The trail, plainly wheel-marked by the party of the first Oregon emigrants which had travelled through only three weeks before, traversed a wide, rolling sagy plateau which occupied much of the space between the valley of the Laramie Creek, south, and of the North Platte River, north. About ten miles from the post a shallow, dry creek-bed was entered. Down the creek-bed, which now ran with a little current of clear warm water, continued the procession, and unexpectedly to Oliver they all emerged at a rapidly flowing river. “North Platte,” announced Trapper New, nonchalantly. “Yep; an’ a heap beaver stream, wagh!” The leaders had halted; the Frémont party already were unharnessing and unsaddling; so evidently this was the camping-place for the night. The upper end of the valley was closed by cliffs of scarlet, peeping over a little swell that intervened. “I’ve seen time when this hyar valley war full o’ buff’ler an’ elk an’ deer,” remarked Trapper New, as the Carson squad good-naturedly hustled to beat the larger party in making camp. “But when Injuns air out, game gets scarce. We’re going to have a lean trail, I reckon.” At this moment a ripple of laughter flowed through the party. Oliver followed the glances, and saw that the Frémont party were trying to erect a large tent; rather, a buffalo-hide lodge which they must have procured from the Indians at Fort Laramie. It was some twenty feet high, to the peak, and eighteen feet across, at the base, and was to be stretched like a cone over a framework of lodge-poles set in a circle and slanted to meet at a point. Almost the whole party, including the lieutenant and Kit Carson, were working at it. But twice it had toppled and fallen, burying the workers under its folds. “Now, Kit knows,” complained Ike Chamberlain. “He’s seen many a lodge put up. But hyar comes somebody who knows better, I reckon. You watch. It’s squaw work, anyhow; not man work.” Into the camp had ridden Agent Bissonette, from Fort Platte, with two Indians――man and wife. The woman, grinning broadly, at once trudged to the struggling group, and by gestures and short exclamations, and by applying deftly her own strength, soon had the skin tent stretched and stationary. Flushed and apologetic, Kit Carson strolled to his squad. “That’s harder than I thought,” he said. “I’ve seen a thousand lodges raised an’ struck, but I never touched one before. Thar always were squaws to do it.” “Camp hyar, do we, for the night?” commented Lieutenant Ike. “Yes. Frémont wants to ride over an’ inspect the canyon mouth yon, whar he’s coming down in his rubber boat, on our way back.” “He air, air he!” grunted Ike. “Humph! Old White Head tried that once, didn’t he――’fore his ha’r turned.” By “White Head” Oliver knew that Thomas Fitzpatrick, a noted trapper captain, was meant. “Wall, he knows that Fitz lost all his furs an’ nigh lost his life, voyaging into those canyons; but he’s bound to find out for himself, an’ I guess he will.”