In the morning the company moved forward at best pace—which was delayed by the hobbling pack animals and the one ox who remained. Now somebody—it was Baptiste Tabeau—struck up a paddle song; and Godey and the lieutenant and Kit and Fitzpatrick and all joined in:
“Gai, gai, avançons nous!”
they sang.
“Gay, gay, advance we gay!”
And Oliver’s dog and Tlamath, the other Indian dog, barked wolfishly.
Up the slope of the pass they strove. On the top the snow was a foot deep, but below, 2000 feet, filling a wide space between grim snowy peaks lay indeed the lake—a mighty mass of dark-green, tossing and tumbling. And one after another, as they saw, they cheered.
Camp was made at the foot of the pass, beside a little stream; as soon as duties were performed, everybody hastened for the lake. Its shore was rocky, cliff-skirted, mountain-guarded; and its strips of beach were cut short by towering walls. The water was slightly tinged with salt; and some of the granite boulders of the shore were coated with a limy substance.
Indians had camped here before the white explorers; and following an Indian trail, the next morning the company moved on, to the lake. A furious snow-squall hid the waters, and drove the surf four and five feet high upon the beaches. The trail, leading between surf and rock-walls, in places was so narrow that the howitzer barely could pass.
Pyramid Lake did Lieutenant Frémont name this great water, because of a curious rock, sharp-tipped, broad-based, like a pyramid, rising five or six hundred feet, out in the midst of the water. And Pyramid Lake is the place, to-day, on the western border of the State of Nevada. The christening occurred January 14, 1844; and upon the rock-bound shore was sacrificed the last of the cattle, driven clear from the mission station at the Dalles of the Columbia.