Now according to Lieutenant Frémont’s compass the Platte was inclining more and more to the south; and it was rumored among the men that unless they crossed pretty soon to the Sweetwater, so as to strike it above its juncture with the Platte, they would be entangled among precipices. The country was beautifully red, with brown and pink sandstone and “pudding-stone” (as the pebbly formation was termed), and even the soil was red; a curious landscape flowed through by the greenish river. But twelve miles from Goose-Egg Camp Kit Carson, riding ahead with Lieutenant Frémont, halted. So halted the column.
“Injun sign,” announced Ike Chamberlain, for the way was crossed by a trail of an Indian village which, here camping, had left lodge-poles and horse skeletons.
But not for “Injun sign” had halted Kit Carson; he was talking earnestly with the lieutenant and with Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse, and pointing.
“We’ll have to turn off. Knew we would,” predicted Trapper New. “An’ that army fellow’ll find out why, if Kit hasn’t told him plain enough an’ he goes on. Yonder’s whar the Platte comes out the Fiery Narrows, an’ on above the Fiery Narrows (which are some, I say!) are nothing but more canyons clear to mouth o’ Sweetwater. Even a beaver couldn’t get through, an’ I don’t reckon we can, either. An’ it’d take a bird to cross.”
Evidently Kit Carson had persuaded, for around swung the march, to double on its trail as far as a fair island, divided from the shore by only a shallow current. Close upon either bank of the river was a red ridge—one set with the “pudding-stones,” some as large as a football. Upon this island, grassy and containing about twenty acres, was established the night’s camp. To-morrow would the march be directed west across the angle from the Platte to the Sweetwater.
“Fifteen miles, an’ I’ll be glad to get thar,” asserted Ike, at the evening fire. “Sweetwater trail is good trap trail; an’ if we’re locating emigrant route to Oregon that’s the road.”
The camp was a cheerful spot, this night, being supplied with mountain mutton; for Lieutenant Frémont and several of the men had ridden out upon a little exploring tour, beyond a red ridge, and had returned with mountain sheep. Now arose a discussion as to whether the sheep could leap off high cliffs and land head-first on their broad-based horns. Ike and William New, Joseph Descoteaux and others of the Kentuckians and French in the two parties claimed to have seen the sheep make such escapes, when pursued—but not one had seen them land! Mr. Preuss, the funny, red-faced, bristly-haired German who was the map-maker and sketcher with the Frémont party and helped Mr. Frémont in figuring, said that the horns were for other purpose. However, as Kit Carson and the lieutenant were inclined to believe that the sheep could perform these leaps, the theory was generally adopted.
Goat Island was this camp named, because of the bag of sheep. At each camp Lieutenant Frémont and Mr. Preuss fussed with various scientific instruments—thermometer (which of course everybody knew, because it told of heat and cold), and barometer (which somebody said measured weight of air), and a watch-like thing called a chronometer (companion to which had been left at the post, for Randolph to keep wound up), and a sextant (which was claimed to be a sea instrument). By these instruments were obtained figures, carefully noted down in a book.
As many of the figures were obtained at night, in the dark, William New and the majority of the voyageurs and trappers were much puzzled. Back at the post the Indians had deemed the lieutenant to be a great medicine man, who read the sun and the stars; and his tent was a place of tremendous mystery to them.
“Latitude so-an’-so, longitude so-an’-so, I hear said,” grunted Trapper New. “That’s the camping spot. Now, what air the sense o’ that, unless figgers air written on the grass an’ rocks so you can read ’em? When I find a place I don’t look for figgers. It air one day travel nor’west o’ the second left-hand fork o’ Goose Creek; or it air half-way ’twixt Pilot Peak an’ the head o’ the Little Blackfoot; or some such. But these hyar figgers! I never saw any figgers, anywhar.”