“Yes, sir. A thundering way off.”
“It seems to be the end of a long chain extending westward from it. That chain, I believe, is the divide draining on this side into the Platte, on the other side into the Red River. We’re on the wrong side. We should march southwest, to cross the nearer portion of the chain, and eventually come out upon the head of the Red River. At all events, we’ll try it, while we can. But our march through here has not been wasted, for our Country. We can lay down on our map the sources of the Platte, which no one has supposed to be located at such a distance from the plains.”
They all took another look, scanning the region south and southwest. With his own eyes Stub might descry the landmark of the Great White Mountains. The air was very clear, the sun rested just right, and through the gap there the tops of the mountains, sharp cut and triangular, stood out plainly amidst the other, lesser peaks. That called for a long, long journey.
They went back to camp. The other parties came in, and reported nothing but an old Indian camp, farther up. They had seen no game.
“An’ what nixt, then, I wonder?” Pat Smith remarked, at the fire. “Do we kape goin’, wid no end. Sure, the Red River can’t lay hereabouts. We’ll be nearer comin’ to Canady.”
“No keep going,” Stub proudly announced. “The cap’n say turn ’round, for south. Big ridge there; big white mountains; Red River other side.”
“South’ard? Hooray! That’s a good word. It puts heart into us; hey, lads? We’ll be gettin’ out o’ this trap where even the Injuns don’t dare bide in winter, an’ we’ll be findin’ the Red River, after all.”
Stub’s news cheered the men greatly. It took only a little to encourage them.