Rapidly the horseman approached. Nearer he drew, speeding recklessly, his pony now and then jumping to avoid a badger hole or prairie-dog hole. Presently could be descried his long hair and a kerchief turban streaming in the breeze that he made; above his head he flourished his rifle――its muzzle puffed smoke, as signal that he was a friend and was coming with empty gun. “White!” grunted several voices, simultaneously. “Wagh!” uttered another. “Not exactly, boys. If that airn’t Jim Beckwith, I’m a beaver!” Jim Beckwith! Oliver knew Jim Beckwith――or Beckwourth, as he called himself――and had seen him in Taos. He was a mixed blood, half French and half negro, and was celebrated because, when early a trapper, he had been adopted by the Crow Indians and made a head war-chief. Arriving, while jogged the squad, he halted his pony by pulling it to its haunches. A romantic figure he was, with head bare, Indian fashion, with dark, handsome, almost Indian features, his sinewy, graceful frame sheathed in gaily fringed and beaded buckskin. “How,” he greeted. “How,” and “Hello, Jim,” greeted the squad. “From Touse?” “Yep.” “Where bound?” “Up to Fort John.” “What’s the news?” “Nothing much. Kit sent for us, is all.” “Wants you on that expedition.” “What expedition?” “Government.” “How’d you know?” “’Cause part of it’s just passed on up through St. Vrain. I was there and saw it. Young army fellow by name of Frémont’s captain, and he said Carson and rest of the crowd are waiting at Laramie. Maxwell was along, too, and he said same. Maxwell’s hunter, Kit’s guide. Kit took one party up by way the North Platte trail, Frémont and Maxwell came in ’cross country by South Platte. They’re all to meet at Fort John or Laramie.” “Heap doings,” muttered Lieutenant Ike. “What’s the lodge talk?” he asked. “Oregon trail’s being broken by settlers. First company’s already passed Laramie. Sioux are bad, and Gros Vents and Cheyennes have joined ’em, for war-path up Sweetwater. They’re hot for Crow and white scalps, and Snake hosses. You fellows are liable to lose ha’r.” “Wagh! But what’s this hyar expedition for?” “To make the trail wider. To tell the government at Washington where South Pass is, near as I could find out from Maxwell.” “But who doesn’t know whar South Pass air!” exclaimed a chorus. “Wall,” quoth Lieutenant Ike, “if we’ve all been thar once we can all go thar ag’in. Kit’s sent for us, an’ that’s ’nough. Come on, boys.” V FRÉMONT SAYS “ONWARD!” “Thar’s Fort John,” directed Oliver’s trail comrade, William New. This was the fourth day after the meeting with Jim Beckwith; the march had been steadily northward, with snowy mountains distant on the left, and with far bleak ridges showing ever more clear, in the north. “Thar’s Fort John,” directed William New. “Those mountains beyond it are the Black Hills, whar the Sioux an’ Cheyenne cache themselves.” “Is that the same as Fort Laramie?” asked Oliver.