The caravan did not start until toward evening of the following day, for both beasts and men were exhausted from their march in the desert and the strain of the long fast from water. Refreshed by food, drink, and rest, they set out to make ten miles that night, and by a bright moonlight this was accomplished. A keen watch was being kept for Indians, and St. Vrain hoped that possibly they might encounter Major Riley of Fort Leavenworth, returning from Chouteaux Island at the Mexican border, whither he had escorted Colonel Bent’s caravan. But they saw no sign of him, and Pierre was sure that he saw fresh tracks on the Trail just beyond their first night’s camp by the river, tracks leading back over the Trail. As indeed they were, for the major with his three companies had passed while St. Vrain was on the desert. But as day followed day and no Indians were seen, they began to breathe easier. The river here was from five to six hundred feet wide, flowing through a rolling plain which stretched away for hundreds of miles without a tree, apparently. Yet the stately trees upon the banks of the river and along the bottom land were enormous and ancient. Sometimes the river narrowed and flowed between banks of shale and limestone, but they had left the gleaming white cliffs of sand far behind. They were ascending steadily in altitude, approaching the slopes of the Rockies before them. The hunters brought in rabbit, beaver, quail, antelope, and even bear meat. They knew every foot of the land, every small stream, every haunt of the four-footed. Buffalo was varied with black-tail deer, the finest venison in the world. This was the land of the Shoshones, the Snake Indians, the greatest of the Indian nations, who were of the same race as the wild Comanches to the south. They were a fine and friendly people, said St. Vrain. Steven was now joining the short hunting forays by means of which the trappers kept the caravan supplied with meat. He was learning from them the ways of the wild, in which the wily and seasoned white men surpassed even the Indians. He never failed to stop and ask at the girl’s wagon how she fared and if there was anything that he might do for her. But beyond a feeling of pity and sympathy, and a growing dislike for the father, he had little conversation with Hope Bragdon after their escape in the desert. This was a world for men; he pressed heels exultantly into his mare’s flanks and rode ahead over the road in advance of the caravan, scouting. ’Twas adventure he had come for, not ladies’ company. They were making speed as they neared Bent’s Fort, although it was a constant ascent to a higher altitude. Beyond them lay the Rocky Mountains, blue and jagged.