“You say that the emigrants were going on, wagons and all, Kit?” queried the lieutenant.

“That war the plan. Whitman said he’d get ’em through, an’ they’d need their goods an’ cattle at t’other end.”

The little company were on the back trail for Fort Hall. As Ike Chamberlain had warned, already winter was creeping down the mountain-sides, with his banners of white ever investing closer the lowlands. Even while the explorers had been encamped near the lake, the snows seemed to have increased upon the crests of the Wasatch Range, overhead. It was a thousand long miles to the end of the trail at Vancouver upon the lower Columbia; therefore Lieutenant FrÉmont and Kit Carson agreed that to put in more time hereabouts was hazardous.

In the afternoon of the second day following the voyage to Disappointment Island the march was begun, up the Bear and the River of Weeds, for Fort Hall, six days’ travel with the baggage.

Once more the talk drifted to the amazing pilgrimage of Oregon emigrants, and the great concourse of them at Fort Hall, before Kit had left.

“The Hudson Bay people’s policy would be to discourage settlers, anyway,” mused the lieutenant. “With settlers in there tilling the ground and showing the Indians and the Canadians that farming paid better than fur-hunting, the Company’s business would suffer.”

“Yes,” drawled Kit; “an’ this hyar emigration, if it goes through, will put more Americans than thar air British in the Oregon country; an’ if thar’s anything in settlement of a country it’ll mean a big help to the United States.”

“It surely will,” affirmed the lieutenant. “Success in life and in battle means getting there first, and sticking.”

The route to Fort Hall followed up the Roseaux or River of Weeds from its juncture with the Bear to its sources. Here galloped into camp a horseman from the north—Baptiste Tabeau, of the Thomas Fitzpatrick party. Baptiste, shaking hands right and left, brought the news that the White Head, with all well, was but a short distance across country, encamped at Hall. Baptiste had been despatched southward, to meet the lieutenant.

Excited by promise of flour and rice and dried meat and butter, the FrÉmont camp slept little this night, and early in the morning, which was September 16, started onward. In the afternoon of September 18, emerging from the hills, with a cheer they greeted the sight of a green valley set amidst a sombre sage plain, and beside the sparkling Portneuf River which watered it, the white walls of a trading post. This was the British Hudson Bay Company post of Fort Hall, on the Portneuf, a mile above the Snake itself, in the Plains of the Snake.

Thomas Fitzpatrick, his boyish ruddy face glowing from its frame of oddly white hair, came to meet them.

“How are supplies?” asked the lieutenant, at once.

“I’ve saved all I could. We’ve been on short rations. But the post is ’bout as poor as when Kit left it. Emigrants cleaned it out. Beef and butter is what you’ll get; that’s all.”

“Where are the emigrants? Don’t see any.”

“Gone; wagons, cattle, women, children and all. Left a few steers and oxen, in trade; but they took most of their stuff right along.”

“Do you think they can get through, with their wagons, Fitzpatrick?” queried the lieutenant.

“If anybody but that missionary doctor was leading them, I would say not,” replied the Broken Hand. “Why, even the Fort Hall people don’t try to fetch in their goods on wheels; they canoe it from Vancouver, for two hundred miles, then they use pack animals for the land trail, up along the Snake to the post. I agree with Captain Grant that no wagons can go over that pack trail. But as I understand, this missionary doctor came riding in hot haste, from down the Snake, found the emigrants discouraged by Grant and other post people, called them together, made a speech, told ’em he’d been over the trail and he knew and that they were foolish to abandon their wagons and implements and try to take their goods and families in by saddle, that they’d need their States animals to plough with, and that he guarantee to get ’em through!”

“Will he?”

“Well,” answered Thomas Fitzpatrick, slowly, rubbing his chin; “they left, wagons and all, August thirtieth, and now it’s September eighteenth and none of ’em has come back; and there aren’t any wagons lying ’longside the trail, far as we’ve seen.”

Now the two parties united camped beside the walls of Fort Hall. Agent Grant himself stepped out to give welcome and meet the lieutenant.

“You Americans are a wonderful people,” declared Agent Grant. “Why, this emigration that just went through is four or five times as large as that of last year, and it’s taking wagons in! Heavy farm wagons, heaped with goods!”

