“Sioux ladder,” pronounced Mariano the Mexican. “Bueno!”
Climbing by aid of this, they placed their names much higher than any names yet.
Early the next day the second of the Sweetwater Trail wonders was reached. This was Devil’s Gate, five miles above Independence Rock. It was another canyon, but very narrow, about 300 yards long, and almost 150 deep; and through it, among boulders and jagged blocks, roared the Sweetwater. The trail to the South Pass made a circuit back from this Devil’s Gate, so as to dodge the rough ridge; but Lieutenant Frémont and the scientific Mr. Preuss, and Oliver and many others who never had seen into Devil’s Gate, or who wanted to see into it again, rode over to the rim and peered down.
The trail was growing rougher. The Sweetwater rippled in and out of little parks or pockets amidst the low hills of its valley; a mountain range bordered the valley on either hand, and to the south the slopes were ablaze with fires set by the Indians to drive the game (said William New) back to the open country. The fire seemed to make rains gather; and to-night’s camp was another wet, uncomfortable camp, but nobody complained. However, the rain, sweeping down from the high country, certainly was cold!
“See thar?” invited Trapper New, to Oliver, the next morning, pointing ahead.
They were topping a little rise, still near the faithful guiding Sweetwater; and far before, against the horizon, in a vista opened to the march, a line of dark mountains.
“Those air the Wind River mountains, to north o’ the South Pass. Pass cuts one end o’ them, I reckon. They’re heap medicine mountains; Injuns say they’re ha’nted by evil spirits. The Crows won’t go in ’em.”
“How far?” asked Oliver, gazing hard.
“Seventy miles, ’bout.”
The Sweetwater was slowly dwindling, as they approached its sources. They picked up an Indian horse whose hoofs were sore; and an Indian dog, who was glad of the scraps that the men tossed to him. But he wasn’t friendly, and Oliver named him “Wolf.”