“The best advice that I can give you is to turn back at once,” declared Mr. Bissonette, flatly, to Lieutenant Frémont. ’Twas near noon of the fifth day after the adventure with the first of the Indians. Other Indians, mainly Sioux, had been met, in small parties, as the Frémont company had travelled on up the Platte. This morning the trail finally had intercepted the road to Oregon, which here crossed the river, and four miles beyond more Indians were met. The obliging Mr. Bissonette had come far enough; by the Oregon Trail he was going back to Fort Platte at the mouth of the Laramie Creek, but he lingered to have an interview with these latest of the Sioux.
“They say that the country ahead is very bad,” he reported. “Their main village has made a wide detour from the river to the south, looking for game. There are no buffalo in this whole region, because on account of the drought and the grasshoppers there is no grass. The trail of the village is marked by lodges thrown away in flight, and by the skeletons of the horses that the people must eat for food, or that have[97] starved to death. The best advice that I can give you, is to turn back at once.”
“No, sir; I am under instructions to go on to the South Pass, and on I go,” replied Lieutenant Frémont, loudly enough for all the men to hear. “But if anybody wishes to turn back with you, now that there is the opportunity, he has my permission.”
Ensued a moment of expectancy, as man looked upon man; no one made the move or said the word.
“Ma foi! (My goodness!)” exclaimed Basil Lajeunesse, breaking the spell. “We’ll eat the mules!”
At this they all laughed. Mr. Bissonette shook hands around, and so did the Indian whom the chiefs had sent along; and they rode away, down the Oregon road, for the post—the Indian with his squaw and his horse-present.
Henceforth Kit Carson was to be the guide, for he knew the country from the Platte up the Sweetwater.
Ere proceeding, first they must get rid of their cumbersome baggage and their carts, so as to be able to travel light and fast. The Kit Carson party already were travelling light, trapper style; but for plains work the Frémont party had their carts and the several tents. However, here, after the discouraging report, through Mr. Bissonette, from the Sioux, all turned to and made a cache or hiding place for the discarded stuff.
The carts were taken apart—hoods and frames and wheels—and these pieces were stowed out of sight[98] among thick willows growing near. A hole ten feet square and six feet deep was dug in a sandy opening in the midst of the same willows, and lined with brush, and tarpaulins; and in this were stowed the other things not absolutely necessary. They were covered with an old buffalo robe; the sand was thrown in, the top was levelled and any suspicious “sign” smoothed away or disfigured; and with pack-mules laden the company were prepared for the long hard trail awaiting.
“Wagh!” grunted William New. “Hyar’s whar we shine. Now for Indypendence Rock an’ the Sweetwater an’ the Pass over. We got a guide who air up to trap. That agent purty nigh lost us, but you can’t lose Kit Carson.”
“How far to the Pass?” queried Oliver.
“Wall, by regular trail it’s ’bout fifty miles to the Rock, an’ then a hundred to the Pass. But we aren’t going by regular trail; see? We’re travelling on up the Platte, an’ it turns southward, for the Bull Pen or what they call New Park; whilst the regular Oregon an’ trapper trail cuts the curves, on other side, lining for the Sweetwater. It’s the Sweetwater that flows down from the Pass an’ j’ines the Platte below at head o’ those red canyons we saw.”
The stories by the Indians seemed not true; for when the next day the march was resumed buffalo were sighted. Some would have been killed had not Clément Lambert’s horse, just as Clément was closing[99] in on the tail of the fleeing herd, plunged headlong into a sudden ravine; while Clément was climbing out, the buffalo, tails high, scrambled like goats up a precipice ridge, and escaped.
Nevertheless, the camp that night was supplied with jerked or dried buffalo meat from a previous hunt, and found plenty of grass.
Frémont had named the camp, several nights back, where the buffalo meat had been obtained, Dried Meat Camp. Yesterday’s camp was of course Cache Camp; on this all agreed. This afternoon’s camp was pitched near a mud bank studded with large pebbles worn oval; therefore William New dubbed it Goose-Egg Camp!
Now according to Lieutenant Frémont’s compass the Platte was inclining more and more to the south; and it was rumored among the men that unless they crossed pretty soon to the Sweetwater, so as to strike it above its juncture with the Platte, they would be entangled among precipices. The country was beautifully red, with brown and pink sandstone and “pudding-stone” (as the pebbly formation was termed), and even the soil was red; a curious landscape flowed through by the greenish river. But twelve miles from Goose-Egg Camp Kit Carson, riding ahead with Lieutenant Frémont, halted. So halted the column.
