For two days and a half the little trail led eastward. Then, on the afternoon of the third day, April 20, the advance scouts shouted and waved and waited. When Oliver, with the van, arrived at the spot, he also joined in the shout, although not wholly knowing why—save that here the little trail united with a broad, well-defined trail, north and south.
“The Spanish Trail from Californy to Santy Fee, captain,” announced Kit Carson.
“It must be,” agreed the lieutenant. “And it takes us north, boys! Now we can cross the mountains by way of the Great Salt Lake and the Utah Lake, to strike the head of the Arkansas. We’re not to be cheated out of the fine country.”
“Hooray!” they cheered.
“It’s good-by to Californy,” remarked Kit, to the lieutenant, as now the cavalcade turned into this broad trail.
“We’ll come again, Kit,” asserted Lieutenant Frémont.
And they did; to win the fair land for the United States, and the lieutenant to make here his home, as he had hoped.
So this was the famous Old Spanish Trail, was it; this bare road of rocky sand scarred by many hoofs, stretching on indefinitely athwart the rolling, sparsely verdured plains?
“You might think it’s called the Spanish Trail ’cause the names on it air all Spanish,” narrated Kit Carson, as with Oliver he ambled in the dust. “But like as not it’s called so ’cause the old Spanish Fathers started it, at t’other end, in their missionary trips out o’ Santy Fee. They never cut it through, though. An American did that. I knew his family in Missouri. He war a trader, ’twixt Missouri an’ New Mexico. His name war William Wolfskill; an’ in fall o’ Eighteen-thirty he tuk a trading caravan out o’ Santy Fee for Los Angeles, an’ he made this trail to try north o’ the Heely (Gila) River trail. He thought he’d find better grass. It’s regular caravan trail, for hosses an’ mules to Santy Fee, an’ calico an’ blankets an’ stuff back ag’in.”
“Seems to me that some of these tracks in the trail are fresh,” commented the lieutenant, riding up.