To be beside the friendly guiding Sweetwater was a great relief. Now the South Pass was only eighty or ninety miles west, with a plain trail connecting. But what a trail this had become, in a short year! So many wagons had traversed it—the hoofs of the oxen and of the horses all pointing west—that the tough sage-brush had been crushed flat in a great, winding furrow forever leading onward. Strange was it to come upon such a trail, in this wilderness of plain and butte more than a thousand miles from the frontier.

This morning, when daylight revealed the sudden highway, exclamations of astonishment ran through the camp and adown the column, as now the march was made so much easier.

“Wagh! The Snake woman says it air the great medicine road o’ the whites,” remarked William New.

“Looks to me as if all the folks in Missouri were moving out to Oregon,” called back Ike.

“You would think so, if you had been with us at the start,” responded Basil Lajeunesse, who was riding to chat with the Carson men. “Oregon and California both. Name of a dog! Until the trail forked and we turned off for St. Vrain the Laramie route was a string of beads, so thick were wagons. That Doctor Whitman, he has stirred people up. One thousand for Oregon—men and women and the children—were collected at the Kansas, waiting for him.”

“These air fresh sign,” quoth Ike, with an eye upon the hoof marks and wheel tracks, and the freshly plucked springs where women and children must have wandered, picking nosegays.

“Lieutenant FrÉmont, he stirred people up, too,” continued Basil, proudly. “It is ‘South Pass,’ ‘South Pass,’ everybody talk about ‘South Pass,’ so easy to cross. And the Congress talk, too, all about Oregon, and it say it will give to every American settler in Oregon six hundred forty acres of land and for his child one hundred sixty acres. I should like to go, myself, but I do not know as my family like to go.”

“Some’ll never get thar,” grunted William New. “Thar’s a grave, already. Wonder the wolves or the Injuns haven’t dug it open yet. They will.”

The South Pass was crossed. Still onward led the great trail. Occasionally at camping-spot or elsewhere relics were to be noted. Once Oliver found a ragged doll; and was seen again a hasty grave.

The Big Sandy creek, at the foot of the pass, where a year before the camp had been made ere turning north to climb the Peak, was left behind, and now ahead waited new country.

On August 15—

“Thar’s the Green,” announced Oliver’s faithful mentor, William New. “We’re pretty high in Mexican territory, too. Some say it reaches up this fur, west o’ the mountains, along the Rio Verde. Seedskeedee River air what she’s called by the Crows—which means peerairie-hen river.”

The river was about 400 yards wide. The road forded it at a shallow place, and turned down along it. The current flowed among wooded islands.

That night, at camp, Lieutenant FrÉmont much discussed the river with Kit Carson and Basil Lajeunesse and Mr. Preuss and others.

“This must be the same as the Buenaventura, or Good-Fortune River of the early Spanish,” asserted the lieutenant. “That is, if it has a branch emptying into the Pacific.”

“Never heard of any,” answered Kit Carson. “Did you, Basil?”

“Ma foi, not I,” declared Basil, promptly. “But I never have been beyond, where lies the desert.”

“Wall, I have,” resumed Kit. “I’ve been west down the Mary’s River to its end in the Sinks; and I’ve been on the lower end o’ this hyar Green—or what mout be this hyar Green, whar it’s called the Colorado.”

“What’s below, Kit?” queried the lieutenant, quickly. “I hear strange stories of fine valleys at the bottoms of canyons entered by a secret trail, and of wonderful beaver grounds and ancient towns, shut in by walls a mile high.”

“Wall,” drawled Kit, “when I went out to Californy in Twenty-nine, with Captain Young, we struck the Colorado at a place whar the river’d sunk down into a canyon full a mile deep an’ three mile acrost. We didn’t get down into it, but I’m ready to believe that ’most anything could be found at the bottom. They call it the Grand Canyon, now. Injuns say thar’s a heap more o’ the same kind, up above, for three hundred mile.”

“But did you ever hear anything about the Buenaventura River, flowing west instead of south, across the Great Basin and emptying into the Pacific Ocean?”

“Heard about it, but never saw it,” stated Kit. “Never knew a trapper who did see it. O’ course, Injuns give out all sort o’ tales, an’ you can’t believe ’em.”

“The early Spanish claimed such a river, did they not—draining a lake?” put in Mr. Preuss. “It is marked down on maps that I have seen.”

