Now was it the dawn of a sharp, clear winter morning, February 2, 1844, in the FrÉmont and Carson rude camp of one skin lodge and several tents, on the upper water of the Carson River, at the Nevada-California line. Oliver awakened early, under his buffalo-robe brought from Taos: awakened to the crackle of camp fire, the stir of stiff figures, and the sight of Jacob the colored youth hurrying with a tin cup of steaming coffee for the lieutenant in the skin lodge. Jacob always tried to do this—to get the coffee there before the lieutenant his master was dressed. He explained that such was the custom in the south: the members of the family had coffee served to them before they were up.

Oliver awakened to another knowledge. This was the day when the main range of the Sierras was to be assaulted. Everywhere the fresh snow lay deep and trackless; the eastern sky was pink, and about the white peaks of the Sierras, high and close in the west, the clouds were breaking into filaments.

Oliver tumbled out of his coverings. At a little distance the half-frozen horses and mules stood hunched, tails to the breeze, or were pawing for herbage. Kit Carson was up, Thomas Fitzpatrick was up, the Indian guide was up. He had not escaped. A glorious figure he made, as equipped with new moccasins and leggins, with trousers and a shirt, with blue and scarlet cloth and a large green blanket over all, he stood by a fire.

Lieutenant FrÉmont emerged in haste from the lodge, and nodded to the Indian—whereupon the Indian pointed to the vasty white pinnacles of the mountains, and with a grunt shook his head. The lieutenant paid no attention to such weak spirit. His voice vivified the camp, and all was hustle.

“Now for summer doings, boys,” encouraged Kit Carson, as after breakfast, with packs in place and every man resolved, the procession wended forth through the snow.

“Now for the Californy Valley an’ summer doings!” they answered.

The snow had drifted and speedily grew deeper; so that ten men, on the strongest horses, were put in the van to break a trail. Thus work began early. As oft as the horse of the leader was exhausted, his rider turned out, for the rear, and the next rider took his place.

Huts entirely covered by snow, where Indians lived like field mice, were passed: the only sign of inhabitant was the single trail from the hole of a door to the foot of a pine tree, and back.

“Guide says the deepest snow air jest beginning,” on the third day announced Kit, with the advance, to the lieutenant.

“There’s no use trying to bring the animals on here, to-night,” declared the lieutenant, snow-covered and panting. Snow-covered and panting were all. “Oliver, ride down and tell Fitzpatrick to camp at those springs where we were last night; it’s more sheltered. We’ll camp where we are.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Oliver.

He met Thomas Fitzpatrick, red-faced, snowy, working like a Trojan to keep the horses and mules moving, and delivered the message. He did not stay, for the camp by the springs in the sheltered basin. He turned about; maybe the lieutenant and Kit and Mr. Preuss and Godey and Bernier would need him.

The camp of the advance squad had been made, without tents, in a group of huge pines. Against the base of one of the pines a generous fire was blazing; and when Oliver arrived, tired and cold and glad of the fire, another old Indian visitor was delivering an oration.

He spoke loudly, in a sing-song manner; and he spoke long.

“He says,” announced Kit, “that we an’ our critters can’t go further, this way. We’ll perish, sure. We must turn back, an’ he’ll show us a better way. Rock upon rock—rock upon rock; snow upon snow—snow upon snow: that’s ahead of us. If we get over, we can’t get down on t’other side; thar air precipices whar our hosses’ll slip, an’ off we’ll go.”

“Yes; I understood his signs, and most of his words,” remarked the lieutenant, quietly. “But we’re white men. We’re not afraid.”

The Chinook lad from the mission, who had kept close by the lieutenant, had understood the signs and words even better than had Kit Carson; and now he began to wail aloud.

“I wanted to see the whites,” he lamented, brokenly. “I came away from my own people to see the whites. I would not mind dying among the whites, but to die here—ow-ow-ow-ow,” and shuddering he drew his blanket over his head. From underneath it his wail resumed, muffled and weird.

“You ought to have stayed down below, in the Fitz camp,” reminded Kit, of Oliver. “It’ll be a cold night, hyar, I tell you.”

And it was. The lieutenant said that the thermometer was ten above; but a wind set in, sifting through the tree trunks, blowing aside the heat, and penetrating blankets and buckskins. The trees creaked and sighed; the Chinook wailed; more biting waxed the air; and nobody slept much.

When Oliver turned out early, to do his share in looking after the shrunken horses and mules, the Indian guide was pressing to the fire, to be warmer; under all his unaccustomed clothing of shirt and trousers and red and blue cloth and green blanket he was shivering violently. Chancing to glance back, Oliver saw Lieutenant FrÉmont throw his own army blanket over the Indian’s shoulders already once blanketed; and when Oliver returned, within fifteen or twenty minutes, from the horses, he found the camp much indignant. The Indian guide had disappeared, blankets and all!

The day was spent in bringing up the animals, and in making snow-shoes and sledges. The next morning the lieutenant, with Thomas Fitzpatrick and Kit and others, snow-shoed ahead, to reconnoitre along the pass which the guide had pointed out before he had deserted. They came back, in the darkness, scarcely able to drag their feet, but they brought good news. They had looked over into a large valley, distant but snowless. Kit had recognized the valley as the Valley of the Sacramento.

