camp Lieutenant Frémont and Mr. Preuss fussed with various scientific
instruments――thermometer (which of course everybody knew, because it
told of heat and cold), and barometer (which somebody said measured
weight of air), and a watch-like thing called a chronometer (companion
to which had been left at the post, for Randolph to keep wound up),
and a sextant (which was claimed to be a sea instrument). By these
instruments were obtained figures, carefully noted down in a book.
As many of the figures were obtained at night, in the dark, William
New and the majority of the voyageurs and trappers were much puzzled.
Back at the post the Indians had deemed the lieutenant to be a great
medicine man, who read the sun and the stars; and his tent was a place
of tremendous mystery to them.
“Latitude so-an’-so, longitude so-an’-so, I hear said,” grunted Trapper
New. “That’s the camping spot. Now, what air the sense o’ that, unless
figgers air written on the grass an’ rocks so you can read ’em? When I
find a place I don’t look for figgers. It air one day travel nor’west
o’ the second left-hand fork o’ Goose Creek; or it air half-way ’twixt
Pilot Peak an’ the head o’ the Little Blackfoot; or some such. But
these hyar figgers! I never saw any figgers, anywhar.”
“What is this camp, Mr. Preuss?” asked Oliver, politely, of the busy
tow-headed German.
“By chronometer and lunar distances and an occultation of Epsilon
Arietis, it appears to be longitude one hundred and seven degrees,
thirteen minutes, and twenty-nine seconds, east; latitude forty-two
degrees, thirty-three minutes, and twenty-seven seconds, north,”
announced Mr. Preuss. “But we can’t be sure of what instruments we have
left. They are getting badly shaken up.”
“Thank you,” said Oliver, retiring, knowing no more than he did before.
And he was much inclined to agree with Trapper New.
When in the morning they plashed away for the farther bank, they left
upon the island a horse, as garrison. The horse was too worn and
lame to travel; but with its plentiful grass and its abundant water
the island was a perfect horse sanatorium. The poor animal gave one
astonished and glad whinny after them, and fell to cropping again
greedily, as if fearful lest they might change their minds.
“How far to Independence Rock now?” asked Oliver, of William New, as
Goat Island and the river sank from view behind the red sandy, pebbly
ridge.
“’Bout twenty-three or four mile, I reckon, or what Injuns call half a
sun,” answered Trapper New. “You must be heap anxious to see that ’ere
rock, boy!”
“Yes, I am,” admitted Oliver. “I’m going to put my name on it. Is yours
there?”
“Used to be; an’ if somebody or wind an’ weather hasn’t scratched it
out it’s thar yet. But it doesn’t ’mount to much ’longside names that
nothing can scratch out.”
“We ought to camp at the rock, to-night.”
“Can, if we don’t stop shorter,” agreed Trapper New, dryly.
But they did stop; for as they were descending a long slope of short
brush and flowers, and a glimmer of a stream, at the bottom, had
risen the glad cry: “Sweetwater!” another cry interrupted. “Buffalo!
Buff’ler!” At the mouth of a shallow valley, across, had appeared dark
masses that looked like moving gooseberry bushes.
Down dashed Lucien Maxwell, the official hunter of the expedition; down
dashed Kit Carson, and Clément Lambert, and Ike and William New, and
Oliver himself; and as soon as they could down dashed others: so that
by the time camp was located beside the Sweetwater and fires had been
made, the first buffalo had fallen to the crack of Kit Carson’s rifle.
Oliver killed a fat cow and a huge bull; his Kit Carson rifle shot
strong and true. Every hunter was successful, so that this night there
was much meat in camp, and the company did not mind sleeping under
sage-bushes, in a rain. Only the big lodge had been brought along, and
here was no tree to serve as lodge-pole.
[Illustration: THE FIRST BUFFALO HAD FALLEN TO THE CRACK OF KIT
CARSON’S RIFLE]
The next morning they moved up the Sweetwater to Independence Rock.
