So far the only traces of travel preceding had been those of Indian travel. This afternoon who should appear upon the trail but a large red ox! Had he been an elephant he would have created no keener interest, and both the FrÉmont party and the Carson party collected about him.

“Ma foi!” exclaimed FranÇois Badeau. “Mebbe we back in Missouri, hey?”

“That’s shuah a big fine ox,” commented Jacob Dodson. “Guess some o’ those emigrants we saw at Kansas Landing are ahead of us.”

“Not very close, Jacob,” answered the lieutenant. “The Oregon Trail is a hundred and more miles north, yet.”

“Seems to me this ox must have cut loose from his party at the Green, an’ he’s making a short cut back through the hills, for Missouri,” decided Kit Carson.

With their red ox in charge the expedition proceeded. It seemed to Oliver rather mean to turn the brave animal about and make him retrace his trail; but in the morning he could not be found, and the lieutenant ordered the men not to look for him.

“Fact is,” declared the lieutenant, to Kit, “I’m glad he got away. He’s won his life, so far as we’re concerned. I’d rather starve a while than kill the old fellow and eat him.”

“Wall,” drawled Kit, “we’ll see if we can’t do better than pore beef.”

Whereupon, as if in reward, that evening he brought into camp a buffalo cow whose fat was two inches thick: the finest buffalo, asserted every man, that he ever had tasted.

To date the march had been not hard, and not unpleasant. The gun-carriage and the spring-wagon had come through without mishap. However, this next evening occurred the first accident, when, the company having crossed the North Platte River to the north of the Bull Pen or New Park, they were caught by the gathering dusk in a deep ravine, where grew sage six feet high. Both lamps of the spring wagon were knocked off, a thermometer was broken, and finally, at ten o’clock, camp was pitched in the dark. Supper was at midnight. Some of the men, who were out hunting buffalo, did not get in at all.

When they did come, in the morning, they brought much meat, and the lieutenant and Kit agreed that it would be wise to dry this meat, for a store against future need. There would be few buffalo, on the Pacific side of the Rockies.

Camp was moved down the ravine, to a cottonwood grove in a grassy little bottom-land upon the bank of the Platte. In this open place between the river and the bluffs, pole frame-works were erected, on which to hang the strips of buffalo meat, above fires, to dry.

Louis MÉnard was horse-guard. Fortunately, he had a quick eye, had Louis—and on a sudden the busy camp, with all hands at work “making meat,” was startled by his loud shout, the “Whang!” of his Hall’s carbine, and the tumultuous thud of hoofs as he raced his herd for the grove.

“Injuns! Des sauvages!” he yelled, pointing over his shoulder.

True enough. Down from the bluffs at the upper end of the bottom-land were galloping a score of half-naked Indians, while into the sky-line of the summit behind them were pouring many more.

“To the grove! To the grove!” cried French and Americans, FrÉmont and Carson men.

“The cannon!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, gutturally. “Qvick! Dis vay!”

All raced, afoot, for the grove, where Louis was driving his herd.

“R-r-round mit id!” gasped Sergeant Zindel.

The majority of the voyageurs and trappers instantly ranged themselves flat upon the ground, amidst the brush, or crouched behind trees, carbines and rifles at a ready. But the sergeant, and Jacob Dodson the colored man, and two others, remained out with the gun, before the grove. They were the cannoneers. Lieutenant FrÉmont calmly walked forth, and stood by.

On dashed the red warriors—their robes and feathers flying, war bonnet and decorated braids streaming in the air. Brandishing bow and lance and gun and shield, with shrill yelps they now were charging across the level.

“Cheyenne an’ ’Rapahoe,” muttered William New. “Wagh! I wonder if they know what they’re doing?”

Oliver anxiously watched the cannoneers. How rapidly they worked. Sergeant Zindel evidently understood his business. With jerky stiffness he bustled hither, thither—but already the piece had been swung about, to open down the bottom-land, a load in red flannel bag had been rammed home, and Jacob Dodson was thrusting after it a case of canister.

“R-r-ready!” ordered Sergeant Zindel, squinting along the breech, while Jacob turned the elevating screw. He sprang up, blowing a match or slow-fire fuse. “Back mit you! Back-vaaerts, all!” And Jacob and the two other helpers recoiled, out of range of the imminent explosion.

“The blame fools!” muttered William New, at the Indians. “They’ll be blown to smithereens. Wagh! they will! It’ll rain scalps.”

The racing reds now were scarce two hundred yards away, charging madly, hammering their ponies’ flanks with moccasined heel, urging to top speed.

