Oliver secretly was pleased to see that Kit Carson, scouring the plain like a centaur, soon overtook the lieutenant. No rider could beat Kit. However, neck and neck they galloped into the camp, and simultaneously checked their horses short. “All right. En avant!” cried Frémont, his voice ringing keenly. And Kit Carson shouted to his own squad: “Ketch up, boys!”
The mules and carts were packed and waiting; now into their saddles clambered the men. Frémont and Carson and Maxwell and others proceeded to shake hands with Agent Boudeau; gay salutations of parting were exchanged.
“We’ll ride a little way with you, but we can’t go far, I suppose,” vouchsafed Henry, to Oliver.
“We’ll be here when you come back, though. You can tell us all about it,” proposed Randolph, hopefully. “You’ll see Independence Rock and Devil’s Gate and South Pass and Wind River Mountains and everything!”
But they were interrupted, for just as amidst a jostling and confusion of orders addressed to pack[88] animals and mule teams the company were forming upon the march, came galloping from the direction of the post one of the Sioux chiefs.
“Thar’s Bull’s Tail,” grumbled Lieutenant Ike. “Wants to say something.”
“The chief says that they are sorry to see you go in anger,” translated Agent Boudeau to Lieutenant Frémont. “It makes their hearts sad to think that you are likely to run into danger. So they have found a young man who will join you this evening and try to keep you safe. But he is very poor; he has no horse, and he expects you to give him one.”
“That is good. Tell him to send the young man. We will camp about fifteen miles from here, near where the river Platte issues from the red rocks.”
The chief grunted acknowledgment and loped back to the post, probably on his way to Fort Platte below, at the mouth of the Laramie.
Once again the company were set in motion; they strung out into a long procession, Frémont and Kit Carson leading; the Frémont party following, and the Carson party as the second division. The Frémont party had eight stout two-wheeled covered carts, for the provisions and tents and scientific instruments. These carts creaked; the drivers cracked whips above the two-mule teams; the happy-go-lucky Frenchmen laughed and sung and chattered; but the men from Taos rode more gravely.
Now at a turn of the trail, where it entered the[89] hills, only a few minutes’ ride from the post, must Henry and Randolph reluctantly halt, and let the train continue without them. They waved hand at the men; and with answering wave from Lieutenant Frémont and Kit Carson and Oliver, and voyageurs and trappers all, the cavalcade passed on. Glancing back, Oliver noted that the hill defile had at once closed, shutting off view of Fort Laramie. The expedition was fairly started for the South Pass, 280 miles westward, at the source of the Sweetwater River. This was the great pass by which trappers and fur traders crossed the Rocky Mountains from the east or the American side to the west side shared by the United States and Great Britain; it was the pass to Oregon.
The trail, plainly wheel-marked by the party of the first Oregon emigrants which had travelled through only three weeks before, traversed a wide, rolling sagy plateau which occupied much of the space between the valley of the Laramie Creek, south, and of the North Platte River, north. About ten miles from the post a shallow, dry creek-bed was entered.
Down the creek-bed, which now ran with a little current of clear warm water, continued the procession, and unexpectedly to Oliver they all emerged at a rapidly flowing river.
“North Platte,” announced Trapper New, nonchalantly. “Yep; an’ a heap beaver stream, wagh!”
The leaders had halted; the Frémont party already were unharnessing and unsaddling; so evidently this[90] was the camping-place for the night. The upper end of the valley was closed by cliffs of scarlet, peeping over a little swell that intervened.
“I’ve seen time when this hyar valley war full o’ buff’ler an’ elk an’ deer,” remarked Trapper New, as the Carson squad good-naturedly hustled to beat the larger party in making camp. “But when Injuns air out, game gets scarce. We’re going to have a lean trail, I reckon.”
At this moment a ripple of laughter flowed through the party. Oliver followed the glances, and saw that the Frémont party were trying to erect a large tent; rather, a buffalo-hide lodge which they must have procured from the Indians at Fort Laramie. It was some twenty feet high, to the peak, and eighteen feet across, at the base, and was to be stretched like a cone over a framework of lodge-poles set in a circle and slanted to meet at a point. Almost the whole party, including the lieutenant and Kit Carson, were working at it. But twice it had toppled and fallen, burying the workers under its folds.
“Now, Kit knows,” complained Ike Chamberlain. “He’s seen many a lodge put up. But hyar comes somebody who knows better, I reckon. You watch. It’s squaw work, anyhow; not man work.”
Into the camp had ridden Agent Bissonette, from Fort Platte, with two Indians—man and wife. The woman, grinning broadly, at once trudged to the struggling group, and by gestures and short exclamations,[91] and by applying deftly her own strength, soon had the skin tent stretched and stationary.
Flushed and apologetic, Kit Carson strolled to his squad.
“That’s harder than I thought,” he said. “I’ve seen a thousand lodges raised an’ struck, but I never touched one before. Thar always were squaws to do it.”
“Camp hyar, do we, for the night?” commented Lieutenant Ike.
“Yes. Frémont wants to ride over an’ inspect the canyon mouth yon, whar he’s coming down in his rubber boat, on our way back.”
“He air, air he!” grunted Ike. “Humph! Old White Head tried that once, didn’t he—’fore his ha’r turned.”
