But they were interrupted, for just as amidst a jostling and confusion of orders addressed to pack animals and mule teams the company were forming upon the march, came galloping from the direction of the post one of the Sioux chiefs.
“Thar’s Bull’s Tail,” grumbled Lieutenant Ike. “Wants to say something.”
“The chief says that they are sorry to see you go in anger,” translated Agent Boudeau to Lieutenant Frémont. “It makes their hearts sad to think that you are likely to run into danger. So they have found a young man who will join you this evening and try to keep you safe. But he is very poor; he has no horse, and he expects you to give him one.”
“That is good. Tell him to send the young man. We will camp about fifteen miles from here, near where the river Platte issues from the red rocks.”
The chief grunted acknowledgment and loped back to the post, probably on his way to Fort Platte below, at the mouth of the Laramie.
Once again the company were set in motion; they strung out into a long procession, Frémont and Kit Carson leading; the Frémont party following, and the Carson party as the second division. The Frémont party had eight stout two-wheeled covered carts, for the provisions and tents and scientific instruments. These carts creaked; the drivers cracked whips above the two-mule teams; the happy-go-lucky Frenchmen laughed and sung and chattered; but the men from Taos rode more gravely.
Now at a turn of the trail, where it entered the hills, only a few minutes’ ride from the post, must Henry and Randolph reluctantly halt, and let the train continue without them. They waved hand at the men; and with answering wave from Lieutenant Frémont and Kit Carson and Oliver, and voyageurs and trappers all, the cavalcade passed on. Glancing back, Oliver noted that the hill defile had at once closed, shutting off view of Fort Laramie. The expedition was fairly started for the South Pass, 280 miles westward, at the source of the Sweetwater River. This was the great pass by which trappers and fur traders crossed the Rocky Mountains from the east or the American side to the west side shared by the United States and Great Britain; it was the pass to Oregon.
The trail, plainly wheel-marked by the party of the first Oregon emigrants which had travelled through only three weeks before, traversed a wide, rolling sagy plateau which occupied much of the space between the valley of the Laramie Creek, south, and of the North Platte River, north. About ten miles from the post a shallow, dry creek-bed was entered.
Down the creek-bed, which now ran with a little current of clear warm water, continued the procession, and unexpectedly to Oliver they all emerged at a rapidly flowing river.
“North Platte,” announced Trapper New, nonchalantly. “Yep; an’ a heap beaver stream, wagh!”