever seen buried in the Rocky Mountains. We rolled him up in a blanket, laid him in the grave and covered him with dirt. The funeral being over, our party started for Bent's Fort. The third day's travel brought us to Sweetwater, where we came to the top of a hill, from which we could overlook the entire valley, which was covered with wagons and tents. This was a large train of emigrants from various portions of the East who had started the year before and had wintered on Platte river, the edge of settlement, and when spring opened they had resumed their journey. After supper that evening, Uncle Kit suggested that we visit the emigrant camp and see the ladies, which did not altogether meet with my approval, but rather than be called bashful, I went along with the crowd. I was now twenty-one years of age, and this was the first time I had got sight of a white woman since I was fifteen, this now being the year of 1853. I had been out in the mountains a long time, and had not had my hair cut during that time, but took excellent care of it. I always kept it rolled up in a piece of buckskin, and when unrolled it would hang down to my waist.