By “White Head” Oliver knew that Thomas Fitzpatrick, a noted trapper captain, was meant.
“Wall, he knows that Fitz lost all his furs an’ nigh lost his life, voyaging into those canyons; but he’s bound to find out for himself, an’ I guess he will.”
The canyon mouth was located at the red cliffs, up the valley about three miles; and as the sun had not set, and as there was nothing especial to do, a little bunch of the men from the two commands rode over. Oliver saw that here at the red cliffs the Platte came tumbling out of the mountain country. High upon either hand rose the scarlet walls, about one hundred yards apart, their shelves dotted with a few pines, their tops bearing[92] a fringe of the same dark-green. The river roared loudly, as it boiled down. Many rocks stuck up through the current.
“It’s wuss above,” quoth William New, when they all emerged, and rode away. “’Tain’t any place for human being to travel in. Thar’s one place called Fiery Narrows—wagh!”
“Ah, who fears?” laughed Descoteaux, Frenchman, of the Frémont party. “Where Monsieur Frémont go, I go.”
“I, too,” announced Clément Lambert, his comrade.
Frémont himself, with Basil Lajeunesse, his trusted adjutant, surveyed the place, the next morning; and when they rode back it was rumored that the lieutenant was more determined than ever to launch his boat, on the return from the South Pass.
As the company continued to advance, the next day, the country grew drier. Grasshoppers jumped in clouds from beneath hoof and wheel; so that William New, with whom Oliver rode, shook his head.
“Signs air bad,” he mumbled. “When hoppers air many, grass air few.”
No Indians had yet been sighted; but early in the afternoon a sudden commotion swept the line, as from scouting service in the advance back galloped four Frémont men.
“Aux armes!” they shouted. “To arms! They come—the savages!”
[93]
Around whirled their horses Kit Carson and Frémont, and while the lieutenant and Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse urgently strove with the van, Kit Carson sped recklessly adown the line to the rear.
“To the river, boys!” he shouted. “We’ll fort thar, an’ let ’em come! Quick, now!”
How the men jumped to his clear tones! The river was near, on the right; its hither bank was high and steep; pack animals and mule teams were forced into trot and lope; the packs swayed and jolted, the carts jolted and swayed; loud rose the cries of the drivers. Just as on the Santa Fé Trail, in the attack by the Kiowas, now here upon the edge of the river, under the steep bank the carts were instantly wheeled into a semi-circle, enclosing the horses and mules. Over the bank peered the defenders, rifle muzzles forward, Oliver ready with his tack-studded gift from Kit.
“Bang! Whang!” sounded the reports as several of the Frémont men fired their guns, to be certain of their condition.
Mr. Bissonette and the Indian who was to protect the march from attack by his people had not “forted” with the column; they had at once ridden on, to meet the enemy, and to explain. Now here they came, back, with two new Indians.
“Wagh! Sioux!” grunted the men around Oliver.
Kit Carson, Lieutenant Frémont, Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse stepped out and received the approaching four.
[94]
A brief conference was held only a dozen yards beyond the bank rampart. The twain Sioux were painted and half naked (save for the paint on their chests); they seemed sullen and unresponsive, and spoke with few words and many sign-gestures. Mr. Bissonette eked out their tale, and in the fort Trapper New kept pace for the benefit of Oliver and the others.
“Been on war path, up Sweetwater; looking for scalps—need scalps to make their dead warriors happy by a dance, an’ to dry up the tears o’ the women (wagh!); too many white people in their country; overtook party o’ whites (emigrants, I reckon) at Indypendence Rock on Sweetwater; Broken Hand (Oliver knew that this meant Thomas Fitzpatrick again) war leading party; half o’ Sioux wanted to attack, half didn’t; these two war in half that did want to——”
“Give it to ’em, boys!”
“Feed ’em Galena pills!”
“Lift their ha’r!”
“Tirez! Tirez! (Fire! Shoot!)”
“Des coups de baguettes pour les scoundrels! (Shots for the scoundrels!)”
Thus rose the indignant cries, at the announcement. But Frémont turned and raised his hand commandingly; and the cries died to a mutter.
“They war in the half that did want to,” continued Trapper New. “Finally, the war party busted, seeing they couldn’t agree, an’ have scattered. Most went[95] over into Crow country, north, after Crow scalps an’ hosses; rest air travelling back down the Platte. Thar’s no grass an’ no buff’ler.”
Lieutenant Frémont and the others were conducting the two Sioux around the bank and into the little fort. Still sullen, the visitors were permitted to gaze about, and see how angry and well-armed were this white company. Then they were given a present of tobacco and told to go.
“Wall,” remarked the quiet voice of Kit Carson, as, among his men, for a moment he reflectively watched the two Sioux ride off as if glad to escape, “I’ve fought Injuns an’ they’ve fought me, in mountains an’ on plains, for over fifteen year, now—but sometimes I don’t blame ’em. ’Tain’t natural for ’em to sit by an’ let their country be occupied by whites—their country that they’ve owned. An’ that’s what it means—this settler travel to Oregon: it means white people on both sides the mountains. Beaver air thinned, buff’ler air getting scarce, an’ some day thar won’t be any room for the Injun. An’ they suspect it. Pore critters!”