“Wall, got yore express, an’ hyar we air,” volunteered Ike, as all rode on. “What’s the news?” “Government expedition to the South Pass; maybe further. Lieutenant Frémont, army man, is boss; Maxwell’s hunter, I’m guide. The lieutenant’s got twenty or so fust-class St. Louis Frenchmen hired for the trip, but seemed to me I’d feel more comfortable if I had some o’ my own crowd. So I sent those two Delawares to Touse, with the word.” [Illustration: JOHN CHARLES FRÉMONT] As they were about to pass the post another horseman spurred out, intercepting them. The fact that this was the “army man,” government “boss” of the expedition, was impressed upon the cavalcade, and all eyes turned to scrutinize the rider as he approached. He rode well and easily――but with somewhat longer stirrup than the short Indian-hung stirrup of the Carson men, and sitting rather more erect than was trapper custom. His costume bore scarce a trace of army uniform; he wore a short plain blue blouse, half unbuttoned, over blue flannel shirt and ordinary jean trousers tucked into high moccasins, while his head-gear was the broad curly-brimmed wool hat of the plains and mountains. He carried no sword. However, athwart his saddle-horn was lying the inevitable rifle. His figure was more slender than Kit Carson’s; he was about two inches taller, and evidently he weighed about the same. He had a full brown beard, rather compact and wavy, oval face, white skin now tanned, bold clean-cut nose jutting like the keel of a boat, and large eyes of flashing blue. He was not any older than Kit, much handsomer, altogether a different style of man――more excitable, more dashing, more like Kit was in an Indian fight. Yes, here was another type of leader. “Got your men, I see,” he addressed, reining in, with a rapid glance along the column. “Yep,” drawled Kit. “Hyar they are.” “And one boy, too,” added the lieutenant, with a smile at Oliver. “That will make my boys envious.” “Wall,” remarked Kit, “he’s man an’ on the pay-roll. ’Tisn’t size that counts, always.” The camp was close ahead. It consisted of about a dozen small cone-shaped tents of dingy canvas; one tent, slightly larger than the others, and set apart, probably was Lieutenant Frémont’s tent. The camp was thronging with whites in frontier costume, with Indians and dogs; saddles and packs were stacked in piles; and out from the creek bank, in a grassy place, were grazing horses and mules. From the camp now came racing, like young Indians, upon their ponies, two boys, as if eager to inspect. One was younger than Oliver, the other was older. They, also, were dressed in easy but rough plains costume, and the younger even wore Cheyenne moccasins. With brief “Hello” they fell in alongside the leaders of the column, and accompanied it while covertly eyeing its make-up. Oliver assumed his best mountain-man pose, and with equal sly curiosity eyed them back.