So it was; and evidently, therefore, the message from Carson for his men to meet him at Fort Laramie was urgent. And little time could be spent preparing; none could be wasted; for as everybody knew, Fort Laramie was four hundred miles from Bent’s Fort, and Bent’s Fort was two hundred and fifty miles from Taos. Now must the Kit Carson men at Taos fall to, making ready. Bullets must be moulded, powder-horns replenished, repairs put upon saddle and shirt and leggins, new moccasins found or the old ones soled again. Nobody might tell whither this next trail led, nor how long ere it would turn home; and few cared, even though they had just come in from another trail of three months. Two men were sent back to the summer camp to tell the Sol Silver party what had happened; three were assigned to see the bales of pelts through to market at St. Louis; and before noon of the following day the rest, fifteen of them, under Lieutenant Ike, with plenty of horses and mules for saddle and pack, clattered out of Taos, bound straight for Fort Laramie, more than six hundred miles away. Riding northward, on the sixth day the hurrying squad emerged in sight of Bent’s Fort, above whose brown, high walls flew the Stars and Stripes: a token and a challenge, planted here on the farthest border where the United States met Mexico. Fording the Arkansas, in this the southeastern part of present Colorado, the Carson men were in American territory. Swarthy William Bent, proprietor, who lived at the fort, and whose wife was a Cheyenne woman, welcomed them into the broad gateway. Mr. Bent was enabled to supply a little news. “Why, yes, there’s a lot of talk this spring of emigration to the Oregon country,” he said; “reports from Missouri are, that some one hundred settlers, including women and children, left, middle of May, over the trail for Oregon. And a government expedition’s afoot. Maxwell’s been hired for it. Like as not you’ll find Kit’s mixed up in some of that business, too.” From Bent’s, with its brave flag, its brass cannon piece upon the wall, and its sturdy garrison, on pushed the squad. Two hundred miles more they rode, until, where green foothills met green plains, under the eye of Long’s Peak, was stationed, as Oliver well knew, Fort St. Vrain, brother post to Bent’s. He was wondering whether Ike was not intending to swing into the west and visit this post, when, like the others, he sighted a horseman approaching at a gallop. “Injuns!” cried voices in the cavalcade. “White man, I reckon,” cried others. “Close up, close up,” ordered Lieutenant Ike, gruffly. “An’ keep yore eyes peeled for more.”