“Thar she is――the Sign-board o’ the Sweetwater Trail to South Pass,”
directed Ike, as the Carson squad came in sight of a gray mass
up-swelling like an enormous whaleback above the sea of sage; a single
pine, like a scrap of a fin, upon its very spine.
“She’s independent, all right,” observed William New. “She stands
out alone. But I reckon she war named ’cause some o’ Ashley’s
beaver-hunters, who broke this trail, after the Injuns, ten or fifteen
year ago celebrated Fourth o’ July hyar, or Indypendence Day, as it air
called down east.”
Independence Rock was a huge bare weather-beaten, rounded mass of
gray granite, forty yards high and 650 yards long, rising right out
of the plain, on the north of the Sweetwater. As seemed to Oliver,
curiously examining the surface, about everybody who had passed had
carved or scratched his name or initials. Here were names of trappers,
traders and missionaries, already thickly placed as high as arm
could reach from horseback. To read the collection was a fascinating
pastime. Oliver found Kit Carson’s name, and Jim Bridger’s, and Jim
Beckwourth’s, and William New’s, and Ike’s, and Sol Silver’s, and
General Ashley the famous Missouri fur-trader’s; etc. And there were
many Indian signs; and there were names, freshly carved, of the
emigrants who had passed by only two or three weeks before. And a large
“_Independence_.”
This afternoon part of the company (whose names were already upon the
rock) went buffalo hunting; but Oliver and the others attacked the rock.
“Hooray!” cheered the red-headed Irishman Tom Tobin, appearing from the
other side of the rock, carrying a ladder made from cross-sticks tied
with hide thongs to a pair of lodge-poles.
“Sioux ladder,” pronounced Mariano the Mexican. “Bueno!”
Climbing by aid of this, they placed their names much higher than any
names yet.
Early the next day the second of the Sweetwater Trail wonders was
reached. This was Devil’s Gate, five miles above Independence Rock. It
was another canyon, but very narrow, about 300 yards long, and almost
150 deep; and through it, among boulders and jagged blocks, roared the
Sweetwater. The trail to the South Pass made a circuit back from this
Devil’s Gate, so as to dodge the rough ridge; but Lieutenant Frémont
and the scientific Mr. Preuss, and Oliver and many others who never
had seen into Devil’s Gate, or who wanted to see into it again, rode
over to the rim and peered down.
The trail was growing rougher. The Sweetwater rippled in and out of
little parks or pockets amidst the low hills of its valley; a mountain
range bordered the valley on either hand, and to the south the slopes
were ablaze with fires set by the Indians to drive the game (said
William New) back to the open country. The fire seemed to make rains
gather; and to-night’s camp was another wet, uncomfortable camp, but
nobody complained. However, the rain, sweeping down from the high
country, certainly was cold!
“See thar?” invited Trapper New, to Oliver, the next morning, pointing
ahead.
They were topping a little rise, still near the faithful guiding
Sweetwater; and far before, against the horizon, in a vista opened to
the march, a line of dark mountains.
“Those air the Wind River mountains, to north o’ the South Pass. Pass
cuts one end o’ them, I reckon. They’re heap medicine mountains; Injuns
say they’re ha’nted by evil spirits. The Crows won’t go in ’em.”
“How far?” asked Oliver, gazing hard.
“Seventy miles, ’bout.”
The Sweetwater was slowly dwindling, as they approached its sources.
They picked up an Indian horse whose hoofs were sore; and an Indian
dog, who was glad of the scraps that the men tossed to him. But he
wasn’t friendly, and Oliver named him “Wolf.”
Rain, and rain, and rain! That was now the weather program, every day;
and when, five days beyond Devil’s Gate, at last the morning broke
with sunshine, suddenly near at hand, right before, rose grandly with
complete robe of dazzling white the Wind River mountain-chain. So high
and aloof were they, that upon their flanks the rain had been snow.