“Injun sign,” announced Ike Chamberlain, for the way was crossed by a trail of an Indian village which, here camping, had left lodge-poles and horse skeletons.
But not for “Injun sign” had halted Kit Carson;[100] he was talking earnestly with the lieutenant and with Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse, and pointing.
“We’ll have to turn off. Knew we would,” predicted Trapper New. “An’ that army fellow’ll find out why, if Kit hasn’t told him plain enough an’ he goes on. Yonder’s whar the Platte comes out the Fiery Narrows, an’ on above the Fiery Narrows (which are some, I say!) are nothing but more canyons clear to mouth o’ Sweetwater. Even a beaver couldn’t get through, an’ I don’t reckon we can, either. An’ it’d take a bird to cross.”
Evidently Kit Carson had persuaded, for around swung the march, to double on its trail as far as a fair island, divided from the shore by only a shallow current. Close upon either bank of the river was a red ridge—one set with the “pudding-stones,” some as large as a football. Upon this island, grassy and containing about twenty acres, was established the night’s camp. To-morrow would the march be directed west across the angle from the Platte to the Sweetwater.
“Fifteen miles, an’ I’ll be glad to get thar,” asserted Ike, at the evening fire. “Sweetwater trail is good trap trail; an’ if we’re locating emigrant route to Oregon that’s the road.”
The camp was a cheerful spot, this night, being supplied with mountain mutton; for Lieutenant Frémont and several of the men had ridden out upon a little exploring tour, beyond a red ridge, and had returned with mountain sheep. Now arose a discussion[101] as to whether the sheep could leap off high cliffs and land head-first on their broad-based horns. Ike and William New, Joseph Descoteaux and others of the Kentuckians and French in the two parties claimed to have seen the sheep make such escapes, when pursued—but not one had seen them land! Mr. Preuss, the funny, red-faced, bristly-haired German who was the map-maker and sketcher with the Frémont party and helped Mr. Frémont in figuring, said that the horns were for other purpose. However, as Kit Carson and the lieutenant were inclined to believe that the sheep could perform these leaps, the theory was generally adopted.
Goat Island was this camp named, because of the bag of sheep. At each camp Lieutenant Frémont and Mr. Preuss fussed with various scientific instruments—thermometer (which of course everybody knew, because it told of heat and cold), and barometer (which somebody said measured weight of air), and a watch-like thing called a chronometer (companion to which had been left at the post, for Randolph to keep wound up), and a sextant (which was claimed to be a sea instrument). By these instruments were obtained figures, carefully noted down in a book.
As many of the figures were obtained at night, in the dark, William New and the majority of the voyageurs and trappers were much puzzled. Back at the post the Indians had deemed the lieutenant to be a great medicine man, who read the sun and the stars;[102] and his tent was a place of tremendous mystery to them.
“Latitude so-an’-so, longitude so-an’-so, I hear said,” grunted Trapper New. “That’s the camping spot. Now, what air the sense o’ that, unless figgers air written on the grass an’ rocks so you can read ’em? When I find a place I don’t look for figgers. It air one day travel nor’west o’ the second left-hand fork o’ Goose Creek; or it air half-way ’twixt Pilot Peak an’ the head o’ the Little Blackfoot; or some such. But these hyar figgers! I never saw any figgers, anywhar.”
“What is this camp, Mr. Preuss?” asked Oliver, politely, of the busy tow-headed German.
“By chronometer and lunar distances and an occultation of Epsilon Arietis, it appears to be longitude one hundred and seven degrees, thirteen minutes, and twenty-nine seconds, east; latitude forty-two degrees, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, north,” announced Mr. Preuss. “But we can’t be sure of what instruments we have left. They are getting badly shaken up.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver, retiring, knowing no more than he did before. And he was much inclined to agree with Trapper New.
When in the morning they plashed away for the farther bank, they left upon the island a horse, as garrison. The horse was too worn and lame to travel; but with its plentiful grass and its abundant water the island was a perfect horse sanatorium. The poor animal[103] gave one astonished and glad whinny after them, and fell to cropping again greedily, as if fearful lest they might change their minds.
“How far to Independence Rock now?” asked Oliver, of William New, as Goat Island and the river sank from view behind the red sandy, pebbly ridge.
“’Bout twenty-three or four mile, I reckon, or what Injuns call half a sun,” answered Trapper New. “You must be heap anxious to see that ’ere rock, boy!”
“Yes, I am,” admitted Oliver. “I’m going to put my name on it. Is yours there?”
“Used to be; an’ if somebody or wind an’ weather hasn’t scratched it out it’s thar yet. But ............