“By the Mohave River, señor, perhaps,” suggested the guide.
“Guess so.”
“That is lower to the south. The Spanish Trail which your company will take follows along it.”
On April 17, three weeks from New Helvetia, among the ridges by which the mountains tapered to the desert was encountered a little trail cutting east and west across the southward march. Scarcely could it be traced, so faint and rarely trodden was it; but the guide at once turned east, upon it.
“It is the trail between the Spanish Trail, east, and the mission San Buenaventura, next to Santa Barbara, on the coast,” he said.
He rode a few miles, and halted.
“Adios,” he spoke. And indicating the thread-like trail: “This is the road. It does not lose itself; it continues on. Follow it, and you will reach the Spanish Trail ahead of the great spring caravan out of the Pueblo de los Angeles for Santa Fé of New Mexico; so you will find the grass uneaten. By that black hill yonder is water. Now I must turn off for San Fernando.”
The lieutenant and Kit and Mr. Preuss and Mr. Talbot and others in the van shook hands with him, thanking him again; and the lieutenant further rewarded him with presents of knives and bright cloth. Amidst mutual “Adios (a Dios—God with you),” he left, galloping away for the mission San Fernando Rey de España (Saint Ferdinand King of Spain), north of the Pueblo de los Angeles which is to-day the City Los Angeles.
Through draws blazing with flowers purple, lemon and orange, and richly perfumed, the Frémont and Carson company followed the little trail eastward until at the dark ridge out upon a sandy plain they camped with water but no grass.