“Yes,” replied the lieutenant. “Now, if there is such a river, as the Buenaventura, connecting this central Great Basin with the Pacific Ocean of California, what a boon will it be! Boats could ascend the Arkansas, or the Platte, or the Missouri River, be carried across the mountains, and launching into the Buenaventura continue on to the coast!”

“A water-way across the continent,” puffed Mr. Preuss. “That is good!”

“Bien, bien!” cried Basil.

From the Green the road crossed among hills, making westward for the Bear. Soon the Snake woman, with her two children and her six pack-horses, left to seek relatives at the trading post of old Jim Bridger, only a few miles away. And the next day Kit Carson spurred ahead, for Fort Hall, to engage provisions there, in case that the Thomas Fitzpatrick party, which should be somewhere on the way from Fort Laramie, might be running short or have met with misfortune.

However, that very evening provisions walked in of themselves—being a cow and her calf. They must have escaped from some emigrant party; and they were made more of even than had been the red ox—for the cow gave milk in abundance. Here was luxury: milk for coffee. So they took the mother and child along with them.

Early in the second morning thereafter the company entered the beautiful valley of what Ike and William and all said was the Bear River. Below but a short distance were the “Beer Springs” and the “Steamboat Spring”; and further below was the Great Salty Lake.

That they would visit the springs was certain, because the trail led past them; but whether they would visit the lake was not so certain, although Basil, reporting to the Carson men, assured:

“We will. I think we will. I hear the lieutenant and Mr. Preuss talking so. That is why we brought again the boat.”

“Boat!” snorted Ike. “Another o’ them rubber contraptions?”

“Bien encore,” confirmed Basil. “It is ready in the packs. Like the other but not so big.”

“Humph!” grumbled William New. “Thought I smelt it!”

Oliver wished much to ask questions about the springs, but he knew that if he waited he would find out everything, whereas if he asked he would likely be filled with trapper yarns. Besides, it was the part of a greenhorn to put many foolish questions. However, William New did remark, as they rode along:

“That ’ere springs basin ahead’ll make you think you’re in the infernal regions. Red rock an’ blue rock an’ green trees, an’ hot water an’ cold, an’ sulphur smells an’ noises. Wagh!”

Emigrants, making a large and happy encampment, were passed; and still more, encamped or moving, their white-topped wagons showing finely. The men were dressed in flannel or calico shirts, jeans and boots; the women in calico; the children, chiefly barefoot, in material of various makeshift kinds: and everybody was happy and hopeful and well, eager to talk of “Oregon” or of “Californy.”

“How far to Oregon, strangers?” asked one of the men.

“You’re in it!” answered the lieutenant, laughing. “Anywhere above forty-two degrees latitude, west of the South Pass, is Oregon!”

Some Snake Indians, riding the trail, met the company and told the lieutenant that a large village of their fellows had just come in from antelope hunting and berry gathering, and were camped near by. These Snakes appeared to be open-hearted, friendly Indians. They shook hands with Ike and the other trappers; and as Oliver well knew, Snakes and trappers were good friends, always, united against the Blackfeet and the Sioux. In fact, the Indians west of the South Pass were to be counted upon as friendlies—except the Diggers.

“Watch out for the Diggers, or they’ll slip an arrow into ye, sure,” had warned William New.

So, this being Snake country, the lieutenant rode aside to pay a visit to the Snake village. But as they came in sight of it, a mile away in a pretty little bottom-land beside a stream, out from the cluster of skin lodges sped a horseman—and another, and another, and squad after squad, charging into the open, before.

“Look out, boys!” rang the voice of Lieutenant FrÉmont, galloping down the line. And—“Get that howitzer ready!” he ordered.

“Those Injuns ’most crazy, I think,” muttered Basil, aiding the lieutenant.

“Wagh! Looks like we’ll be gone beaver, if we don’t watch out,” called Ike. “What’s the matter with the fools, I wonder.”

The Snakes evidently were in battle array. They were fully armed, with bows and lances and guns; many were almost wholly naked, save for the great war bonnets which floated their red, yellow and white feathers far behind the racing horses. In a solid, yelling mass they came on, while in the village women and children scuttled into the brush. Suddenly, ere a shot had been fired, the foremost of the Snakes raised his hand; his warriors slackened, and he rode forward, to where the white men were formed for peace or war.

The Snake chief explained that his people had seen the flag, and that as their enemies the Sioux and the Blackfeet were accustomed to bear a flag of some kind they had supposed that this was an attack. He was glad that no shots had been fired, for the Snakes never had spilled the blood of a white man.

