Captain Sutter himself, and several other whites from the fort escorted the company a few miles, to say good-by and “good luck.”
Eleven hundred and forty-two miles from the Dalles of the Columbia or 3000 miles from Fort St. Vrain had stretched the Frémont and Carson trail to New Helvetia. Now from New Helvetia to Bent’s Fort would be 3000 miles more. However, nobody shrank from the trail as planned. All were strong again in body as they had been strong in heart, and their ample pack-train gave them comfort. Nevertheless, for the first 2500 miles of their journey they could expect to find no settlement of any kind save Indian village.
The lieutenant rode a splendid iron-gray Californian horse, named Sacramento, a gift from Captain Sutter. The march was down the east side of the Valley of the Sacramento, back somewhat from the river; thence on into the Valley of the San Joachin, which was companion valley reaching up from the south, to meet the Valley of the Sacramento extending down from the north. The country was all that it had been pictured by Kit Carson, and promised by the lieutenant: a country of brilliant flowers, blue and yellow and white and purple, in great masses; of abundant verdure and water; of great herds of elk, deer, wild horses and cattle. And as Captain Sutter had declared, it was a country unused.
As they rode, the lieutenant and Kit waxed more and more enthusiastic, and Oliver heard them say that here was where they hoped some day to live.
Mindful of the cautions as to the horse-stealing Indians, the march was made strictly military. Scouts were placed ahead, and on the flanks, to beat the brush; rifle-men formed van, and rear, and between van and rear were the cavvy, pack-animals and cattle. However, no Indians were sighted until, on April 8, 280 miles from New Helvetia, at the banks of the Tulare River natives appeared.
As soon as these ascertained that the Frémont and Carson men were not California soldiery, they gathered in friendly fashion, and brought otter-skins, and fish, and bread and acorn-flour. They were dark-skinned, handsome Indians. Several spoke Spanish, learned at the missions. They were well-mannered—but the lieutenant and Kit thought best, on the whole, to corral the animals, at night.
It was time that the pass should be near, on the left; the pass through the mountain range, to the desert. A fine broad trail pointed off to the southeast; and upon being questioned as to a pass in that direction one of the Indians nodded, with a smile showing white teeth, and with a “Si, señor; buen camino (Yes, sir; good road).” Following this trail, on for the desert rode the Frémont and Carson company.
The landscape was growing sandy and more bare. Diverging to the left, to ascend along a creek, the company entered, not Walker Pass, but that Tehachepi Pass through which to-day penetrates from desert California into valley California the Santa Fé Railroad, overland line.
While encamped at the western side of the Tehachepi Pass the camp received another visitor. Down the pleasantly wooded slope he came riding, with many a jingle and much graceful sway of body—a combination of knight-errant and cowboy; and a romantic sight he made. He wore a large, peaked hat; short braided jacket reaching scarcely to his waist; black velvet trousers tight at the hips, flaring at the bottoms, and slashed along the seams with white; a sash of crimson; yellow goat-skin boots armed with the huge Spanish spurs. Bridle and saddle were lavishly decorated; chains dangled from the one, brass tacks glistened in the other. But he was no Spaniard or Mexican; he was an Indian.
“Buenas noches, señors,” he greeted, cordially, in excellent Spanish. “Good evening. I saw you enter the pass, and I have come down to bid you have no fear.”