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.”