“Let’s go down to the fort,” proposed Randolph, at once, when Oliver turned from his last chore. But the sun was setting behind great Laramie Peak of the Black Hills, in the west; throughout the combined camps fires were blazing; and Oliver, keenly aware of time and place, must reply: “No; this chile’s wolfish, and pots are on the fire. Meat, first. Then I’ll go.” “You eat with us, at our mess,” invited Henry. “Yes. You can, can’t you?” urged Randolph. “Buffalo meat, and coffee!” “I suppose you’re used to buffalo meat, though,” hazarded Henry, as they moved on. “Yes. That’s what we live on, mostly. Don’t have much coffee. Didn’t bring any, this trip.” “We lost nearly all of ours――a whole bag full, in the Kansas River!” chirped Randolph. “Almost as soon as we’d started. Our rubber boat tipped over when we were crossing, and Kit Carson and Mr. Maxwell and everybody had to jump into the river and rescue things. Some of the men couldn’t swim, either; but they didn’t care! Kit Carson was sick two days from his wetting.” “He’s often been in rivers. Trappers wade to their waist in ice-water, setting traps or finding ’em,” explained Oliver. “Are you a trapper?” “I’m learning,” answered Oliver, cautiously. And he added, with pride: “I’m a Kit Carson man, though.” “Do those tacks in your rifle mean scalps?” “Yes.” “Did you take them?” “No; but Kit Carson did, before he gave the rifle to me. It was his rifle.” “I’d like to be a Kit Carson man,” declared Henry. “I’d as soon be a Frémont man,” retorted Randolph, loyally. “Well, it takes pluck to follow either of them, I guess,” admitted Henry. “They’re both brave. You ought to have seen them riding after buffalo! Kit Carson’s horse put his foot in a hole and threw him head over heels and ran away with the buffalo till Mr. Maxwell caught him; and the lieutenant’s horse chased so hard and got so excited that it regularly foamed at the mouth! It’s a trained buffalo horse; name is Proveau.” They squatted, trapper fashion, guns against knees, near a fire upon which a pot of stew bubbled and steamed attractively. At other fires men were toasting strips of meat held on sticks. “You came up from Taos, didn’t you?” asked Henry. “Yes.” “We came clear from St. Louis. That’s about as far,” piped Randolph. “But I came from Washington, too. We left Missouri――or Mr. Chouteau’s farm just this side, the tenth of June and we got here July thirteenth. We’ve been here a week.” “Did you have any scrimmages, on the trail?” queried Oliver. “Naw,” said Henry. “Once we thought we were going to, but they were just a band of trappers on their way back to Missouri. We had some fine buffalo hunts, though. But Lieutenant Frémont almost got into a big Indian fight. He separated from us, part way; and he and Mr. Maxwell and a couple of others followed up the South Branch of the Platte River to the mountains, while we took the Oregon Trail route, up the North Branch.”