Mr. Bent was enabled to supply a little news.
“Why, yes, there’s a lot of talk this spring of emigration to the Oregon country,” he said; “reports from Missouri are, that some one hundred settlers, including women and children, left, middle of May, over the trail for Oregon. And a government expedition’s afoot. Maxwell’s been hired for it. Like as not you’ll find Kit’s mixed up in some of that business, too.”
From Bent’s, with its brave flag, its brass cannon piece upon the wall, and its sturdy garrison, on pushed the squad.
Two hundred miles more they rode, until, where green foothills met green plains, under the eye of Long’s Peak, was stationed, as Oliver well knew, Fort St. Vrain, brother post to Bent’s. He was wondering whether Ike was not intending to swing into the west and visit this post, when, like the others, he sighted a horseman approaching at a gallop.
“Injuns!” cried voices in the cavalcade.
“White man, I reckon,” cried others.
“Close up, close up,” ordered Lieutenant Ike, gruffly. “An’ keep yore eyes peeled for more.”
Rapidly the horseman approached. Nearer he drew, speeding recklessly, his pony now and then jumping to avoid a badger hole or prairie-dog hole. Presently could be descried his long hair and a kerchief turban streaming in the breeze that he made; above his head he flourished his rifle—its muzzle puffed smoke, as signal that he was a friend and was coming with empty gun.
“White!” grunted several voices, simultaneously.
“Wagh!” uttered another. “Not exactly, boys. If that airn’t Jim Beckwith, I’m a beaver!”