The night settled clear and calm, with scarce a breath of air to sough through the pendent leaves of the stately poplars. But the moonlit atmosphere was rife with strange sighings and moanings and whisperings, as from the ghostly lake out of sight below the camp. These sounds may have been water-fowl; William New and other trappers and voyageurs in both parties said that they were “spirits” and “medicine”; Jacob Dodson, the young colored man, said that they were “mighty like ha’nts”; and the wounded dog, which now was recovering, whined and shivered and snuggled closer upon Oliver’s buffalo robe.

In spite of the sounds real and imaginary the camp was safe and whole at day-break. The lieutenant put everybody at work cutting timber with which to make a horse-pen and a fort. In the midst of these preparations Ike Chamberlain sought out Kit Carson, and addressed him freely.

“Say, Kit, what’s the meaning o’ this hyar? Must be going to stay awhile.”

“Going to stay till the lieutenant gets through, Ike.”

“Wall, he’s not our boss. We’re an independent consarn.”

“I reckon you are, Ike. So what’s the matter?”

“We’ve ’bout decided that staying hyar an’ living on roots an’ feathers whilst a crazy man measures that thar lake doesn’t shine with us fellows. Thar air no fur an’ no meat hyar, an’ snow air creeping down the hills. We want to get out whilst we can.”

“I won’t stop you, Ike.”

“You come too.”

“Not an inch. I engaged to Lieutenant FrÉmont, an’ I’m going through.”

“On that ’ere lake, in that ’ere boat, Kit?”

“I shorely am, Ike, if the lieutenant asks me to.”

“Don’t you do it, Kit, don’t you do it,” implored Ike, much concerned. “Thar’s a whirlpool that’ll swallow you, boat an’ all. If the lake has nary river draining it off, how does it keep from overflowing, with these rivers running in! Must drain by a whirlpool, which sucks the water off fast as it comes in. Mebbe thar air cannibals on those islands, to gobble ye soon as ye land. Besides, whar’s the grub for the crowd? What you fetched down from Hall is ’bout gone already, an’ we’ll soon be living wuss’n Root Diggers. When the snows fall lower we’ll be shut in to starve. ’Tain’t a fit country for white man; ’tain’t, Kit. We’re going to pull out, an’ you’d better come with us. If that lieutenant wants to stay an’ make figgers, let him.”

“Go if you want to, Ike. I stay with FrÉmont,” answered Kit Carson, evenly. “He expects me to, and I will. I can’t ask you Touse men to. There won’t be much fun in it, for you, especially if we push on for the coast by winter trail down the Snake.”

“What!” gasped Ike. “Jest to get figgers? No, siree. I reckon we’ll pack back through the mountains, whar thar’s fur an’ meat, for Laramie, Kit.”

“All right, Ike. When you get to Touse tell Josefa I’m well.” And Kit turned away.

Oliver heard this conversation, and was aghast. Back to Taos? Never! He hastened after Kit and appealed to him:

“Do I have to go, Kit?”

“Whar, boy?”

“Back, with Ike and the rest.”

“Reckon you’d better. Times air liable to be hard on the trail, an’ we’re bound through to Vancouver.”

“But I want to stay, Kit. I’ll feed myself—I’ll do my own foraging—I’d just as soon eat roots, I like ’em. I want to stay, with you and Lieutenant FrÉmont—and sail on the lake—and go to the coast. I’m not afraid.”

“Not afraid to explore that ’ere lake in that rubber contraption, an’ get swallowed by a whirlpool, mebbe?”

“No,” declared Oliver, stanchly.

“Wall,” smiled Kit Carson, his clear gray-blue eyes twinkling, “if Ike an’ the rest should happen to ride off an’ you shouldn’t be with ’em, I s’pose we’d have to keep you, best we could. You’ve got yore dog, to eat.”

To the wise a word is sufficient. Ike and William New and all the Carson squad swiftly packed, to take the trail. The FrÉmont men cast sidelong glance as they proceeded with their own duties, and some, amidst the bantering, hinted that they would like to go, too. But they were under orders: enlisted for this United States Army service. The Taos men were free trappers, enlisted not at all.

