“I’d as soon be a Frémont man,” retorted Randolph, loyally.
“Well, it takes pluck to follow either of them, I guess,” admitted Henry. “They’re both brave. You ought to have seen them riding after buffalo! Kit Carson’s horse put his foot in a hole and threw him head over heels and ran away with the buffalo till Mr. Maxwell caught him; and the lieutenant’s horse chased so hard and got so excited that it regularly foamed at the mouth! It’s a trained buffalo horse; name is Proveau.”
They squatted, trapper fashion, guns against knees, near a fire upon which a pot of stew bubbled and steamed attractively. At other fires men were toasting strips of meat held on sticks.
“You came up from Taos, didn’t you?” asked Henry.
“Yes.”
“We came clear from St. Louis. That’s about as far,” piped Randolph. “But I came from Washington, too. We left Missouri—or Mr. Chouteau’s farm just this side, the tenth of June and we got here July thirteenth. We’ve been here a week.”
“Did you have any scrimmages, on the trail?” queried Oliver.
“Naw,” said Henry. “Once we thought we were going to, but they were just a band of trappers on their way back to Missouri. We had some fine buffalo hunts, though. But Lieutenant Frémont almost got into a big Indian fight. He separated from us, part way; and he and Mr. Maxwell and a couple of others followed up the South Branch of the Platte River to the mountains, while we took the Oregon Trail route, up the North Branch.”
“Yes; and about three hundred Injuns charged them, and there’d have been shooting if Mr. Maxwell hadn’t recognized one of the Injuns and shouted, just in time: ‘You old fool! Don’t you know me?’ Then they all shook hands, and went to the Indian village. They were Arapahoe Indians.”