And now the South Pass was near indeed, for the Sweetwater was dividing
into several streams, spreading like the veins of a leaf, to drain the
little side valleys.
“What do yore figgers say as to our height up?” queried Ike, carelessly,
of Mr. Preuss.
“I cannot tell you, yet, my friend,” responded Mr. Preuss, nervously.
“Wall,” remarked Ike, “I can tell you without figgers that we’re
climbing. Cactuses air going; moss air beginning; an’ that’s a sartin
sign, in the hills.”
Oliver kept his eyes sharp set for the celebrated pass. He had before
crossed the top of the Rocky Mountains; but here was a pass the most
famous of all――said to be the only single pass by which the traveller
changed at once from the east side to the west side of the mountains.
So he watched keenly.
The morning was rainy, again; Kit Carson and Lieutenant Frémont led
the march away from the wheel-marked road which had been followed
much of the time, and took a saddle and pack trail that swung out,
one side. They all rode along leisurely and without trouble, winding
about upon a series of billowy slopes, with the Wind River Mountains
gradually unfolding gap and crest, on the right. After a ride of five
or six miles Kit Carson and Lieutenant Frémont halted, and engaged in
a discussion, while now and then pointing and examining. The cavalcade
gradually gathered about them.
“I’ve been hyar, on an’ off, during a dozen years,” was saying Kit
Carson, mildly. “An’ I nor any other man can ever be exactly sure. But
’cording to my notion an’ my recollection, this ought to be it.”
“It seems so to me, too,” concurred the lieutenant.
“But where’s the pass?” queried Oliver, of William New.
Trapper New chuckled.
“Whar? Look under yore hoss, boy. You’re on it!”
“South Pass?” stammered Oliver, astounded.
“Right. Kit says the top――didn’t ye hear him? Behind air the United
States, before air Oregon. All that ’ere country, west to the mouth o’
the Columbia at the Pacific Ocean; that air Oregon. And wagh! what a
beaver country! Down below us, northwest, air the Valley o’ the Green
River, big trappers’ rendezvous place.”
This was the pass――the great South Pass? They had halted upon an open
swale between twain low rounded, smooth hills; behind them, the route
which they had traversed, stretched a billowy sandy slope which was the
ascent, but which Oliver had not recognized as such.
“About the grade of Capitol Hill, from the Avenue, at Washington,”
commented Lieutenant Frémont. “How is the other side――the same?”
“About the same,” nodded Kit.
“How runs the road to the Columbia――the remaining part of this Oregon
Trail?”
“At the foot of the pass thar’s the Little Sandy an’ the Big Sandy
Rivers, an’ all flat desert clear to the Crossing o’ the Green River.
Then it gets rougher from the Green west to the Bear an’ on northwest
up the Bear to the Sody Springs. Then it air on westward and northward
from the B’ar to Fort Hall at the Snake; west up along the Snake――or
what some call the Lewis Ford o’ the Columbia――a two weeks’ march
across the Plains o’ the Snake an’ a bad country beyond to Fort Boisé
toward the mouth o’ the Snake; then it’s across the Blue Mountains,
to the Columbia; an’ from thar it air ’bout two hundred miles to
Vancouver, they say. As for myself, I’ve never been much west, on that
trail, o’ Goose Creek between Hall and Boisé.”
Gazing into the west, where hazy lay Oregon, Frémont’s blue eyes
kindled and flashed.
“What a country!” he said. “And there waits the trail. It’s a hard
trail, Kit?”
“Right hard. These wagons ahead of us may get through to Fort Hall,
but beyond Hall it’s hoss, mule an’ moccasins, nigh a thousand miles.”
