"Why—I shouldn't wonder if you were right, Grigsby," agreed his father, weighing the matter. "Then we ought to get over there as quick as we can."
"I know I'm right," asserted the Frémonter. "Feel it in my bones. And away we go, as straight as we can travel."
A long, long tramp across a wild country it was, now, upon which the tall Frémonter piloted the way. He seemed to know where he was going and what he was doing; and Charley and his father could only trust in his guidance. Up hill and down, through timber and brush, sometimes on a trail and sometimes not, ever making northward, on they went, with the burro the nimblest of all, and Mr. Adams having hard work, occasionally, with his lame leg. But wherever they passed, no matter how rough and high the country, they encountered miners like themselves, digging and washing and searching, in camp or on the march.
But not a word more, of the Jacobs party, or of the Golden West mine.
Mr. Grigsby appeared to be looking for certain landmarks, ahead. It was at the end of two weeks of travel and camp when they three, following a pack trail across a timbered ridge, suddenly emerged into a beautiful vista of valley and snowy range, to the north and east; the course of a rushing river, and the tents of another mining camp.
"There she is!" cheered the Frémonter, swinging his hat. "There's the trail where Frémont and we fellows came in, the second time, winter of Forty-five. Yon river's the North Branch of the American. I remember that gap, there. What that camp is I don't know; but we'll find out."
"This is an emigrant trail, then, too, isn't it?" queried Charley's father.
"It'll be the main emigrant trail, or I'm much mistaken."
"I don't see any emigrants, though," puffed Charley, as down they hastened, for the camp. He was wondering about Billy Walker.
"No; there haven't many passed yet, that's certain," answered the Frémonter. "But the rush must be about due."