“Hello, Kit.”
“Hello, boys.” He checked his horse as quickly as he had started it. “Glad to see ye. Thar’s our camp, up above.”
“Wall, got yore express, an’ hyar we air,” volunteered Ike, as all rode on. “What’s the news?”
“Government expedition to the South Pass; maybe further. [Lieutenant Frémont], army man, is boss; Maxwell’s hunter, I’m guide. The lieutenant’s got twenty or so fust-class St. Louis Frenchmen hired for the trip, but seemed to me I’d feel more comfortable if I had some o’ my own crowd. So I sent those two Delawares to Touse, with the word.”
As they were about to pass the post another horseman spurred out, intercepting them. The fact that this was the “army man,” government “boss” of the expedition, was impressed upon the cavalcade, and all eyes turned to scrutinize the rider as he approached.
He rode well and easily—but with somewhat longer stirrup than the short Indian-hung stirrup of the Carson men, and sitting rather more erect than was trapper custom. His costume bore scarce a trace of army uniform; he wore a short plain blue blouse, half unbuttoned, over blue flannel shirt and ordinary jean trousers tucked into high moccasins, while his head-gear was the broad curly-brimmed wool hat of the plains and mountains. He carried no sword. However, athwart his saddle-horn was lying the inevitable rifle. His figure was more slender than Kit Carson’s; he was about two inches taller, and evidently he weighed about the same. He had a full brown beard, rather compact and wavy, oval face, white skin now tanned, bold clean-cut nose jutting like the keel of a boat, and large eyes of flashing blue. He was not any older than Kit, much handsomer, altogether a different style of man—more excitable, more dashing, more like Kit was in an Indian fight. Yes, here was another type of leader.
“Got your men, I see,” he addressed, reining in, with a rapid glance along the column.