That night the thermometer dropped to zero. Among fallen timber and in snow sometimes a foot deep the morning march was made, the overworked mules tugging at the heavy howitzer. Then was heard the sound of galloping hoofs, behind. Everybody turned, to welcome or to fight, whichever might be demanded. It was the good-hearted Tlamath chief and a few other men, coming on, along the trail, through the myriad stately, snow-weighted pines, to guide the strangers.
Always amidst pines, and snow, over a broad mountain eastward led the Indians, until on the next day they explained that the snow was growing too deep for them, and the cold too severe, and that they must turn back. Lieutenant Frémont gave them presents of scarlet cloth, moccasins, etc.; and spreading the Flag before them he explained its use.
“This is the symbol of the great nation to which we belong,” he said, by signs. “Whenever it comes to you, you must treat it well, for it is friendly to you. You and it are friends.”
Whereupon the Tlamaths nodded wisely. As if in remembrance, they ever have been at peace with the white race; although their cousins, the Modocs, badly treated by the white immigrants, finally fought a great fight, among their lava beds, in 1873.
The Tlamaths, or Klamaths, left for their snug grass huts in the lake-meadow. Travelling now by compass into the unknown, down from the bleak mountain and across a level valley and up another bleak mountain, eastward toiled the company. Ever the course lay through constant, silent pines, where the snow sifted thickly, with no breeze bearing it, or where, three feet deep and crusted, it cut the legs of the animals.
Thus, in long single file of men and of animals, exhausted and apparently lost, the cattle laboring heavily, the Frémont expedition to the Buenaventura traversed the gloomy stretch of high, unceasing, snow-enshrouded but gloomy forest, where apparently man had never been before. Suddenly the lieutenant, leading, spoke to Kit Carson, just behind.
“Aren’t the trees thinning, in front, there, Kit?”
“Come on, boys,” called the lieutenant, cheerily. “We’re getting out.” And he spurred forward his horse. Spurred forward all.
Sure enough, ahead the atmosphere was distinctly lighter. The lieutenant was first to reach the spot; he reined in his horse, Proveau the buffalo-runner, and craned as if gazing down. He uttered a loud shout, and waved his hat; shouted and waved Kit Carson, the next to arrive. Mr. Preuss the German joined in the excitement; joined Godey and Jacob and even the Chinook, and when it came Oliver’s turn he also joined. For they all were ranged upon a rim of a great wall――a great wall of sheer rock, piled with snow and bitten by icy wind, while below, a thousand feet, was an enchanted summer-land!