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 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 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 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 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 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 ranged, paddles in hands, along the sides; now and then they dug hard with their blades, to keep the craft bows on with the current or to dodge a rock; but they came gallantly, and as they came, they appeared to be singing. How fast they sped! Maybe they would make it.

Lieutenant FrÉmont was plainly visible; so was Mr. Preuss. Basil Lajeunesse was the one in the bows. He was wet; they all were wet, as if they had capsized, already. Of course something had happened to them, for they were late.

Then, in an instant, something did happen. Just ahead of the boat was a little fall, where the current plunged over a ledge. It seemed to Oliver that the boat could leap this; he wondered if the crew saw it, before them; but he could do nothing, by voice or gesture, to warn them. He held his breath, watching. Out into the fall sprang the boat; but it did not clear—it toppled head-first, and spilling crew and baggage right and left it reappeared bottom-up!

As it came whirling down, helpless and inert, heads broke up around it. Lieutenant FrÉmont bobbed to the surface; he rose to his shoulders, as he swam, battling the current and looking for his men. Twice he was shunted from a sharp rock; and now he gave up and struck out lustily for the shore. He landed, and landed below him Mr. Preuss.

Now the boat had lodged against the Oliver side of the canyon, where a rock shoulder out-jutted. Basil Lajeunesse had clambered upon the upturned bottom, which looked like a huge turtle shell, and reaching he grabbed somebody by the hair. It was Joseph Descoteaux. Oliver heard what they said; they were only a few yards above him, and the words drifted along the canyon wall. He had picked up a smattering of French at Taos, where Kit Carson and others spoke it as well as Spanish.

“LÂche pas,” gasped Joseph; “lÂche pas, cher frÈre!” (“Loose not, loose not, dear brother!”)

“Crains pas,” panted Basil, sturdily. “Je m’en vais mourir avant que de te lÂcher!” (“Fear not. I’ll die before I’ll let you go!”)

That was a brave answer.

Basil hauled Joseph upon the boat-bottom. In one hand Joseph clutched a double-barrel gun, which was Lieutenant FrÉmont’s. And now, dripping, out upon a narrow strip of sand bordering the current, below, and where Oliver stood, crawled ClÉment Lambert, Leonard Benoit and HonorÉ Ayot, so that all the crew were accounted for.

However, there was no time for exchange of sympathy. Down with a rush came the wreckage—blankets and boxes and record-books and pieces of clothing, and even the iron instruments; for so heavy was the water and so rapid was the current that the instruments had not yet sunk.

“Quick!” bade ClÉment. “Vite! ArrÊtez-les!”

And he began to wade and grasp. From across the stream the lieutenant and Mr. Preuss, encouraging by gestures, also were rescuing the property. With a plunge Oliver seized a long black box which he knew contained the telescope, but the current almost overthrew him, and it whisked the box from his fingers.

Only a few of the things could be stopped; at last the lieutenant, with a gesture in sign-language, said that he and Mr. Preuss would continue on down-river along their edge, which was the left bank of the river, and that the others should continue on down by their edge which was the right bank. But Basil Lajeunesse, the boat having been turned over again, boldly embarked, with a paddle, and took to the current.

“Hello,” remarked Joseph Descoteaux to Oliver, now that there was time for greeting. “You saw us, n’est-ce-pas? Ma foi, but I was drowned if Basil had not held tight.”

“That Basil, he is a water-rat; he is a beaver,” pronounced HonorÉ Ayot. “We nearly were wrecked above, too, when the boat stuck fast and the water flowed right over us. After that we would have driven the boat by a rope paid out from on shore; but Basil was jerked in like a fish, and all you could see was his head like head of swimming beaver, as he was carried on down. Before he had caught up with the boat he had swum a half a mile.”

“Yes, that is what he said when the lieutenant hauled him aboard. ‘Ugh!’ said Basil. ‘Je crois bien que j’ai nagÉ un demi mile—I verily believe that I have swum a half a mile!’”

They all continued along the water’s edge, in the canyon; clambering and wading and looking for articles from the wreck. A few record books were picked out; that was about the extent of the salvage. Across, the lieutenant and Mr. Preuss were likewise seeking.

“I’ll go back and climb out and make for camp, to tell ’em you’re coming,” proposed Oliver.

So he did. He found in camp his own squad, and Kit Carson’s squad, arrived ahead of him, they having seen nothing from the rim. Fires were built up, and more meat was cut, in readiness. Late in the afternoon Basil and ClÉment, Ayot and Descoteaux toiled in, afoot, over the pudding-stone ridge and down to the island. They had abandoned the boat at a narrow place where it would not pass through, and Benoit had left to join the lieutenant.

At sunset the lieutenant and Mr. Preuss and Benoit appeared, descending from the same ridge; they had waded the river to cut across some bends. And right glad were all the voyagers to have the hot fires and the roasting meat awaiting them.

“Told you you couldn’t get through with that thar boat,” reminded Kit Carson, mildly, to the lieutenant.

“Well,” responded Lieutenant FrÉmont, “we were under instruction to survey the Platte, and I felt that we should obey them to the fullest scope. We did our best.”

The lieutenant had only one moccasin, and his feet were prickly with cactus spines; but the next morning he seemed to be well recovered. Basil was sent up to the foot of the Narrows, to bring down the few other articles that had been rescued and left there. They did not amount to much. All the instruments but the sextant were lost. However, the saving of the record books was good fortune, and the instruments had performed their principal work.

Now Fort Laramie was near. The next day Cache Camp was reached, and the carts and other property which had been left there in hiding a month almost to a day were found undisturbed. With mules hitched to the carts again the expedition might victoriously trundle on for Fort Laramie. The Black Hills loomed nearer, on either hand; and with the Stars and Stripes in the advance the cavalcade on August 31 emerged from that little defile which afforded the first, as it had afforded the last, glimpse of the post.

From the parapet of the post burst a puff of white smoke; and following, echoed a dull “Boom!” The post must have seen the flag. “Boom! Boom!” saluted the single brass cannon, as on marched the cavalcade; presently smaller puffs of smoke welled out, from beside the post walls; that was rifles. Two figures came galloping. They were Henry and Randolph.

“You said forty days—you said that you’d be back in forty days,” they proclaimed. “This is the forty-second. We’ve been watching for two days. The Indians have been watching, too, and the minute you left the mouth of the valley they saw you and recognized the flag. Hear the cannon?”

“Crack! Crack! Whang!” answered the expedition’s rifles, to the welcome by the fort; and the garrison rushed out, with glad tongue and friendly hand.