I
My given Christian name is Matthew Thomas; my family name is Caine.
I was born in March of 1812, near St. Louis, into a large family of German immigrants. My father labored on the docks of the Missouri River along with my two older brothers. Our mother was a quite woman who mostly spent her days caring for us and our younger sister. To earn more money required to feed us all, she and our sister Lissie washed workmen's clothes at the laundry. There was nothing exciting or interseting about my childhood. Mostly I was expected to help with the house chores and when I was big enough, to help my brothers and father load and unload the keelboats that arrived, or were bound for New Orleans.
During my fourteen year, an unusually harsh winter bore down upon St. Louis. Mother took sick from the cold and the damp, and in the spring passed away. Lissie was required to take over the burden of keeping house and feeding all the men.
For three years longer, I worked alongside the river on the docks, but in the summer of 1825, I gathered my few belongings and jumped aboard one of the keelboats traveling upriver. It was a supply barge bound for Ft. Atkinson, one of the few communities, and the furthest military post west; which struggled to survive along the upper banks of the Missouri River.
Upon reaching Ft. Atkinson, I disembarked and immediately began seeking work. There were few jobs for civilians, and those that remained, I eagerly accepted. Cutting hay, sawing cottonwood logs, or hunting fresh deer meat, all paid something and the Army was able to provide me with a dry bed in which to sleep, and a hot meal to fill my stomach. As luck would have it, though, two years later, when Cantonment Leavenworth was established along the Arkansas River, Ft. Atkinson was ordered abandoned, and I was out of work.
I traveled south and west to Independence, where I was hired as a laborer by a man named Mister William Beckwell. Six years prior, he had been the first American to return from Santa Fe with news that the Mexicans had won their independence from Spain and were willing, able and eager to open trade with the United States. From that trip between Santa Fe and St. Louis, the infamous Santa Fe Trail had been born; bearing trade goods bound both eastward and west. It was in St. Louis that Mister Beckwell had set-up his offices and maintained warehouses full of trade goods, but it was in Independence that he found many of the trade goods he desired to take to Santa Fe. I was paid a fair wage to help load wagons awaiting the continuation of their journey westward to Santa Fe.
At Ft. Atkinson it was common to see the beaver-men, the couageous few who had journied far up the Missouri, into the wild lands of the West, trapping beaver, and trading with the wild Indians. I had heard many tales of man-eating grizzly bears and wild savage Indians, tales woven of unbelievable adventures. It was Mister Beckwell’s description of the vast southern plains, and the grandeur of the great city of Santa Fe that truely captured my imagination and intrigue, however, far more than did the cold, lonely northern mountain ranges.
When the trade caravan was set to disembark, I volunteered to help with one of the mule-skinners; not wanting to miss my opportunity to travel the Trail and see the wondrous Santa Fe for myself.
II
The trip across the many miles of the endless sea of grass which made up the southern plains went mostly without incident. At times wild natives appeared and followed us, but Mister Beckwell assured us that they were merely just curious and would do us no harm. True to his word, the caravan passed unharassed and eventually we crossed the Arkansas River, entering Mexico and picking up an escort of Mexican buffalo hunters who remained with us the remainder of the way to Santa Fe.
Santa Fe was like a city striaght out of one of the books I had learned to read back in St. Louis. Spread out over a vast plain and borderd on the north by a large mountain range, to the west a deep-cut river, and to the south an endless plain of sage and pinon; the city was a sight to behold. Buildings constructed of sun-baked clay and plastered with mud, wide streets worn smooth, and plaza’s full of hundreds of people trading every sort of item imaginable. There was a feeling in the air of excitement and easiness; unlike the dreary, forlone grind common in the cities back east, Santa Fe felt very much alive – everything full of color and festivity.
One thing that I didn't expect, however, was the fact that Mexican officials didn't particularly care for Americanos lingering around too long. After a short while, it became evident to me that my time was better spent pursuing my own lifestyle. Mister Beckwill advised that perhaps I seek a living trapping the beaver, which had been fetching a good deal of money when traded to companies back east. So it was that I outfitted myself with the accoutrments needed for a life in the mountains trapping. With a pack mule, a good rifle, and an outfit of traps I headed into the wilderness on my own.
