“No, my men will mess by themselves,” was saying Kit Carson, to Lieutenant Frémont. “O’ course, thar can be a general camp, but they’ll make their own way. That’ll avoid any trouble.” “Very well,” answered Lieutenant Frémont. “That’s understood, then. I don’t feel authorized to enlist them.” To the camp rode on the Carson squad; and at the lifted hand of Kit, as signal, they were off saddle at once, to unpack and make another camp――an extension of first. While Oliver was busy, a voice spoke to him. “Your name’s Oliver, Kit says.” It was Lieutenant Frémont, accosting him with another frank smile; the two boys, bridle-lines upon arms, were with him. “I want you young gentlemen to get acquainted. Oliver, this is Henry Brant, and Randolph Benton, of St. Louis. They came out by the North Platte trail, with Kit’s party.” Oliver flushed, as he shook hands. “Are you going all the way?” asked Randolph, eagerly. He was the younger boy, with the Cheyenne moccasins; his age was about twelve. “I don’t know. We go as far as Kit goes, I guess.” “That’s all the way, then. You aren’t afraid of Indians, are you?” “Naw,” grunted Oliver, disdainfully. “We aren’t, either,” declared the older boy, Henry. He was about nineteen. And he continued, gloomily: “But we can’t go on. We’ve got to stay here at the fort, Mr. Frémont says.” “A Cheyenne boy gave me these moccasins,” informed Randolph, proudly, sticking out a foot. “Yes. I knew ’em for Cheyenne moccasins, soon as I saw ’em,” answered Oliver. “But why don’t you go on?” he invited――liking both boys. “Isn’t the party going on?” “Yes; but we’re too inexperienced, Mr. Frémont thinks. And he doesn’t want to have the responsibility of us,” explained Henry; continuing, gloomily as before: “_We’d_ go, if he’d let us; but if the Indians are bad I suppose we might be in the way, and I’d rather stay here than get anybody killed looking after us.” “So would I,” agreed Randolph, quickly. He was the livelier of the two. “We almost had a fight, coming out, anyhow; only they turned into trappers instead of Indians.” “We’ll have some fun, at the fort, I guess,” said Henry, more hopefully. “But you finish up your work, Oliver. We’ll watch you.” “Well,” admitted Oliver. “I’ll be done in a minute.” He proceeded; his two friends strolled about, keeping in touch with him. The Frémont party were composed all of St. Louis French――the majority seasoned voyageurs and trappers who as American Fur Company men had before met the Carson men on the beaver trail. They wore, some buckskins, but the greater proportion baggy jean trousers stuffed into high moccasins or boots, and belted at the waist, flannel shirts adjusted outside the trousers, like blanket-coats and trimmed in red, bright neckerchiefs, and handkerchief turbans or the wool hats. A cheery, bustling, dark-faced and dark-eyed crowd they were, laughing much and singing much and joking much.