“It’s a trail I’d like to try,” mused Frémont. “And it’s a country
worth a bigger try. The United States has better claim to it than
England has. England has her hunters there――we’ll have our farmers
there; and the man who tills the soil is the man who wins the land. He
produces, and stays; the trapper only consumes, and moves on.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” responded Kit Carson, slowly. “We trappers open
the way――but that’s all. I’ve often thought that I’d go to farming, an’
I believe I will. Some o’ the mountain-men air at work already, in the
Columbia country.”
“Well,” quoth the lieutenant, “we’ll have to see more of that country;
this isn’t the end of the trail, yet, you know. But the South Pass is
about the limit of my orders. However――en avant! We can camp at the
west foot, on the Pacific side. I want to cross.”
VIII
PLANTING THE HIGHEST FLAG
It was the third day after the halt upon crossing of the South Pass;
now in camp by a lake at the head of the New Fork of the Green River,
northwest from the South Pass, the lieutenant had decided to climb the
Wind River mountain-chain, to the northeast, and measure the highest
peak.
Here in the grove of beech-trees amidst which the camp was located the
lieutenant fortified by raising a breastwork of logs; in charge of
this camp and corral he and Kit Carson left about half the company,
under Baptiste Bernier of the Frémont party; and with the other half,
provisioned by dried meat, maccaroni and coffee for two days, they set
out.
“Wall, boy,” said Kit, in telling off his own party, to the expectant
Oliver, “what do you think? Can you make a climb like that, into the
snow? You’ll freeze yore moccasins.”
The Carson tanned, sandy face was solemn, but the keen gray eyes were
twinkling; for he read Oliver through and through. He knew how hard
Oliver _wanted_.
“I think I could do it,” answered Oliver, hopefully. “I’m not afraid to
try.”
“Better come along then,” bade Kit; and proceeded with his duties.
Oliver went.
One snowy peak of the heavily-wooded, white-crested, sharp-toothed
ridge to the northward seemed to stand up above all others. This was
accepted by the camp below as being the highest peak of the Wind River
Mountains. Some of the men thought it to be one mile, some two miles,
some three miles high; and all declared it to be higher than the great
James’ or Pike’s Peak which was the landmark northwest of Bent’s Fort.
The South Pass had been crossed during August 8; now early in the
morning of August 12 the little party left Camp Bernier (as it was
christened, in honor of Baptiste its commander), and upon the best of
the hardy mules, with pack animal for the coffeepot and the meat kettle
and a few tin cups and the provisions, each member carrying at his
saddle a blanket for bedding, headed forth for the great feat.
The first day’s travel conducted amidst a richly verdured country
of trees and grass and flowers, secret valleys, rushing streams and
gem-like lakes――a constant surprise to Kit Carson and all, who never
had penetrated here before. In late afternoon were passed wonderful
lakes which poured one into another by cataracts; and through a silent
level forest, grassed like a city lawn, the explorers, riding on,
camped in a dark, rock-and-pine surrounded little gulch――“the heart,”
as William New expressed, “o’ nowhere.”
“Never white nor Injun war in this region before,” he asserted, with
wag of his shaggy head. “This chile ain’t afraid; but if these hyar
mountains air ha’nted an’ the spirits air up to trap, they got a chance
to get us, sure!”
However, Oliver saw Kit Carson wink at the lieutenant and Lucien
Maxwell, as the speech reached them, and it was evident that these
three leaders did not believe the Indian tales. Consequently he himself
decided that the reports of “evil spirits” awaiting were all bosh.
Kit Carson pointed through the little gulch.
“Thar’s our peak,” he said.
In the gulch defile dusk had gathered; but outside still lingered the
twilight, and beyond the end of the gulch lifted, massy in the near
distance, a snow summit.
There was space for only a few stars at a time to peer down into the
narrow gulch; but the camp fires lighted redly the jumbled rocks and
the crowded circle of pines like blanketed Indians of heroic size.
Guarded by fires, and stars, and courage, and by One who was nearer
than the fires, farther than the stars, and mightier than courage, here
through the chill black night of the deepest wilds safely slept the
camp.
