Nevertheless, the trail was perceptibly lower. The stream had swelled to a torrent; the ground was soft; green grass, birds, and oaks appeared, and a mild breeze swirled the dry oak leaves covering the ground. This was glorious; but the worn-out animals were being killed, for food.
Lieutenant Frémont announced that they had descended from an elevation of 9338 feet to one of 3864 feet. He said that in the morning he and a squad would push on, by forced marches, for the ranch of Captain Sutter which could not be very far; and that, having obtained provisions, they would hasten back to meet the main party.
“Preuss, Talbot, Jacob, Kit, Derosier, Townes, Proue,” named the lieutenant, calling off the detail; and Oliver settled down, disappointed, for he had hoped to go.
He made no remark, and tried to appear unconcerned; but the lieutenant must have read his thoughts.
“Is the boy strong enough? We should take only the strongest men and the best of the horses,” spoke the officer, aside, to Kit.
“Wall,” drawled Kit, reflectively, eyeing Oliver, “you know it’s pretty hard to tucker out a boy. He’ll stand more’n a man.”
“And Oliver,” detailed the lieutenant, as if concluding his list.
Oliver grinned, with cracked lips but glad heart.
The morning was that of February 25. The first ride was one of twelve miles, down the river valley to some old Indian huts. Here, by a field of juicy grass, camp was located; the animals were turned out, and from that moment until daybreak they never ceased their steady grazing. Throughout the afternoon and the night could be heard the constant champing of their jaws. The lieutenant seemed to take much pleasure in sitting, as long as daylight lasted, and watching them eat.
The next camp was different. Rain forced the march from the river trail to the higher ground, until nightfall; and then camp was made without good grass—which, combined with the rain, appeared to plunge the poor animals into the depths of gloom.