“I know it!” he declaimed, still much delighted. “I know it by a little round mountain. Fifteen years ago I marked that little mountain, when I war in the valley; an’ I remember it jest as plain as if it war only yesterday.”

“How far? How far?” demanded all, eagerly.

“Thirty miles, isn’t it, Kit?” answered the lieutenant.

“I should say that—an’ more,” mused Kit, thoughtfully.

“So should I,” agreed Fitzpatrick. “We aren’t there, yet, boys; over the ridge and down means some long marches, through the snow. The snow’s likely to be heavier, on the west side. But now we know where we’re travelling.”

“From the ridge we could make out, through the glass, prairies and the line of a river bordered with timber,” explained the lieutenant. “But as Fitz says, there are some hard marches ahead.”

So there were. By sledges and snow-shoes the trail was resumed, every heart aglow with pictures of the Valley of the Sacramento; but on the level the snow was five feet deep, and in drifts was twenty feet deep. The animals failed, and must be left at each pasture, while with wooden mauls and shovels the men flattened a road, and with pine boughs paved it.

The puppy Tlamath must be added to the larder, so that for the advance there was a strange dinner, one night, of dog (cooked by Alexander Godey Indian-fashion, in pieces hide on), mule, and dried-pea soup!

Now was it the close of two weeks since from the preparatory camp had the start been made. The crest of the pass had just been reached, for on February 16, returning from a scout ahead, the lieutenant and Jacob reported that they had come upon a creek flowing west, toward the Pacific!

As they descended, seeking to travel while yet the night’s crust was unmelted, more plentiful waxed the snow, more difficult the trail, intersected by drifts and ridges. However, the lieutenant was convinced that the little stream discovered by himself and Jacob was the river upon which, lower, would be found the ranch of Captain Sutter the Swiss-American settler. The welcome sound of a thunder-storm in the valley, distant, drifted up to the company’s rejoicing ears; and when the storm had cleared, the sunset revealed a shining spot, as if denoting a bay, and a shining line, as if of a river, connecting with it.

The Valley of the Sacramento, and the Bay of San Francisco!

That night, to the yearning, keen-eyed wanderers so high above this spring-land, appeared in the valley numerous fires, as if in answer to the fires of the camp. Thereafter, by day and by night these fires were visible; but the FrÉmont and Carson men learned, later, that they were simply the fires of Indians in the swamps of the bay shore.

Ice and snow continued. Moccasin soles froze with slush, they would not cling to the snow or the smooth rocks, and their wearers must crawl. Once the lieutenant, reconnoitring with Kit, slipped into the stream, now almost a river, and without hesitating an instant Kit plunged into the icy water after him. The lieutenant thought that he had lost his gun, in the fall; but it was found, after they had made a fire, under the bank.

Nevertheless, the trail was perceptibly lower. The stream had swelled to a torrent; the ground was soft; green grass, birds, and oaks appeared, and a mild breeze swirled the dry oak leaves covering the ground. This was glorious; but the worn-out animals were being killed, for food.

Lieutenant FrÉmont announced that they had descended from an elevation of 9338 feet to one of 3864 feet. He said that in the morning he and a squad would push on, by forced marches, for the ranch of Captain Sutter which could not be very far; and that, having obtained provisions, they would hasten back to meet the main party.

“Preuss, Talbot, Jacob, Kit, Derosier, Townes, Proue,” named the lieutenant, calling off the detail; and Oliver settled down, disappointed, for he had hoped to go.

He made no remark, and tried to appear unconcerned; but the lieutenant must have read his thoughts.

“Is the boy strong enough? We should take only the strongest men and the best of the horses,” spoke the officer, aside, to Kit.

“Wall,” drawled Kit, reflectively, eyeing Oliver, “you know it’s pretty hard to tucker out a boy. He’ll stand more’n a man.”

“And Oliver,” detailed the lieutenant, as if concluding his list.

Oliver grinned, with cracked lips but glad heart.

The morning was that of February 25. The first ride was one of twelve miles, down the river valley to some old Indian huts. Here, by a field of juicy grass, camp was located; the animals were turned out, and from that moment until daybreak they never ceased their steady grazing. Throughout the afternoon and the night could be heard the constant champing of their jaws. The lieutenant seemed to take much pleasure in sitting, as long as daylight lasted, and watching them eat.

The next camp was different. Rain forced the march from the river trail to the higher ground, until nightfall; and then camp was made without good grass—which, combined with the rain, appeared to plunge the poor animals into the depths of gloom.

“This won’t do,” declared Kit. “This won’t do, captain. These critters air jest on the narrow edge ’twixt life an’ death, an’ they’ve got to have forage an’ rest every night, to carry ’em through the next day. It’s dangerous, missing grass.”

That was true. Now Proveau the buffalo-runner could not keep up, and dropped behind. Jacob was left by the lieutenant to bring him along slowly, while the squad went on, seeking a camping place. Lunch was a boiled mule-head. It furnished a soup.