“Feuer!” shouted stanch Sergeant Zindel, suddenly advancing his slow-match to touch-hole—and Oliver’s eyes leaped to see the enemy shrivel and scatter. But——

“Wait!” commanded Lieutenant FrÉmont, springing to arrest the sergeant’s hand. And——

“Wait!” cried Kit Carson, running out, his hand high.

For just at the instant the Indians, as if they had noted whom they were charging, in mid-pace had hauled their ponies short, and ploughing up the sod had stopped in a jumbled mass of wildly tossing riders.

“Just in time, by thunder,” exclaimed William New. “Another minute, an’ thar’d ’a been more meat than buff’ler meat scattered about on this hyar bottom. Wagh!”

A single rider had come forward from the serried front of mounted warriors; Kit Carson strode right on, to meet him, and hold parley. The whites in the grove might breathe easier.

“Tonnerre!” was reciting Louis MÉnard. “As I sat my horse, out there, I happened to glance at the bluff and saw an Injun stick his head up over. That was the good fortune; n’est-ce-pas?”

The sergeant, and his cannoneers, and the lieutenant, remained in the open beside the piece, awaiting the result of the parley. The sergeant occasionally blew upon his slow-match; and once he and Jacob hitched the gun around a few inches, for still better aim.

Presently Kit Carson turned back, and with him came two chiefs. The other Indians followed, slowly, riding at ease; and many, dismounting here and there, squatted or strolled about, gradually forming a semi-circle of seated forms.

“It’s all right,” announced Ike Chamberlain, standing at ease. “Kit’s made the peace sign. Wall, they jest saved their scalps, I can tell ’em.”

“We’d ’a bo’hd a thousand holes right through ’em; we shuahly would,” declaimed Jacob Dodson.

“These air a war party o’ Cheyennes an’ ’Rapahoes,” explained Kit Carson to the lieutenant. “They say they tuk us for Crow or Ute enemies—but being as they’re on their way home after a licking up north an’ consequently air feeling ugly, I reckon they tuk us for what they could get; an’ that warn’t much.”

“It would have been more if they hadn’t stopped when they did,” answered the lieutenant. “I suppose now they want presents. We’ll have to give them a little. Can’t spare much—and they don’t deserve even that.”

The chiefs grunted and shook hands with the lieutenant; they cast curious glances at the brass cannon, and exchanged a guttural comment.

“They think that’s heap gun,” interpreted William New. “White man’s medicine strong, they say.”

The uninvited guests, squatting in expectant half-circle, like hungry but dignified mastiffs, willingly passed the pipe of peace around, and as willingly accepted tobacco and scarlet cloth and knives.

“They’ve been up ag’in the Snakes, over on the Green River,” repeated William New, to Oliver, after having chatted with one or two. “They surprised a village near Jim Bridger’s fort, while most o’ the men folks were off on an antelope surround, an’ carried away a few scalps an’ a lot o’ hosses. Most the hosses belonged to the fort. Wagh! I bet ye Bridger war mad! How-some-ever, ’fore this hyar war party got very fur, with their plunder, the Snakes overtuk ’em, seized the hosses, killed several warriors an’ wounded some more. These Injuns warn’t feeling very happy, coming home licked, an’ they war on the ready for revenge o’ any kind that happened. Red an’ white scalps air alike to Injuns in that frame o’ mind; everybody’s an enemy. But look at that ’ere Snake woman. She’s b’iling under her blanket!”

Apart, secluded at the edge of the grove, with her blanket drawn entirely over herself and two children, crouched the Snake widow, motionless.

The band of Cheyennes and Arapahoes—two tribes who called one another cousin—stayed here until sunset; then they rode away; and then the Snake woman emerged from her blanket, and glaring after them shook her fist, at these the enemies of her people.

That night double guards were placed; however, the camp slept unmolested, here 200 miles from Fort St. Vrain.

The road this next day was very rough; and during the next day the roughness increased, with dense sage, interminable, blocking the way. To the north uplifted a divide forming the Sweetwater Valley of the Oregon Trail. Therefore diverging from the west into the north, and abandoning the unseen trail over which, in less than a score of years, would hasten the stages from Denver to Salt Lake, the FrÉmont and Carson men marched across Great Divide Basin of southern Wyoming for the familiar country of the Sweetwater.

In a cold rain storm, the evening of August 9, they camped beside the Sweetwater River, about twenty miles above the famous Devil’s Gate. From St. Vrain’s Fort they had travelled 315 miles.