“Ready, boy?” called William New, to Oliver.

“I want to wait and see the boat start,” answered Oliver. “Go on; I can trail you.”

“You’d better do it in a hurry, then,” grumbled William New, as he mounted. “We’re heading for beaver an’ buff’ler, an’ we travel fast.”

Without another word off they rode, two by two, at trapper rack or single-foot; and following up the Weber Fork they disappeared among the hills.

Oliver sauntered about, and at the first opportunity took a hand in rolling logs.

“Aren’t you going, boy?” demanded Lieutenant FrÉmont, suddenly noting him.

“No, sir.”

“Why not? Wouldn’t they take you?”

“Yes, sir; but I’d rather stay with you and Kit.”

“Oh, I see.” And the lieutenant, out of careworn bearded face, eyed him calculatingly.

“I’d like to sail in the boat, on the lake, if there’s room,” ventured Oliver. “I wouldn’t be afraid.”

“I don’t know about that,” said the lieutenant. “I don’t know but what you’d better go on up to Fort Hall with FranÇois and party. I’m sending them, in a minute or two, so as to cut down the drain on the supplies.”

“I’d—like—to—stay,” faltered Oliver. “Kit said I could eat my dog—but maybe I won’t have to.”

“You’re liable to eat worse than dog, if you do stay,” warned the lieutenant, with a sudden smile lighting his countenance. And he added: “But stay you shall. You’re a brave lad, and I like courage.”

The horse corral and the little fort, both of cottonwood or poplar trunks, were finished; and in the latter was mounted the battered but faithful brass howitzer. Nobody might tell yet how many Indians, perhaps Utes, perhaps Snakes, perhaps Root Diggers, perhaps strangers more savage, might be spying and planning attack upon these few invaders; so precautions were taken. This being done, FranÇois Lajeunesse and some others were told off by the lieutenant, to go back up the Bear and on to Fort Hall, there to wait.

After FranÇois and companions left, the Carson-FrÉmont camp on the Weber River consisted of the lieutenant and Kit, Basil Lajeunesse, Baptiste Bernier, Baptiste Derosier, FranÇois Badeau, Mr. Preuss, Jacob Dodson the young colored man, and Oliver. Sergeant Zindel had started with the FranÇois squad, but Jacob knew how to handle the gun.

The day was spent in patching and strengthening the rubber boat, in making scientific observations, and in exploring the country near at hand. The sunset was beautiful, orange and green, reflected in the waters of the great lake—a sunset so peculiar that it might have been enchantment by a wizard, testing his spells after the frowns of the genie had failed. However, nobody was afraid of the wizard, and the supper of yampa roots and a fat duck which Jacob had shot tasted good. The spells by a stout heart are much stronger than any spells by any wizard.

It was planned that the next day a voyage should be made to the nearest of the islands. Neither Kit Carson nor Lieutenant FrÉmont put much stock in tales of whirlpool and ravenous monsters and club-bearing giants—although, of course, who could say! But they hoped to find upon the islands flowers and fruits and crystal streams and much game, never before witnessed by human being.

Jacob, and FranÇois Badeau and Baptiste Derosier had been named to garrison the little fort. After an early breakfast the lieutenant and Kit, Mr. Preuss and Basil and Baptiste Bernier busied themselves in packing the boat, tied to the river-bank, with blankets and scientific instruments and three rubber bags of water and a little food.

“Wall, boy,” remarked Kit Carson, with a twinkle, eyeing Oliver, who lingered near, “looks as though you’d better stay ashore.”

“What’s that?” queried the lieutenant, overhearing. “Oh, I guess we can make room. By all means. He climbed the highest peak, and I think he ought to be one to explore the enchanted islands. Come along, lad. You can pump the bellows and keep her blown up.”

And Oliver needed no second invitation.

The sun was just appearing over the mountain ranges in the east when, on this the eighth of September, the rubber canoe left her moorings and started down the river, for the lake. The men paddled; Oliver was set at work pumping air into the inflated cylinders, along gunwales and bows, for they leaked.

