“We’ll have some fun, at the fort, I guess,” said Henry, more hopefully. “But you finish up your work, Oliver. We’ll watch you.”
“Well,” admitted Oliver. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
He proceeded; his two friends strolled about, keeping in touch with him.
The Frémont party were composed all of St. Louis French—the majority seasoned voyageurs and trappers who as American Fur Company men had before met the Carson men on the beaver trail. They wore, some buckskins, but the greater proportion baggy jean trousers stuffed into high moccasins or boots, and belted at the waist, flannel shirts adjusted outside the trousers, like blanket-coats and trimmed in red, bright neckerchiefs, and handkerchief turbans or the wool hats. A cheery, bustling, dark-faced and dark-eyed crowd they were, laughing much and singing much and joking much.
“Let’s go down to the fort,” proposed Randolph, at once, when Oliver turned from his last chore.
But the sun was setting behind great Laramie Peak of the Black Hills, in the west; throughout the combined camps fires were blazing; and Oliver, keenly aware of time and place, must reply:
“No; this chile’s wolfish, and pots are on the fire. Meat, first. Then I’ll go.”
“You eat with us, at our mess,” invited Henry.
“Yes. You can, can’t you?” urged Randolph. “Buffalo meat, and coffee!”
“I suppose you’re used to buffalo meat, though,” hazarded Henry, as they moved on.