“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 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 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 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; 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 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; 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 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 it doesn’t ’mount to much ’longside names that nothing can scratch out.”

“We ought to camp at the rock, to-night.”

“Can, if we don’t stop shorter,” agreed Trapper New, dryly.

But they did stop; for as they were descending a long slope of short brush and flowers, and a glimmer of a stream, at the bottom, had risen the glad cry: “Sweetwater!” another cry interrupted. “Buffalo! Buff’ler!” At the mouth of a shallow valley, across, had appeared dark masses that looked like moving gooseberry bushes.

Down dashed Lucien Maxwell, the official hunter of the expedition; down dashed Kit Carson, and ClÉment Lambert, and Ike and William New, and Oliver himself; and as soon as they could down dashed others: so that by the time camp was located beside the Sweetwater and fires had been made, the first buffalo had fallen to the crack of Kit Carson’s rifle. Oliver killed a fat cow and a huge bull; his Kit Carson rifle shot strong and true. Every hunter was successful, so that this night there was much meat in camp, and the company did not mind sleeping under sage-bushes, in a rain. Only the big lodge had been brought along, and here was no tree to serve as lodge-pole.

The next morning they moved up the Sweetwater to Independence Rock.

“Thar she is—the Sign-board o’ the Sweetwater Trail to South Pass,” directed Ike, as the Carson squad came in sight of a gray mass up-swelling like an enormous whaleback above the sea of sage; a single pine, like a scrap of a fin, upon its very spine.

“She’s independent, all right,” observed William New. “She stands out alone. But I reckon she war named ’cause some o’ Ashley’s beaver-hunters, who broke this trail, after the Injuns, ten or fifteen year ago celebrated Fourth o’ July hyar, or Indypendence Day, as it air called down east.”

Independence Rock was a huge bare weather-beaten, rounded mass of gray granite, forty yards high and 650 yards long, rising right out of the plain, on the north of the Sweetwater. As seemed to Oliver, curiously examining the surface, about everybody who had passed had carved or scratched his name or initials. Here were names of trappers, traders and missionaries, already thickly placed as high as arm could reach from horseback. To read the collection was a fascinating pastime. Oliver found Kit Carson’s name, and Jim Bridger’s, and Jim Beckwourth’s, and William New’s, and Ike’s, and Sol Silver’s, and General Ashley the famous Missouri fur-trader’s; etc. And there were many Indian signs; and there were names, freshly carved, of the emigrants who had passed by only two or three weeks before. And a large “Independence.”

This afternoon part of the company (whose names were already upon the rock) went buffalo hunting; but Oliver and the others attacked the rock.

“Hooray!” cheered the red-headed Irishman Tom Tobin, appearing from the other side of the rock, carrying a ladder made from cross-sticks tied with hide thongs to a pair of lodge-poles.

“Sioux ladder,” pronounced Mariano the Mexican. “Bueno!”

Climbing by aid of this, they placed their names much higher than any names yet.

Early the next day the second of the Sweetwater Trail wonders was reached. This was Devil’s Gate, five miles above Independence Rock. It was another canyon, but very narrow, about 300 yards long, and almost 150 deep; and through it, among boulders and jagged blocks, roared the Sweetwater. The trail to the South Pass made a circuit back from this Devil’s Gate, so as to dodge the rough ridge; but Lieutenant FrÉmont and the scientific Mr. Preuss, and Oliver and many others who never had seen into Devil’s Gate, or who wanted to see into it again, rode over to the rim and peered down.

The trail was growing rougher. The Sweetwater rippled in and out of little parks or pockets amidst the low hills of its valley; a mountain range bordered the valley on either hand, and to the south the slopes were ablaze with fires set by the Indians to drive the game (said William New) back to the open country. The fire seemed to make rains gather; and to-night’s camp was another wet, uncomfortable camp, but nobody complained. However, the rain, sweeping down from the high country, certainly was cold!

“See thar?” invited Trapper New, to Oliver, the next morning, pointing ahead.

They were topping a little rise, still near the faithful guiding Sweetwater; and far before, against the horizon, in a vista opened to the march, a line of dark mountains.

“Those air the Wind River mountains, to north o’ the South Pass. Pass cuts one end o’ them, I reckon. They’re heap medicine mountains; Injuns say they’re ha’nted by evil spirits. The Crows won’t go in ’em.”

“How far?” asked Oliver, gazing hard.

“Seventy miles, ’bout.”

The Sweetwater was slowly dwindling, as they approached its sources. They picked up an Indian horse whose hoofs were sore; and an Indian dog, who was glad of the scraps that the men tossed to him. But he wasn’t friendly, and Oliver named him “Wolf.”

