“How far to Oregon, strangers?” asked one of the men.
“You’re in it!” answered the lieutenant, laughing. “Anywhere above forty-two degrees latitude, west of the South Pass, is Oregon!”
Some Snake Indians, riding the trail, met the company and told the lieutenant that a large village of their fellows had just come in from antelope hunting and berry gathering, and were camped near by. These Snakes appeared to be open-hearted, friendly Indians. They shook hands with Ike and the other trappers; and as Oliver well knew, Snakes and trappers were good friends, always, united against the Blackfeet and the Sioux. In fact, the Indians west of the South Pass were to be counted upon as friendlies—except the Diggers.
“Watch out for the Diggers, or they’ll slip an arrow into ye, sure,” had warned William New.
So, this being Snake country, the lieutenant rode aside to pay a visit to the Snake village. But as they came in sight of it, a mile away in a pretty little bottom-land beside a stream, out from the cluster of skin lodges sped a horseman—and another, and another, and squad after squad, charging into the open, before.
“Look out, boys!” rang the voice of Lieutenant Frémont, galloping down the line. And—“Get that howitzer ready!” he ordered.
“Those Injuns ’most crazy, I think,” muttered Basil, aiding the lieutenant.
“Wagh! Looks like we’ll be gone beaver, if we don’t watch out,” called Ike. “What’s the matter with the fools, I wonder.”