“Well, he’ll go on, though, if Frémont goes on,” asserted Oliver, stoutly.
“Of course. That’s why he made his will. He’s sensible. It isn’t because he’s afraid.”
When supper was practically over with, and the men had lighted their pipes for a few minutes preceding night chores, a figure stepped into the midst of the lounging groups and lifted his arm, for attention. It was a slender, quick figure—that of Lieutenant Frémont.
“Men,” he addressed, clearly, “to-morrow we break camp, for the outward trail again. We’re well armed, we know how to take care of ourselves, in a fight, and Mr. Bissonette, head agent at Fort Platte, has agreed to go with us, as far as we need him, as interpreter. He is a friend of the Sioux and Blackfeet, and can talk with them if we meet them. But as to these threats by the Indians and these rumors of danger, you know as well as I do how much they can be relied upon. You’ve all been in the Indian country before; you can’t expect to travel in it and not risk a fight or two. In fact, you knew it before we left St. Louis. You knew there that the Sioux and Blackfeet were unsettled, in the Laramie region. I’m going on, right on, ready for peace or war. I don’t see any good and sufficient reason why any of you should break your engagement with the government and me; but I don’t want anybody in my party who feels afraid or repents of his bargain. Let him step forward at once, and I’ll release him with his discharge and his pay up to date.”
There was an instant of silence, broken by a laugh as one man arose, and defiantly stood.
“You wish to stay, do you?” demanded Lieutenant Frémont.
The man nodded.
“Are you sick, perhaps?”
“No.”
“Tired, then.”