“Will they succeed?”

“No, sir. I and every other man of experience know that the trail is impossible for wagons. At least——” and Agent Grant hesitated, “impossible except perchance for this Doctor Whitman. I never heard or talked with such an obstinate, determined man. He has a tremendous responsibility on his hands, though. I’ll wager that before you get two hundred miles from the post you’ll find the trail fairly littered with cast-off wagons. But if not, lieutenant—if not, then it will be a blow to British rule in Oregon. I have heard Dr. McLoughlin, our chief agent, at Vancouver, say that Oregon is safe, because it never can be reached by Yankee families except around Cape Horn; but what he’ll say when he sees the Yankees coming down from the mountains, with wagons, all the way from the States, I don’t know. And such a number! Last year Dr. White took in a few, afoot or by saddle and pack—but this year, eight hundred, with wagons—my stars! If they get through, then I shall expect to hear of them continuing right on down to the ocean and under it to Japan!”

The lieutenant laughed.

“You British in Oregon don’t know the American,” he said. “When the Yankee once starts for a new country, nothing can stop him.”

“But some of them didn’t know they were in Oregon yet!” expostulated Captain Grant. “They asked me: ‘Say, stranger, how far to Oregon?’”

“They asked us the same, back on the Bear.”

“And still they were pressing on!” gasped Captain Grant. “Well, well!”

“How are you fixed for supplies?”

“Cleaned out, lieutenant. But I have some Yankee oxen.”

“Good.”

Agent Grant was a kindly man, helping Americans and British alike. The emigrants had been supplied by him with whatever he had that they wished. The lieutenant was enabled to buy of him several horses, and five fat oxen.

Now indeed winter set in with an all-day snow. Suddenly the country looked bleak and drear. By travel up and down to the end of the trail at Vancouver was some 900 miles. Lieutenant FrÉmont called his company together and made a short address.

“I am under instructions to go on to Vancouver,” he said. “It is not a pleasant nor an easy trail, at the best, and as winter is at hand there are some of you whom I will discharge. It is impossible for me to continue with so large a company, and several men are in no condition to take the trip, anyway. Those whom I discharge I discharge with honor; they will be entitled to transportation and to pay until they reach the frontier again.”

So he named Charles DeForrest, Henry Lee, John Campbell, William Creuss, Auguste Vasquez, Alexis Pera, Patrick White, Baptiste Tesson, Michel Crelis, and FranÇois and Basil Lajeunesse. Everybody hated to have Basil go, but his family needed him.

Mr. Preuss the German, and Sergeant Zindel the Prussian artillerist, and Jacob the colored boy, and the gallant Alexander Godey of the black silky locks, were retained; and of course Kit Carson and Thomas Fitzpatrick the White Head; and, hurrah, Oliver!

In the midst of cold rain and gusty wind camp was broken, and the march was resumed: that of the one party for the South Pass, 300 miles, and Fort Laramie, and home; that of the other party for the Columbia River, 600 miles, and Vancouver, and—who knew?

Therefore down along the great and desolate Snake River travelled the party of Lieutenant FrÉmont. Ever the wagon-wheel tracks of the 800 emigrants led on, and on.

The FrÉmont company found the road growing rougher, with many steep grades up which the men must boost the carts, one by one. Nevertheless, the heavier emigrant wagons had passed; none had yet been abandoned.

Thomas Fitzpatrick the Bad Hand again was delegated to keep the rear, and bring along the baggage-train; the lieutenant and his lighter column pushed to the front.

After a week of travel Snake Indians, fishing for salmon, were passed. Fat and ruddy-faced and jolly with the oily meat were these Snakes, and to the company traded salmon fresh and dried. “Haggai, haggai (fish, fish)!” cried the Indians, glad to see more white wayfarers; for to the Indians the “Bostons,” as they called the American settlers, had brought much prosperity in shape of old trousers and battered hats and such gear, exchanged for fish.

At the first Ford of the Snake, where the Oregon Trail crossed from the left or the south bank to the right or the north bank, the FrÉmont men almost lost their howitzer and mules in the strong current. But the emigrants, said the Indians, had chained their wagons in a solid line, and had crossed, and had gone on. The distance from Fort Hall was 250 miles, and Agent Grant’s prediction of wreck and litter upon the trail had not come true. The wheel marks continued.