In the morning start was made early. The ride onward, up a long valley
which flowed with springs and bloomed with many flowers, promised
success. And when they reached the head of the valley, they found
themselves at a fair little lake, set about with asters, in a green
lawn bordered by rocks and pines.
At the edge the park fell away into a wide cross-draw rippled by
ridges; and across it, apparently not more than a mile, rose again the
Wind River Range surmounted by the high peak.
The lieutenant and Kit Carson determined that now the mules and the
baggage might be left and that the draw should be crossed and the
climb beyond be made afoot. Accordingly, here in this beautiful little
basin was stationed a “mule camp”; here were left the provisions and
blankets and coats, with two or three men in charge. Afoot the others
pushed on, in their flannel shirt-sleeves――for so near seemed the snowy
range that they felt certain of climbing it and returning before dark!
Lieutenant Frémont carried tucked inside his shirt an American flag, of
special design showing amidst the stars an eagle clutching peace-pipe
and arrows. Such a token the Indians could understand. This flag the
lieutenant wished to plant on the loftiest spire of the West.
This proved a very deceptive valley. Those ridges which looked upon
from above had appeared to be ripples, when inspected from below were
gigantic breakers, 500 feet high, frequently separated by chasms.
Therefore the pace was up, and down, and back and around, and each task
achieved brought but another as hard or harder. Rocks fell, waters
seen and unseen roared, the difficulties increased, and almost might
the wayfarer believe, like Trapper William New, that the Wind River
Mountains were held under the rule of evil spirits.
By four o’clock the line of bristling snow-seamed crests looked as far
ahead as ever. Now torn and scarred and hungry and exhausted, the party
came together upon the sandy beach of another little lake, amidst the
innumerable ridges. Here upon a broad flat rock above the lake they
camped for the night.
Just beyond the lake and camp all trees ceased, and around about were
snow patches. The sun sank, behind the dark ridges; an icy breeze
sprang up, soughing through the few pines, mingling its song with the
weird chant of a waterfall emptying into the lake below.
The lieutenant was suddenly stricken with a violent attack of headache
and stomach-sickness. They decided that this was due to climbing up and
down among the rocks, and to the lack of food and warmth. The breeze
blew away the heat of the fires, the moon arose and seemed to make
things colder, the granite rock was hard and chill, they had nothing to
eat and no coverings; and altogether it was an uncomfortable camp.
Nobody complained, of course. They were men, and explorers. Kit Carson
said that he had been in worse places, and afterwards had been in
better places, and that he expected to be in better places again! This
was a cheering thought.
Oliver curled in the lee of a fire, so that a little of the heat might
blow across him, and occasionally he dozed. Whenever he awakened,
he saw the grim, whitish line of pinnacles, cold and still in the
moonlight, as if watching and waiting for their next efforts.
Early in the morning, “not being delayed by any breakfast,” as remarked
Lieutenant Frémont (who was better), they set out again.
Now the enchanter guarding the magic pinnacles doubled his spells
against them. Steeper were the ridges, sharper were the precipices,
more loudly roared the waters, ice and snow were strewn underfoot. Mr.
Preuss slipped and slid head over heels down an ice-field into the
bristling rocks at the bottom. But he was only bruised. Clément Lambert
and Joseph Descoteaux were taken ill and must lie down in their tracks.
Lieutenant Frémont also was taken ill, again, in head and stomach;
and halting sent his barometer on to Mr. Preuss the plucky German,
who was ahead. Mr. Preuss must proceed to the high peak and see what
the barometer said when there. But Mr. Preuss found himself cut off
from the peak by a precipice or canyon. Kit Carson, trying to reach
Mr. Preuss and help him, discovered a trail to the main divide, and
climbing a knob or butte saw the high peak, which they had been calling
the “Snow Peak,” still a thousand feet above him!