It was a delightful voyage. Frequently, at warning hiss from the paddlers before, they all floated silently, in order to get a shot at a duck or goose; to shoot it in the head, of course, if possible. These pauses, and the halts to pick up the game, consumed time, so that when the river channel opened out upon the lake-shore evening was near.

At the lake-shore the river made a kind of swamp, traversed in several places by a shallow, slow current. The boat stuck in the mud, and its crew must get out and shove her and haul her along, in mud to their knees. Finally, at a little point of dry land, amidst willows and reeds, where there was plenty of drift-wood, camp was made. The supper menu was roasted ducks and plover and geese—and the breakfast menu was the same.

All night the hoarse voices of wild-fowl, in marsh and upon lake, kept the air vibrant with multitudinous sound. However, upon their low beds of willow-branches and rushes the little camp by the unknown inland sea slept safely, until, at the first touch of pink in the eastern sky, the cheery tone of Lieutenant FrÉmont aroused with “Leve, leve!”—the trappers’ signal to arise.

This was the day for the voyage upon the salty lake. Oliver felt a strange wonderment and exhilaration: he felt like crying “Hooray!” The lieutenant was all energy, and even Kit Carson was more talkative than customary, while Mr. Preuss scarcely chewed his food before swallowing it—so excited was he. But Basil and Baptiste were unusually quiet, even to seeming downcast.

“What’s the matter with you two boys—you and Baptiste?” demanded the lieutenant, of Basil. “Are you afraid, so soon?”

“No, monsieur lieutenant,” responded Basil. “Only, we have had a bad dream, Baptiste and I. It means evil. Now, if we could but postpone the voyage until to-morrow—— To-day is unlucky.”

“Nonsense!” reproved the lieutenant. “Did you dream, Kit?”

“Oh,” said Kit, “sometimes I have bad dreams an’ sometimes I have good dreams; an’ sometimes after the bad dreams I have the best luck, an’ sometimes after the good dreams I have the worst luck. So I’ve come to depend more on what I do when I’m awake than on what I do when I’m asleep.”

“Anybody can dream, but it takes a man to do,” spoke the German, Mr. Preuss.

“Well, I sha’n’t govern our operations by dreams, or we’re liable not to get anywhere,” avowed the lieutenant. “When we come back from the islands we’ll laugh at Basil and Baptiste.”

“Oh, we go too,” said both. But they did not brighten up much.

Only a short distance beyond the place of the camp the river channels were lost in a great mud-flat covered by an inch or so of water. Now everybody stripped to the skin, to haul the boat to the lake, beyond. At the sight of these strange white creatures the long-legged plover with which the flat swarmed circled and screamed. The mud was about the texture of paint, and when stirred up smelled disgustingly, as if composed of decaying insects. Speedily the crew were smeared with the black liquid to the thighs. Behind them they left a long, discolored, greasy trail.

The unpleasant mud extended for a mile, when suddenly they came to a little ridge, hard and distinct, rising underfoot. Here the mud stopped; beyond the little ridge, which acted as a divide, was firm sandy bottom, and very salt water—the bottom and the water of the great lake.

Now with a cheer they hastily dressed, clambered aboard, and launched forth—Oliver pumping with the bellows.

The nearest island seemed to be a low one, rising to a flat-top instead of to a regular peak. For this was the boat directed.

The frail rubber boat rode easily the swells of the light-green, clear water. The pasted seams held well; the inflated sides and ends lifted her high. But in a short time she looked queer indeed, as if riding a snow-storm; for when the swells broke against her they sprayed salt which turned white in the drying air. It covered her and her crew, and of Lieutenant FrÉmont, with his full beard, it made a hoary old man.

“There’s a current setting southward; see how the foam patches all drift one way?” said Mr. Preuss.

“Ma foi! It is the whirlpool sucking at them!” muttered Baptiste, tremulously.

“Paddle hard,” encouraged the lieutenant.

Kit had been peering keenly ahead, at the island. He spoke sharply.

