“You come too.”
“Not an inch. I engaged to Lieutenant Frémont, an’ I’m going through.”
“On that ’ere lake, in that ’ere boat, Kit?”
“I shorely am, Ike, if the lieutenant asks me to.”
“Don’t you do it, Kit, don’t you do it,” implored Ike, much concerned. “Thar’s a whirlpool that’ll swallow you, boat an’ all. If the lake has nary river draining it off, how does it keep from overflowing, with these rivers running in! Must drain by a whirlpool, which sucks the water off fast as it comes in. Mebbe thar air cannibals on those islands, to gobble ye soon as ye land. Besides, whar’s the grub for the crowd? What you fetched down from Hall is ’bout gone already, an’ we’ll soon be living wuss’n Root Diggers. When the snows fall lower we’ll be shut in to starve. ’Tain’t a fit country for white man; ’tain’t, Kit. We’re going to pull out, an’ you’d better come with us. If that lieutenant wants to stay an’ make figgers, let him.”
“Go if you want to, Ike. I stay with Frémont,” answered Kit Carson, evenly. “He expects me to, and I will. I can’t ask you Touse men to. There won’t be much fun in it, for you, especially if we push on for the coast by winter trail down the Snake.”
“What!” gasped Ike. “Jest to get figgers? No, siree. I reckon we’ll pack back through the mountains, whar thar’s fur an’ meat, for Laramie, Kit.”
“All right, Ike. When you get to Touse tell Josefa I’m well.” And Kit turned away.
Oliver heard this conversation, and was aghast. Back to Taos? Never! He hastened after Kit and appealed to him: