Several days had gone by since, on this noon of August 15, in this year 1842, the Frémont little squad, toiling where never before had stepped human foot—foot of Indian nor foot of even hardy trapper—at last stood upon what they believed to be the highest point of the Rocky Mountains. To-day we know that Frémont Peak, at the western border of Wyoming, is not the highest point of the Rocky Mountains; it is outranked by many another peak; but mere figures cannot always measure human endeavor, and in boldly assailing and overcoming this the highest, most kingly peak within their knowledge, there to plant their flag, Lieutenant John C. Frémont and companions show as fine quality of spirit as though the crest had been a thousand feet further. They did their best, to the limit of opportunity. To-day is August 23. The great South Pass from which still onward stretched into “Oregon” the wagon-wheel track of the first American emigrants has been re-crossed; and again at Independence Rock, Frémont has paused to inscribe amidst the thickly written names a large cross—token of westward pressing[125] Christianity and civilization. This cross he filled with softened India-rubber, to preserve the trace. From the Rock he continued east on down the Sweetwater to its mouth. Here at its juncture with the Platte he is about to launch, on the morrow, his rubber boat.
This boat (which smelled very disagreeable—“wuss’n the tar springs at head o’ Yellowstone,” complained William New) was twenty feet long and five feet wide, when unfolded, and had air-tight compartments to be blown up or inflated so that it should not sink if capsized. It already had capsized, once, on the Kansas River, at the start of the expedition from Missouri.
Now the lieutenant was determined to canoe down the Platte, through the canyons, to see what the river looked like where it was hidden from the trail. Kit Carson shook his head over the plan.
“You’d better not,” he said. “It’s too dangerous. Thar air nothing but red canyons, one after another, cl’ar till the Platte gets out the mountains, at our fust camp above Laramie. Canyons air full o’ falls an’ rapids, an’ some o’ those rocks sticking up will punch a hole in that rubber contraption, sure. Fitzpatrick tried the trip, by boat, once, an’ lost all his pelts an’ ’most lost his life.”
“Chut!” smiled the lieutenant. “My orders are to survey the Platte, and that seems the only way to do it. With this boat and good men to handle the[126] paddle I’ll start at day-break and meet you at Goat Island for breakfast!”
So was it arranged that the main portion of the company should cut across by the land trail, as before taken, for Goat Island where they had left the Platte for the Sweetwater on their way out; and that the lieutenant and his crew should go on down by water.
The Taos party, including Kit Carson also, had been disappointed over not climbing the peak, and Oliver had felt elated; but none, not even Oliver, was disappointed over being omitted from the boat crew. For his crew Lieutenant Frémont selected Mr. Preuss the German; Clément Lambert, Basil Lajeunesse, Honoré Ayot, Leonard Benoit, Joseph Descoteaux, who were accustomed to paddling.
Camp was broken at dawn. The rubber boat, stretched and inflated, had been packed with ten or twelve days’ provisions, principally dried meat, and with the precious scientific instruments, and with enough bedding.
“Thar’s a thirty-foot fall down a ways! Hear her roaring?” shouted Trapper New, as the boat-crew launched forth. “Watch out for her!”
The lieutenant nodded and gayly waved his hand. His men paddled hard, the Platte was broad and smooth for several miles, and with its load the rubber canoe glided rapidly down.
The land party watched for only a minute. They must cut across for Goat Island, so as to meet the[127] voyagers there, at breakfast—although the lieutenant had said that if he reached it first he would leave a note before passing on. However, he did not reach it first!
It was only about twelve miles across from the mouth of the Sweetwater to the Platte at Goat Island. Here on Goat Island was found the horse that had been left there to recover; she now was sleek and seemed strong upon her feet, and very glad to see the other horses and the mules.
By breakfast time the lieutenant had not appeared; nor did he and his squad appear by ten o’clock. Higher climbed the sun, marching from east to west through the great blue dome, and Kit Carson and all began to grow uneasy. Close watch was kept of the river, for any tokens of a wreck; but nothing unusual drifted down upon the swollen tide which ran turgid with the rains and melted snows.
“Something’s gone wrong with that rubber contraption,” declared Kit. “I knew it would. I told ’em so.” And he fidgeted here and there. “We’d better ride up the river, as far as we can, on both sides, an’ find ’em.”
So while a portion of the party remained to guard the camp, the others divided into two squads to scout either side of the Platte. Kit led a little squad up on the right, Oliver was told off to ride with Ike Chamberlain’s squad, on the left.
The country along the left side of the river waxed[128] more and more difficult, with occasional cross canyons and frequent ridges of red and of white sand-stone interrupting. Some of these ridges and buttes were fantastic, looking like castles and spires and lighthouses. Oliver enjoyed the ride, but the obstructions only vexed Ike and the others. At a point whence a good view was given up the river for a quarter of a mile they dismounted, and seated themselves, and lighted their pipes.
“Hyar’s far enough,” declared Ike. “We can catch ’em if they come floating past. They haven’t any business down in thar anyhow.”
Oliver lingered a minute; but this sitting here was rather stupid.
“I’m going on,” he announced.
“Wall,” grunted Ike. “Twon’t do you any good. Yonder’s the Fiery Narrows. If they air wrecked in thar you can’t get at ’em, an’ if they ain’t wrecked in thar they’ll come out.”
Oliver rode along. He wanted to see those Fiery Narrows for himself.
The broken country forced him out and back from the river; and when he came in again he judged, from the roaring sound, that he must be at the Fiery Narrows. The river here swirled wildly through between reddish walls a hundred and more yards high. Slipping from the saddle and cautiously approaching the best and firmest spot, holding his horse by the lines Oliver craned his neck to peep in. The sight almost[129] made him dizzy. Glancing about from side to side he thought that he espied a trail. Down he clambered, rifle in hand.
The depths of the Fiery Narrows were a terrifying place for a landsman. The Platte, coffee-color and heavy with sediment, fairly boiled through, without beginning and without end; its current dashed in foam against up-sticking rocks, and spun from projecting shoulders; surely no boat of any kind could live in such an angered turmoil!
Suddenly Oliver witnessed an astonishing spectacle. As his eyes shifted from the opposite shore (which rose not so sheer, although still steep and high) to scan up-stream, they encountered a dark object speeding down upon the current. It was the Frémont boat—the rubber boat! And hurrah—the crew were aboard; all were safe!
One man was kneeling in the bows, with paddle, to turn the boat quickly; the others were ran............