At the end of the second week of travel the FrÉmont party reached Fort BoisÉ, Hudson Bay Company trading post, companion to Fort Hall, now 350 miles eastward.

Agent Payette reported that sun-browned and gaunt and tattered, with wagons creaking and cattle limping, the Yankee emigrants’ train had passed through.

“An amazing sight,” affirmed Agent Payette. “Men, women and children, in they poured and out they went, piloted by your Doctor Whitman. They are eleven days ahead of you. They have come thus far—but worse awaits them, when they leave the Snake and strike into the hills for the Blue Mountains. That is a trail scarcely fit for pack-mules, so thick grows the sage.”

At BoisÉ the road again crossed the Snake, from right to left bank, and the faithful rubber boat came into good play. It, and a portion of a bullock carcass, were left at the post for the use of the Thomas Fitzpatrick party, toiling in second division.

On the third day out of Fort BoisÉ, sure enough the trail veered from the rushing Snake, and inland pointing would cross the northeastern corner of present Oregon State.

Rougher waxed the way. There were signs that the emigrants had been in much trouble. At one place a wagon had been overturned twice, in a short distance.

Straight down a steep rocky slant, as sharply pitched as a peaked roof, had plunged the emigrants, their wagon wheels scoring deeply the scant soil. And down by the same route went the FrÉmont party, holding hard on the howitzer and the spring-carriage.

Agent Payette had told the lieutenant of an Indian trail out which would prove better than that road which the emigrants probably would take. Following this to the Blue Mountains, the FrÉmont party climbed the heavily wooded divide, where logs must be chopped and trees must be felled to clear a way for the howitzer and the carriage. At last, from an open spot across the summit, westward could be descried the Walla Walla River, tributary to the Columbia, and light green patches which must be the settlements of American missions.

On the morning of October 24 these green patches were reached. They were the missionary station of Doctor Whitman himself. Fields had been cultivated to potatoes and corn; and here, at Waiilatpu, among the Waiilatpu Indians of the Cayuse nation, on the Walla Walla River near to present Walla Walla City in southeastern Washington State, was the Doctor Whitman house, made with adobe clay bricks.

Oliver had looked forward to seeing again this plucky Doctor Whitman, physician, missionary and Oregon enthusiast—that wayworn traveller with the mixed white and brown hair, the large mouth and the deep-set blue eyes, who had arrived, so nearly exhausted, in Taos last winter on his long trip from coast to coast. Doctor Whitman was absent down the river to bring back Mrs. Whitman. But here were many of the emigrants, resting and staring and eating potatoes.

On the way from Waiilatpu down along the Walla Walla to the mouth at the Columbia more emigrants were passed. They all were loud in their praises of Doctor Whitman.

Near the mouth of the Walla Walla was Fort Walla Walla, a third of the chain of Hudson Bay Company posts along the trail. A few hundred yards below flowed past the lordly flood of the noble Columbia River.

The next supply station in prospect was The Dalles, 150 miles below, where the Methodist missions had headquarters.

Indians, Cayuse and Nez PercÉ (Pierced Nose), were met; some of them seemed almost civilized, in their white-man clothes, and could speak a little English. This was the influence of the Protestant and Roman Catholic missionaries. And again, some of the Indians met seemed not civilized at all, being very dirty, and inclined to steal horses. However, they were not now dealing with weary and ignorant emigrants; they were dealing with mountain-men—with Kit Carson and Oliver, Lieutenant FrÉmont and the German Preuss; so they reaped no horses.

The snowy dome of mighty Mt. Hood uplifted, a beacon before, marking the high Cascade Range where winter was in full reign. The air, at night, was cold, below freezing—but all were accustomed to this; and worse was to come.

On November 4, forty-three days and 700 miles from Fort Hall, 102 days and 1925 miles from Fort St. Vrain, into the mission settlement of The Dalles of the Lower Columbia rode, with their best bearing and at their best pace, the tanned, weather-stained, patched and gaunt but never beaten FrÉmont and Carson men.