Not until after four or five miles of close search was any descent at all discovered. Down they scrambled, amidst rock and snow; a pack mule, slipping, rolled head over heels for 300 feet until stopped by a ravine; the howitzer must be left midway of the steep trail, for further effort; and night overtook them before they reached the bottom.

A real lake, with real grass, it was. By the lake were several dry cedars, which fed fires to guide in the rearmost of the struggling company. Finally all were safe, camp was pitched, supper was cooked, the animals grazed contentedly. Above, were gloomy pines and snow and chilling wind of winter; here below, were limpid water and tender grass and mild breeze, if not of summer then at least of spring.

Travelling along the west shore of this Summer Lake in south central Oregon (Klamath Marsh just to the west of it, and the ridge between), the company rounded the southern end, and amidst much recent Indian sign and a bleak country of marsh and sand and weeds and black volcanic rock crossed eastward to another large lake. This is Lake Abert, named by Lieutenant FrÉmont in honor of his colonel, J. J. Abert, Chief of the Corps of Topographical Engineers, United States Army.

Dignified and worthy of the name appeared this lake, twenty miles in length, and spread between black ridges; but as they drew near, a shiver passed through the column, for the shores were drifted high.

“Look at the snow, captain!” cried Kit.

When they drew nearer still they found that they were barred from the water itself by mud. A sickening odor filled the air, and the drifts of snow turned out to be a disgusting, powdery white substance banked high by evaporating water.

Thus deceptive proved this land into which they had been lured: a land of fair lakes which changed to fetid pools; of streams which led on until they ended only at the unwholesome lakes; of green grass sour and salt-encrusted; and of bare black ridges which gave place only to more bare and black ridges.

The FrÉmont and Carson company pushed on, the line straggling as the weakening animals fell behind. Somewhere in this vicinity should be Mary’s Lake; and beyond should be the Buenaventura, with rich grassy bottom-lands and much fat game to cheer the heart of all.

Save for ducks, on the mud-engirded lakes, and rabbits in the sage-brush, game here was none. Indian signs, as trails and as deserted huts of brush, were many. The expedition must advance cautiously.

From Lake Abert they moved southward, past another lake from which they were barred by mud, and Christmas Eve they camped at the south end of yet another lake.

“’Tain’t much like Christmas Eve down in Washington or in old Missouri; is it, Mistuh FrÉmont?” commented Jacob the colored youth.

“Oh, well, we’ll enjoy our Christmas all the more, next time, Jacob,” answered the lieutenant.

“Water an’ grass air better than usual, anyhow,” vouchsafed Kit Carson. “Might have a wuss camp.”

“’Xpect that’s our Christmas gift,” mused Jacob.

Around the camp fires they all proceeded to review the Christmas celebrations such as they knew; and there was quite a variety: Kit and Oliver could tell of the celebrations by the Mexicans in New Mexico, the lieutenant and Jacob could tell of those in the South, Mr. Preuss of those in Germany, the St. Louis French of those in St. Louis and vicinity, the Canadian French of those in Canada, Thomas Fitzpatrick recalled Christmas in trappers’ camp, Mr. Talbot that at his American home, etc.

Oliver slept late, to be awakened by a great outburst of rifle and carbine reports mingled with the “Bang!” of the howitzer. “NoËl! NoËl!” cheered the French. “Merry Christmas!” joined in the lieutenant. All wished each other the compliments of the season, and “Christmas Lake” was the camp place called. An extra ration of sugar was doled out, as Christmas feast. For this was Christmas Day, 1843, in the desert basin of south central Oregon.

Southward led the trail, and still southward, for on the west the snowy mountain range hedged close the course, and on the east the country was ever desolate and repulsing. No Indians were seen until, December 28, smokes were suddenly descried rising above the snowy sage-brush. On at a gallop urged the party, and came so quickly to two huts, rudely built, open at the top, that the sage fires were burning in them and baskets and rabbit skins and grass were scattered about. Now several almost naked Indians were visible, upon the near-by ridge, and others were hastily climbing to them.

“Tabibo-bo! Tabibo-bo!” they shouted—or, in the Snake language: “White! White!” And they tried to conceal themselves among the rocks.

For them galloped Kit Carson, fearless, holding up his hand as token of parley. Just as fearless, Alexander Godey dashing out caught him, and they continued together. They made a fine sight, these two gracefully riding mountain-men—Godey with his floating locks as spectacular as any Custer of the yellow locks, Kit Carson, not so handsome but more steady, and both brave.

The Indian men ran as fleet as deer. Turning back, Kit Carson rode right upon a woman, with two little children, hiding behind a sage clump. She screamed shrilly with terror and shut tight her eyes. He spoke to her in Snake tongue, and brought her to the lieutenant, at the huts, where by presents and kind words she was calmed down.

The men would not come in, but from the women was it learned that they were Shoshokies, or Poor-Snakes-Who-Walk: Root-Diggers of the Desert, living upon roots and rabbits and dressing in scant rabbit-skins—a wretched people, yet wishing to be let alone.