Jacob arrived without Proveau; but he brought Charles Townes, who worn down by the long privations was becoming crazed. Just at nightfall, when all were well-nigh despairing for the lives of the few horses and mules remaining, the inspiring call of Kit Carson, on before, in the dark ravine, echoed back.

“This way!” he cried. And as they drove the staggering animals for him: “Life yet! Life yet, boys! Here’s a hill-side sprinkled with grass enough for the night!”

Hurrah for Kit—tireless, hard-working, never-say-die Kit!

Proveau the buffalo-runner, Charles Townes’ fine young horse from the Columbia River supply, and another Indian horse packed with the cooking utensils failed to join the herd; so that the next day some of the men were sent back after them or any others that had strayed. Baptiste Derosier appointed himself to bring in Proveau.

Oliver remained at camp, in the gorge, to guard the herd. The lieutenant and Kit Carson climbed as high as they could, for a view; and reported that beyond the timber the valley seemed to be as far as ever!

Baptiste and Proveau did not get in, that night; and Baptiste did not overtake the march, the day following. It was feared that he had become lost. Charles Townes was still crazy, and insisted upon swimming in the icy river; he imagined that this was summer-time. At evening Baptiste trudged weakly in. He sat down by the camp fire and began to tell of several days’ wanderings—as if he had been gone a long while.

The country was improving, with much grass, and flowers and butterflies, and acorns to eat; and Mr. Preuss walked on ahead of the squad, to sketch the route. That night he did not return to camp. The next day they found his trail, and they shouted and fired guns; but the only response they received was from an Indian, who in the mutual astonishment ran away.

The march must be continued; but although search right and left and on the back trail was made for Mr. Preuss, no sign of him was discovered. The lieutenant and Kit grew worried; Mr. Preuss had been unarmed, and no one could tell what the Indians might have done to him.

Not until the evening of the third day did Mr. Preuss turn up. While in a beautiful camp among live-oaks of the river valley they all heard a faint shout from the hills behind—and Kit, sharp-eyed, cried, instantly:

“There he is! I see him!”

It was Mr. Preuss, with wavering strides descending for the camp. They had little to offer him, except some roasted acorns bought from Indians. He, on his part, had a story to tell. He had eaten roots, and ants, and raw little frogs, and had tried to smoke live-oak leaves; and one night, in the timber, he had sought out two wolves, thinking that they were Indian dogs. At last he had met several Indians, who seemed afraid of him but had given him roasted acorns. Soon after, he had struck the trail of the squad, and now here he was.

All this time the march of the squad had been following down the course of the south or main fork of the American River of Northern California, as it rushes from the high western slope of the Sierras for the Sacramento. Almost at the spot where Mr. Preuss rejoined his anxious comrades was discovered, in scant four years, or on January 24, 1848, the placer gold of California, and quickly as spread the tidings down poured, from the Sierras, by the FrÉmont and Carson trail, the eager Forty-niners.

Mr. Preuss had rejoined the squad on March 5. Only about half the necessary saddle animals were left, but these were strong enough, now, to carry riders; and four and five at a time the squad rode, each division for an hour. Deer were seen, near at hand; the order was, not to pause for them, or for anything, but to press on, press on, for Sutter’s ranch, and rescue.

Gold was plentiful, but it was the gold of the California poppy covering the sward. The land was gay with flowers, and dignified with stately oaks. Tracks of horses and cattle were followed, to an Indian village, some of whose inmates wore cloth shirts; yet no information was gained. Next, was expectantly visited an adobe house with glass windows. Only Indians, apparently ignorant, inhabited it. Next, in a broad and grassy valley through which swept gently the noble river, was entered a larger Indian village. Its people were clean and wore cotton shirts and other factory clothing. One of the villagers spoke a little poor Spanish; but he said that there were no whites in that country.

“What!” exclaimed the lieutenant, while the hearts of the squad sank.

At this moment came riding another Indian, wearing a broad-brimmed, peaked straw hat; a ragged blanket through a slit in which his head had been thrust; light-blue cotton trousers; and upon his bare heels tremendous, jingling spurs. He sat in a cumbersome, high-pommelled, high-cantled saddle, with huge block stirrups hollowed out of solid wood. Upon his arm dangled a rawhide riata, or lasso.

“A su disposiciÓn, seÑors,” he greeted, in common Spanish. “At your service, gentlemen.”

“Is this the Sacramento River?” asked Lieutenant FrÉmont, in the Spanish.

“No, seÑor. It is the Rio de los Americanos—the River of the Americans. It joins the Sacramento about ten miles below.”

“River of the Americans”! That sounded good; for to American travellers in foreign land the word “American” is sweet.

“Where, then, is the ranch of Captain Sutter?”

“Yonder, seÑor. I am a vaquero (cowboy) in the employ of Captain Sutter. The people of this village work for him. His house is just over the hill. If you will wait but a moment, seÑors, I myself will guide you thither. He is a very rich man, and he is always glad to see Americans.”