By “White Head” Oliver knew that Thomas Fitzpatrick, a noted trapper captain, was meant.
“Wall, he knows that Fitz lost all his furs an’ nigh lost his life, voyaging into those canyons; but he’s bound to find out for himself, an’ I guess he will.”
The canyon mouth was located at the red cliffs, up the valley about three miles; and as the sun had not set, and as there was nothing especial to do, a little bunch of the men from the two commands rode over. Oliver saw that here at the red cliffs the Platte came tumbling out of the mountain country. High upon either hand rose the scarlet walls, about one hundred yards apart, their shelves dotted with a few pines, their tops bearing a fringe of the same dark-green. The river roared loudly, as it boiled down. Many rocks stuck up through the current.
“It’s wuss above,” quoth William New, when they all emerged, and rode away. “’Tain’t any place for human being to travel in. Thar’s one place called Fiery Narrows—wagh!”
“Ah, who fears?” laughed Descoteaux, Frenchman, of the Frémont party. “Where Monsieur Frémont go, I go.”
“I, too,” announced Clément Lambert, his comrade.
Frémont himself, with Basil Lajeunesse, his trusted adjutant, surveyed the place, the next morning; and when they rode back it was rumored that the lieutenant was more determined than ever to launch his boat, on the return from the South Pass.
As the company continued to advance, the next day, the country grew drier. Grasshoppers jumped in clouds from beneath hoof and wheel; so that William New, with whom Oliver rode, shook his head.
“Signs air bad,” he mumbled. “When hoppers air many, grass air few.”
No Indians had yet been sighted; but early in the afternoon a sudden commotion swept the line, as from scouting service in the advance back galloped four Frémont men.