Rain, and rain, and rain! That was now the weather program, every day; and when, five days beyond Devil’s Gate, at last the morning broke with sunshine, suddenly near at hand, right before, rose grandly with complete robe of dazzling white the Wind River mountain-chain. So high and aloof were they, that upon their flanks the rain had been snow.

And now the South Pass was near indeed, for the Sweetwater was dividing into several streams, spreading like the veins of a leaf, to drain the little side valleys.

“What do yore figgers say as to our height up?” queried Ike, carelessly, of Mr. Preuss.

“I cannot tell you, yet, my friend,” responded Mr. Preuss, nervously.

“Wall,” remarked Ike, “I can tell you without figgers that we’re climbing. Cactuses air going; moss air beginning; an’ that’s a sartin sign, in the hills.”

Oliver kept his eyes sharp set for the celebrated pass. He had before crossed the top of the Rocky Mountains; but here was a pass the most famous of all—said to be the only single pass by which the traveller changed at once from the east side to the west side of the mountains. So he watched keenly.

The morning was rainy, again; Kit Carson and Lieutenant FrÉmont led the march away from the wheel-marked road which had been followed much of the time, and took a saddle and pack trail that swung out, one side. They all rode along leisurely and without trouble, winding about upon a series of billowy slopes, with the Wind River Mountains gradually unfolding gap and crest, on the right. After a ride of five or six miles Kit Carson and Lieutenant FrÉmont halted, and engaged in a discussion, while now and then pointing and examining. The cavalcade gradually gathered about them.

“I’ve been hyar, on an’ off, during a dozen years,” was saying Kit Carson, mildly. “An’ I nor any other man can ever be exactly sure. But ’cording to my notion an’ my recollection, this ought to be it.”

“It seems so to me, too,” concurred the lieutenant.

“But where’s the pass?” queried Oliver, of William New.

Trapper New chuckled.

“Whar? Look under yore hoss, boy. You’re on it!”

“South Pass?” stammered Oliver, astounded.

“Right. Kit says the top—didn’t ye hear him? Behind air the United States, before air Oregon. All that ’ere country, west to the mouth o’ the Columbia at the Pacific Ocean; that air Oregon. And wagh! what a beaver country! Down below us, northwest, air the Valley o’ the Green River, big trappers’ rendezvous place.”

This was the pass—the great South Pass? They had halted upon an open swale between twain low rounded, smooth hills; behind them, the route which they had traversed, stretched a billowy sandy slope which was the ascent, but which Oliver had not recognized as such.

“About the grade of Capitol Hill, from the Avenue, at Washington,” commented Lieutenant FrÉmont. “How is the other side—the same?”

“About the same,” nodded Kit.

“How runs the road to the Columbia—the remaining part of this Oregon Trail?”

“At the foot of the pass thar’s the Little Sandy an’ the Big Sandy Rivers, an’ all flat desert clear to the Crossing o’ the Green River. Then it gets rougher from the Green west to the Bear an’ on northwest up the Bear to the Sody Springs. Then it air on westward and northward from the B’ar to Fort Hall at the Snake; west up along the Snake—or what some call the Lewis Ford o’ the Columbia—a two weeks’ march across the Plains o’ the Snake an’ a bad country beyond to Fort BoisÉ toward the mouth o’ the Snake; then it’s across the Blue Mountains, to the Columbia; an’ from thar it air ’bout two hundred miles to Vancouver, they say. As for myself, I’ve never been much west, on that trail, o’ Goose Creek between Hall and BoisÉ.”

Gazing into the west, where hazy lay Oregon, FrÉmont’s blue eyes kindled and flashed.

“What a country!” he said. “And there waits the trail. It’s a hard trail, Kit?”

“Right hard. These wagons ahead of us may get through to Fort Hall, but beyond Hall it’s hoss, mule an’ moccasins, nigh a thousand miles.”

“It’s a trail I’d like to try,” mused FrÉmont. “And it’s a country worth a bigger try. The United States has better claim to it than England has. England has her hunters there—we’ll have our farmers there; and the man who tills the soil is the man who wins the land. He produces, and stays; the trapper only consumes, and moves on.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” responded Kit Carson, slowly. “We trappers open the way—but that’s all. I’ve often thought that I’d go to farming, an’ I believe I will. Some o’ the mountain-men air at work already, in the Columbia country.”

“Well,” quoth the lieutenant, “we’ll have to see more of that country; this isn’t the end of the trail, yet, you know. But the South Pass is about the limit of my orders. However—en avant! We can camp at the west foot, on the Pacific side. I want to cross.”