At this they all laughed. Mr. Bissonette shook hands around, and so did the Indian whom the chiefs had sent along; and they rode away, down the Oregon road, for the post—the Indian with his squaw and his horse-present.
Henceforth Kit Carson was to be the guide, for he knew the country from the Platte up the Sweetwater.
Ere proceeding, first they must get rid of their cumbersome baggage and their carts, so as to be able to travel light and fast. The Kit Carson party already were travelling light, trapper style; but for plains work the Frémont party had their carts and the several tents. However, here, after the discouraging report, through Mr. Bissonette, from the Sioux, all turned to and made a cache or hiding place for the discarded stuff.
The carts were taken apart—hoods and frames and wheels—and these pieces were stowed out of sight among thick willows growing near. A hole ten feet square and six feet deep was dug in a sandy opening in the midst of the same willows, and lined with brush, and tarpaulins; and in this were stowed the other things not absolutely necessary. They were covered with an old buffalo robe; the sand was thrown in, the top was levelled and any suspicious “sign” smoothed away or disfigured; and with pack-mules laden the company were prepared for the long hard trail awaiting.
“Wagh!” grunted William New. “Hyar’s whar we shine. Now for Indypendence Rock an’ the Sweetwater an’ the Pass over. We got a guide who air up to trap. That agent purty nigh lost us, but you can’t lose Kit Carson.”
“How far to the Pass?” queried Oliver.
“Wall, by regular trail it’s ’bout fifty miles to the Rock, an’ then a hundred to the Pass. But we aren’t going by regular trail; see? We’re travelling on up the Platte, an’ it turns southward, for the Bull Pen or what they call New Park; whilst the regular Oregon an’ trapper trail cuts the curves, on other side, lining for the Sweetwater. It’s the Sweetwater that flows down from the Pass an’ j’ines the Platte below at head o’ those red canyons we saw.”
The stories by the Indians seemed not true; for when the next day the march was resumed buffalo were sighted. Some would have been killed had not Clément Lambert’s horse, just as Clément was closing in on the tail of the fleeing herd, plunged headlong into a sudden ravine; while Clément was climbing out, the buffalo, tails high, scrambled like goats up a precipice ridge, and escaped.
Nevertheless, the camp that night was supplied with jerked or dried buffalo meat from a previous hunt, and found plenty of grass.
Frémont had named the camp, several nights back, where the buffalo meat had been obtained, Dried Meat Camp. Yesterday’s camp was of course Cache Camp; on this all agreed. This afternoon’s camp was pitched near a mud bank studded with large pebbles worn oval; therefore William New dubbed it Goose-Egg Camp!