CHAPTER XXIII
HUNTING THE MOUNTAIN SHEEP
“How terribly big they seem, towering so high above us,” Roger remarked to his cousin, as they stood just outside the camp that evening, looking upward at the lofty heights that shut out the sinking sun.
“We have never seen anything like them before,” admitted Dick, “and I don’t believe there are mountains back in Old Virginia, that our fathers talk about so much, that can hold a candle to these rocky heights.”
“I know for one I’ll be glad when we’ve crossed the backbone of the ridge, and can see the sun in the late afternoon again,” Roger went on to say. “And after that we have the deserts to cross, if those Indian tales turn out to be true.”
“I feel more anxious about that stage of our journey than I do over the dangers we may encounter in crossing the mountains,” admitted Dick. “They say men and horses die of thirst on those burning sands. I heard Captain Lewis explaining how we would make skin bags in order to carry an extra supply of water with us when we strike the sandy wastes.”
So the talk, as was quite natural, was mostly of the possible terrors of the journey ahead of them. Their imagination was given full swing to picture many of the strange things mentioned by the roving Indians, though in some cases these stories turned out to be untrue.
When men had gazed upon such remarkable wonders as the spouting hot water geysers of the Yellowstone, they could be easily pardoned for believing almost anything they heard. This vast country had never been explored, and it seemed to be a veritable storehouse of strange things. ([Note 7].)
The eventful morning came, and seemed to be favorable for beginning the ascent of the trail leading over the mountains by way of the pass. Indian tribes had doubtless made it in crossing from one part of the country to another. Wild animals, such as the vast herds of buffaloes, also had occasion to cross the divide according to the stages of the weather, and their hoofs had helped to make the overland trail.