 Frontier fighters! Dramatically treading the wilderness paths of that deathless band of inspired pioneers who gave America an empire. One of the most noted of all frontiersmen was Christopher Carson. Kit Carson. Wise of counsel, strong of arm, brave of heart, and gentle of nature. September 1826. Franklin, Missouri on the western frontier. Beyond it lay the great plains of the savage Redskine and the shaggy Buffalo. A mysterious and uninhabited wilderness of prairie, desert, and forest into which brave men journeyed in search of adventure and fortune. Kit Carson, you dreamy scamp. Now you quit watching them wagging trains and get to work. Yes, sir, but Mr. Workman, I wasn't meant to be a hornet's maker. You're only 16 years old, Kit, and you're my apprentice. Now you'll either stop dreaming about Santa Fe and be a hornet's maker, or I'll take this strap and larypia good. You don't have to do that, Mr. Workman. I'll work hard today because those wagon trains out there badly need what we're making. But someday I'll join one of those caravans and go to Santa Fe, too. Just before dawn, one autumn morning, Kit steals out of the little town of Franklin to the open prairie where a caravan of covered wagons is waiting for the sunrise. Yeah, lad, what are you up to? I'm looking for the wagon, master, sir. Well, that's me. What do you want? I want to go to Santa Fe. Santa Fe? Well, I'll add the engines will eat you alive, boot, pants, and buckskin shirts. I can ride, sir, and shoot, too. And I'm not afraid of engines, either. Well, I could use a hand to keep the extra stock from playing. You know, horses, mussels, and oxen. You think you could do it? Shucks, sir. That'll be easy. And, sir, there'll be a bit of money for me when we get to Santa Fe. Sure, lad, but you pay for every critter you lose. Now, there's the sun, and here's the horse you'll ride. Head westward. Catch up! Catch up! Forward! This long journey to Santa Fe was full of excitement. Marauding Indians and great herds of buffalo crossed the caravan's path daily. At night, wolves, desperately hungry, circled the wagons. Oh, those wolves drive a tired man crazy. Broadus, Broadus! Yes, sir? Broadus, take your rifle and kill a couple of those barman. They'll give the rest of them something to eat. Sure. Got my rifle right here, under my blanket. What's happened, Broadus? Oh, this tanked rifle exploded. I think my arm's cracked a bit. Well, here, let me see it. Oh, cracked a bit there. Broadus, you'll have to cut off that arm. No, no, you won't. You ain't no doctor. But it'll be weeks before we get to Santa Fe. Poison will set in for tomorrow. You ain't gonna take off my arm, not you. Well, I got an idea. You know Kit Carson, that riding fool lad, is taking care of the extra stock? Sure. Nice boy. Smart too. Well, this Kit Carson used to be a harness maker's apprentice. He's right handy with a sharp knife and a needle. Now, what say we ask him to amputate that busted arm? Kit Carson, sure. He's strong, but he's gentle-like. He can cut off my busted arm if he's willing, but not you. Rude as it was, Kit Carson's operation was a complete success, and the boy became the hero of the covered wagons. Eventually, the caravan reached Santa Fe, where Carson joined Mountaineer Kincaid and proceeded with him to Taos. From Taos, Kit roamed all over the west, trapping, hunting, blazing new wilderness trails. Kit was never qualsome. He never hunted trouble. But he met trouble bravely when it came. 1835, a trappers rendezvous near Bonneville Fort in Green Valley. Where's that a rap old gal? Right behind you, bully Schumar. I'm waiting for you to propose marriage tour. Hiding away from bully, eh? Here, here. Take a drink of this liquor. Singing grass does not like white man's fire water. Been listening to Kit Carson again, eh? He don't like fire water either. The brave pale face of whom you speak is good man. You are bad. You see, in love with him, I suppose. I will be his squawk, if you see. When I get through them, he'll be so full of holes, he won't be able to speak. Get my horse, Peter, on my rifle. Use your horse, bully. I'll use your gun. Now then, Frenchman, span your Dutchman or American. I can lick any man who'll fight me. Throw down that rifle, bully, and get off that horse. You're drunk. Let him stay on his horse. Bully, you mean me. I'm the worst American in this camp. If I hear any more of that talk, I'll rip you apart. Go to it, Kit, go to it. Ah, so you're bad, eh, Kit Carson? For the pretty