“So I war thinking,” replied Kit. “Fresh hoof-tracks, an’ some fresh Injun tracks. Thar must be a caravan party on ahead o’ the main travel; an’ those Injun tracks likely air the six fellows spoken of by that mansito. But in sech a wind, blowing the sand, sign air hard to read.”
An unpleasant gale was raging—a furious, constant blast as the cooler air of the mountains on the west rushed down to fill the vacuum caused by the rising hot air of the desert on the east. The Spanish Trail continued, well marked, but with its sharp rocks speedily setting the animals to limping. It was a trail rougher than any part of the Oregon Trail. Oliver heard the lieutenant regretting that the cavvy had not been shod.
The trail had been skirting a river, curious but refreshing as it flowed briskly and sparkling between low banks of the whitish sand. A few cottonwoods and willows grew along it. Oliver observed that although they were descending it, it was getting smaller instead of larger—an odd circumstance.
“It’s the Mohave, I reckon,” stated Kit. “At least, when I came out with Ewing Young we followed up a river ’bout like this, hyar, on our way from the Colorado to the Californy missions. You watch it, an’ you’ll see something.”
The next morning the lieutenant, during the ride, spoke suddenly:
“There goes our river!”
All near him looked. Kit Carson chuckled quietly.
“Yes; it’s flopped for a spell. Now it’ll flow bottom-side-up till it’s ready to turn over ag’in: the bed’s on top an’ the water’s under. It’s the Mohave, sure—tho’ I’ve seen other rivers like it.”
“Remarkable!” ejaculated Mr. Preuss, much interested. “It burrows like a gopher of the plains.”
“Brave stream! I teenk she gets weak by the sun an’ goes under to get strong, encore,” proffered Alexander Godey, gayly.