The first week of January, 1844, had been used entirely, and still there were no signs of Mary’s Lake, nor of the Buenaventura River. Since leaving the Dalles of the Columbia fifteen horses and mules had fallen by the trail or had been stolen; the feet of the others were cut and bruised; water and grass constantly disappointed; the trail was blind; on the one hand were the mountains of the Sierra Nevada, on the other hand was the interminable, desolate desert; pressing southward, seeking the line of least resistance, marched the FrÉmont and Carson men.

The company advanced cautiously, feeling a route. By fresh signs Indians must be hovering about, watching, but none was seen. Then, on the late afternoon of January tenth, the lieutenant and Kit came hurrying into camp, with the news that they had been viewing a great lake—a real deep-water lake, perhaps Mary’s Lake!

Like the waves of this reputed sparkling lake, swept through the camp a wave of joy and of hope. The lake lay just beyond a little saddle or pass which closed the end of the draw wherein had been pitched the camp. The lieutenant and Kit had climbed a crest of the high lake-shore, the better to survey; and there they had sat for some time, feasting their eyes upon the dark-green water, white-capped and rolling.

“But Mary’s Lake is low and rushy, isn’t it?” queried Mr. Talbot. “At least, so I understand, from conversation.”

“So I understand, too,” admitted the lieutenant.

“Wall,” drawled Kit; “we’ll see; but that big lake yonder doesn’t look to me like the Mary’s is said to look. And when we come to the Buenaventura we’ll know it by beaver cuttings in it. These basin streams have no beaver, ’cept towards their heads in the mountains. But the Pacific slope air full o’ beaver.”

“That’s right,” affirmed Thomas Fitzpatrick. “When we strike a stream over here with beaver sign in it, it connects with the sea.”

In the morning the company moved forward at best pace—which was delayed by the hobbling pack animals and the one ox who remained. Now somebody—it was Baptiste Tabeau—struck up a paddle song; and Godey and the lieutenant and Kit and Fitzpatrick and all joined in:

they sang.

And Oliver’s dog and Tlamath, the other Indian dog, barked wolfishly.

Up the slope of the pass they strove. On the top the snow was a foot deep, but below, 2000 feet, filling a wide space between grim snowy peaks lay indeed the lake—a mighty mass of dark-green, tossing and tumbling. And one after another, as they saw, they cheered.

Camp was made at the foot of the pass, beside a little stream; as soon as duties were performed, everybody hastened for the lake. Its shore was rocky, cliff-skirted, mountain-guarded; and its strips of beach were cut short by towering walls. The water was slightly tinged with salt; and some of the granite boulders of the shore were coated with a limy substance.

Indians had camped here before the white explorers; and following an Indian trail, the next morning the company moved on, to the lake. A furious snow-squall hid the waters, and drove the surf four and five feet high upon the beaches. The trail, leading between surf and rock-walls, in places was so narrow that the howitzer barely could pass.

Pyramid Lake did Lieutenant FrÉmont name this great water, because of a curious rock, sharp-tipped, broad-based, like a pyramid, rising five or six hundred feet, out in the midst of the water. And Pyramid Lake is the place, to-day, on the western border of the State of Nevada. The christening occurred January 14, 1844; and upon the rock-bound shore was sacrificed the last of the cattle, driven clear from the mission station at the Dalles of the Columbia.

Pyramid Lake certainly did not resemble any description of any Mary’s Lake. An Indian clad in hare-skins as in a cloak was persuaded to the camp; three or four more Indians were met on the trail along the lake shore; and a chief invited the white men to his village, in a cottonwood grove at the mouth of a river emptying into the lake. As the company approached the village, the chief called in a loud voice, and many Indians, with bows and arrows, appeared from hiding in the brush.

Here, at last, was a camp of plenty, for after the FrÉmont and Carson company had taken a strong position in a grassy bottom of a bend of the river, Alexander Godey uttered a loud shout, and pointed. An Indian was coming, bearing a fish! And what a fish—pink, and broad, and more than three feet long!

Eagerly the white men (and Jacob) gathered around the Indian. He had no difficulty in trading his fish for a strip of scarlet cloth, and away he trotted to bring another. Other Indians came hurrying, with fish to trade; so that speedily the business was brisk. Never were fish taken to a better market.

Mr. Preuss and the lieutenant pronounced them a salmon trout, probably of flesh very savory and wholesome. Soon every man (not omitting Oliver) had his fish, and was cooking it. Some tried roasting, some broiling, some frying; the air was full of the rich fumes. Having exhausted their supply, the Indians were running to the river, to spear more.

Several of the Indians wore ornaments of brass buttons, as if from the whites. However, as the village spoke a dialect of the Snake tongue hard to understand, although Kit Carson and Godey and Thomas Fitzpatrick did their best with the sign language, little information was extracted. The next morning the march was resumed, up this Salmon Trout River.