This explanation was satisfactory, and escorted by a dense throng of the Indians the FrÉmont and Carson men rode on to the Snake village.

The chief pointed out a spot, by the village, where the company should camp; and then in a loud voice announced to the Indians that the white chief wished to buy horses. Many speedily were driven up by their owners, and for beads and tobacco and knives and red and blue cloth eight were taken over.

The kettles were on the lodge fires, as always is the case in an Indian camp. The atmosphere was filled with a peculiar odor. Ike and William New and the other Carson trappers, and some of the FrÉmont men also, sniffed as if pleased; and Oliver sniffed, but pretended not to be curious. This odor was like to decayed apples—and evidently so thought Mr. Preuss the bristly-headed, red-faced German, as he bustled about.

“What is that? Rotted apples!” he exclaimed, wrinkling his nose disgustedly. “Where do you suppose these Snakes got apples. I declare!”

“That smell?” responded Ike. “That’s kooyah. That’s the finest grub out: kooyah root. Hyar—try some.”

A squaw was bringing, evidently as a gift, a steaming platter of yellowish substance that might have been mashed sweet-potatoes; she presented it to Ike with a smile. Mr. Preuss took some upon the point of his hunting-knife. He gingerly tasted it.

“Ugh!” he spat. “Tastes worse than it smells. What do you call it, you say?”

“Kooyah root. But what’s the matter with yuh—wasting good food like that. I tell ’ee, it air prime fodder; it air prime, baked or b’iled, an’ with that in yore meat-bag you can travel fur.”

“The most horrid stuff I ever put in my mouth,” retorted Mr. Preuss, as he left.

The Carson men afterwards learned that the chief sent to the FrÉmont lodge, where Mr. Preuss also had quarters, a kettle of the kooyah as a compliment, and that the German was driven by it into the open air. During the march through the Snake country the camps made sport for themselves by slyly sticking some of the kooyah messes under Mr. Preuss’ nose; whereat he always fled.

However, all the others, even the lieutenant, liked the kooyah, which was called in English “tobacco root,” and in scientific language, according to the lieutenant and Mr. Preuss, “valerian.”

The Oregon emigrant trail led westward, down the Bear, between high hills and through immense areas of blue flax now going to seed. Along the trail were travelling, at irregular intervals, squads of emigrants, with their wagons and cattle, either camping or on the move for the day’s march. The main caravan was still some distance ahead, under personal leadership of Dr. Whitman.

“Yonder, over that fust ridge,” directed William New, to Oliver, at their next mess fire, “air the Beer Springs an’ the Steamboat Spring. Wagh! That’ll surprise ye—an’ it’ll give that German something to think of besides kooyah.”

“Do they taste?” queried Oliver.

“Taste, boy! Thar’s a heap o’ tastes! But that Beer Spring group air fine. O’ course they air a drink that don’t hurt ye; but we trappers claim they make you feel like dancing Injun, jest the same. I ’xpect it air the gas, tickling yore insides. If all the drinks in the world war no wuss’n these hyar Beer Springs, made by nature, the world’d be better off. So don’t think, ’cause we old-timers named ’em in fun, that thar’s anything wrong with ’em. Sody Springs they’re called, too.”

The springs were located in a basin enclosed by a semicircle of rugged mountain-crests, on the one hand, and by the river on the other. First, pieces of lava were to be noted, beside the trail; then came the springs themselves—hundreds of them, bubbling and welling from the green and red and white and yellow ground. Many of them had made little cones, of bright colors; and even the current of the river boiled and frothed with the gas.

Everybody quaffed deeply of the waters, which sparkled and bubbled, clear and luke-warm, from the rocks and the tufts of grass.

“Hi yah! Hi yah!” capered William New, ridiculously. “Hyar’s doings! This chile wants to dance. Hi yah!”

But he was only pretending, after the fashion of the place.

If anybody was not satisfied with a spring, all he had to do was to walk a few steps, and dig with his heel or with a stick, and he would open up a new spring—sometimes with a slightly different taste. Down stream about half a mile was the most remarkable spring of all: the Steamboat Spring. From a red crack in a rock right at the bank of the river, and beside the trail, spurted a jet of steamy water, rising and falling; a couple of yards from it, from a small round hole puffed jets of steamy air; and water and air together made a noise like the sighing “choo choo!” of a steamboat.