“Captain (he called the lieutenant ‘captain,’ which was according to trapper custom), what are those yonder? Just take a look with the glass, won’t you?”

All gazed, half alarmed, while Lieutenant FrÉmont levelled his long telescope. Between the boat and the island was a peculiar fringe of changing white.

“Oh! Those are only waves, Kit,” announced the lieutenant. “They’re breaking to white-caps. Must be a breeze coming. Beyond still, on the shore of the island, is a row of pelicans, I think.”

The breeze soon struck the boat. Riding high, it made yet slower headway, but it showed no symptoms of capsizing. A good little craft she was.

“Pump, boy,” bade Kit. “Those thar tanks leak wuss’n ever.”

And Oliver plied the bellows.

The breeze, fierce and constant as if the wizard or the genie was blowing with the breath to defeat the rash intruders, swept directly from the island, until, shut off by the rocks, it apparently ceased, and the water was smooth. The row of pelicans proved to be only rocks whitened by salt.

Now in a few minutes the rubber canoe was gliding through transparent shallows, and was about to land at the shelving, level shore.

“We’ll have to carry her up before she touches, boys,” spoke the lieutenant, leaping overboard, to his waist. “These sharp rocks will punch a hole in her.”

Overboard sprang all, and hustling the baggage ashore carried the fragile craft after it.

No giants opposed their landing; no huge figures rushed from the high sage, and flourished clubs, to clear the beach. The stretch of shore exhibited no foot-print, of human, or inhuman, or even of beast. Save the wash of the waves and the whisk of the wind not a sound arose. By all evidence, the island was a desert island, uninhabited.

From its high point, where its rocks rose to about 800 feet, the party surveyed its whole surface. Salt and a gigantic species of greasewood (the only “giant” thing); another, whitish shrub, some prickly pear, etc., were the only inhabitants of the island; salt was deposited in every crevice and pool; two birds flew from the mainland, on brief visit; that was all. And because of the disillusion where they had hoped to find fruits and flowers and game and sparkling streams, they christened the island Disappointment Island. Into a rock of the peak the lieutenant chiselled with his knife a cross; and by the rock he accidentally left the brass cap of his telescope.

That night each man (including Oliver) made himself a little shelter-lodge out of the abundant drift-wood on the shore, and with feet to the large fires lay down for slumber. There was no need of any sentry, nor of hand upon gun. The island was perfectly safe. To be enabled to sleep without a fear was novel experience, and was worth the trip.

During the night the wind increased again; and once Lieutenant FrÉmont said that the waves sounded like the surf of the ocean.

In the morning the waves were running high; the warders of the great lonely lake had still not given up the fight. Now the wind was from the opposite direction, or off shore, trying to keep the boat to the island! So again must the crew paddle hard, while Oliver pumped with the bellows; the lake was rougher than on the day before; the rubber strained and the ribs creaked, and Basil and Baptiste croaked dire “I told you so.” Nevertheless, at noon the shore was reached, before the promontory butte, and with a glad shout of exultation and relief they all leaped into the shallows, to carry baggage and craft high and dry.

But the efforts of the angered lake-guardians were not spent. While harder blew the gale, it shifted, and presently it was rolling the lake itself farther and farther upon the shore! The temporary camp had been placed about a quarter of a mile from the edge; but across the mud flat came creeping the water. When Mr. Preuss arrived with horses from the main camp up the river there was just time to pack and mount and ride, before the tide had covered the spot. When they looked back, the lake was busy wiping out all traces of their intrusion upon its shores. However, upon the island in its midst was the chiselled cross, and the brass cap of the telescope. Another army man, Captain Howard Stansbury, also of the Topographical Corps, in 1849 found the cross, but not the brass cap; the Mormon settlers of the lake shore had called the island Castle Island; he named it FrÉmont Island.

Across a low, sandy, salty plain the late crew of the rubber boat rode for the log fort. The foiled wizard or genie who seemed to dwell in those mountains across the water pursued them with a thunder-storm, but they outstripped it, and welcomed gladly by the salute of Jacob’s howitzer they entered the friendly grove.