“Are you going all the way?” asked Randolph, eagerly. He was the younger boy, with the Cheyenne moccasins; his age was about twelve.
“I don’t know. We go as far as Kit goes, I guess.”
“That’s all the way, then. You aren’t afraid of Indians, are you?”
“Naw,” grunted Oliver, disdainfully.
“We aren’t, either,” declared the older boy, Henry. He was about nineteen. And he continued, gloomily: “But we can’t go on. We’ve got to stay here at the fort, Mr. Frémont says.”
“A Cheyenne boy gave me these moccasins,” informed Randolph, proudly, sticking out a foot.
“Yes. I knew ’em for Cheyenne moccasins, soon as I saw ’em,” answered Oliver. “But why don’t you go on?” he invited—liking both boys. “Isn’t the party going on?”
“Yes; but we’re too inexperienced, Mr. Frémont thinks. And he doesn’t want to have the responsibility of us,” explained Henry; continuing, gloomily as before: “We’d go, if he’d let us; but if the Indians are bad I suppose we might be in the way, and I’d rather stay here than get anybody killed looking after us.”
“So would I,” agreed Randolph, quickly. He was the livelier of the two. “We almost had a fight, coming out, anyhow; only they turned into trappers instead of Indians.”