Indian girl, maybe. Singing grass. I won't do you no good. She's mine. Somebody hold my horse while I load my pistol. All right, Kit. So, now, bully, I'll fight you on your own terms. On horseback, your rifle against my pistol. Start praying, bully, for here I come. Now, keep away from me, Kit Carson. Keep away. I'm not going to have the Indian girl, Kit. But keep away from me. Are you here? No, if not, horse, when you made it fix up that arm, you'd bleed to death. Take the gun. Easy, easy, now. Oh, this arm, my son. You're a bully no longer. Just a bragging fool who don't know a better man when he sees one. You will speak now to singing grass, Master Carson. My heart's already spoken to you singing grass. We marry tonight. In the lodge, they'll wrap a home medicine man in the valley. Come. Singing grass became Kit Carson's loyal companion and willing helper. During Kit's long and arduous wanderings, singing grass was always at her husband's side, devoted and unselfish. But singing grass passed away, leaving a pretty baby daughter at a line for Kit Carson to raise. With an escort of rollicking, laughing mountain men, Kit started a long journey to Missouri to place his child in a white woman's home. One night, he and his cavalcade were ambushed by a band of hostile blackfeet after two hours of desperate fighting. What happened, Kit? What happened to them engines? I think we licked them. See, they're riding off of that hill yonder. Maybe it's some sort of a trick. I don't think so. They'd disappear altogether if it was a trick. Hold your fire, man. Now, let's see my baby. Yeah, sure you liked it. You were born in the West, little lady. Shootin's in your blood. I can't take no more risks like this, and you're going back to Missouri and be raised up like civilized folks. Hey, Kit, huh? Look, there's one of them engines riding towards us. Don't shoot at that rider. Let's see what he's going to do. I'm cheap. I am. Peace thunder horse. There's another one under our belt. We have to go before we reach Missouri. Kit returned to the white man's country. He was amazed to discover that during his 16 years' absence, the frontier had been pushed westward many miles. Adeline, his daughter, was placed in a private St. Louis home. A few days in the sprawling Mississippi River metropolis, and Kit grew back in the snow-covered western mountains, where rested the remains of singing grass. It is May. On a small river steamboat en route back to Santa Fe, Kit Carson meets the brave man and gallant soldier who was destined to chart the course of Kit's entire future life. You miss Christopher Carson, sir? That's me, soldier bore. Lieutenant John Charles Fremont's compliments, sir. Lieutenant requests some conversation with you. Send him over. I'm always glad to talk to a gallant officer like Fremont. Very good, sir. Kit Carson? That's me. You're Fremont. Heard about you in St. Louis. Shake. To Carson, your fame as an explorer and trailblazer reached my ear as well. I was at the source of this very river. Flame. It sounds like it's got something to do with harnesses. Fremont, I hate harnesses. Kit, the Secretary of War has ordered me to make a map of the Western country and to advise the government how to aid and protect the immigrants going to Oregon. I want you to go with me. What can I do? I'm only a mountain man, plain trapper, beavers mostly. You know this country, Carson, this Western country. Now this is my first command. I need a man like you, brave, resourceful, reliable. Give the matter some thought now before you say no. I don't need to give the matter any thought. I'll go with you. But on one condition only. What's the condition? That you don't write a book about me. Seems like I can't write a trail without somebody with learning wants to write something about me. Well, Kit, I won't promise not to write that book, but I will promise to send one to your little girl. All right, then. Go ahead and write it. I don't know who in blazers will ever read it. Fremont did write a book. A vigorous, truthful chronicle of Kit Carson's courageous but cautious pursuit of the ever-widening American frontier. A book which told the world of Christopher Carson's understanding of the deep mysteries of the mountains he so loved. Those mountains which, to the everlasting glory of the nation they both served, they conquered together. So we bid farewell to another of the great frontier fighters, Kit Carson, whose name will forever echo down the eternal corridors of time.