So back he came, and they all went into council. Lieutenant Frémont
seemed to be growing worse; Clément Lambert and Joseph Descoteaux were
very weak; but nobody was ready to quit. Instead, Basil Lajeunesse with
a party of four was despatched back to the Mule Camp, to bring up mules
and provisions and blankets. How the mules would get through none might
say; but they would, for mules always did. Wherever a man could go, a
mule could go.
“Hadn’t you better go along back, too, boy?” asked Kit Carson, of
Oliver; and Oliver shook his head.
“I’m all right; I’d rather stay,” he said, trying not to let his teeth
chatter.
With Lieutenant Frémont very ill and scarcely able to stagger, they
returned to the camp on the rock above the lake, and waited here.
Lieutenant Frémont, pale and giddy, lay with his arm over his eyes, to
shut out the light; the others sat about――Clément Lambert and Joseph
Descoteaux languid, their heads drooping. Silence reigned――and sharper
and colder stood forth the line of pinnacles, as more swiftly sank the
sun. Presently Lieutenant Frémont stirred, sat up, and spoke.
“I think that we’ve done about all that we can, in this direction,” he
said. “What do you think, Kit?”
“Wall,” drawled Kit Carson, quietly, “we can climb it if we keep trying
along enough. I’ve been in wuss places before.”
“The survey itself is finished――as much as the War Department would
require, and I doubt if this extra risk to all concerned in the party
is authorized,” continued Lieutenant Frémont. “I think that first thing
in the morning you’d better take the most of the men and go on down to
the Mule Camp; and after we make a few more observations the rest of
us will follow. Basil probably won’t bring up enough stuff to last the
whole party of us long.”
“Thar he comes,” announced William New.
Sure enough! The clatter and scraping of hoofs among rocks could be
heard, plainly, from below. And presently a small cavalcade struggling
over log and boulder appeared, rounding the end of the lake. A cheer
welled――“crack! crack!” rifle and pistol exchanged salutes――and soon
the rescue squad panted into the camp at the flat granite rock.
They were Basil and four new men in place of the four whom Basil had
worn out on the trip down; and their saddle animals and several led
mules, bearing blankets and provisions. Hurrah! Now with the hot coffee
and the dried meat served hot or cold it seemed that the fires, as if
fed also, burned brighter, that the rock was softer, that the breeze
was gentler, and that even the grim row of pinnacles, o’er-watching,
vented a smile or two. Rolled in the army blankets everybody slept.
For his part, so soundly slept Oliver that when he opened his eyes it
was to sunshine and breakfast preparations. Rather scandalized at his
laziness (which was not laziness at all) he struggled to throw off his
blanket and to sit up.
Mr. Preuss and Auguste Janisse (who was one of the Frémont Frenchmen)
were busy attending to fire and coffee; otherwise the camp seemed
deserted.
“Ah, good morning,” greeted Mr. Preuss, his tow hair upright as usual,
his German features red. “Du hast sehr wohl geschlept; what? Well, they
have gone and left you.”
“Who?” stammered Oliver, blinking about.
“Kit and your party; Maxwell and the others, too.”
“The lieutenant?”
“No. We stay.”
“Oui; we stay. Maybe we try again,” added Auguste.
At the moment Lieutenant Frémont strode around a rock; he and Basil
Lajeunesse and Joseph Descoteaux and Clément Lambert had been down to
look after the mules.
“Hello, my boy,” spoke the lieutenant, with cheery smile. “Kit and your
crowd have gone; they went at day-break, as arranged last night, for
the mule camp; but we thought we’d let you sleep.”
“Thank you, sir,” stammered Oliver, striving to collect his memories.
“I was to go, too. I didn’t mean to sleep over. Can’t I catch them?”
“You can stay with us, if you like. We’ll follow, during the day.”
At this moment Clément Lambert winked and nodded so hard at Oliver,
that Oliver decided promptly:
“I’ll stay, sir.”
For evidently something especial was brewing, besides coffee!