The canyon mouth was located at the red cliffs, up the valley about three miles; and as the sun had not set, and as there was nothing especial to do, a little bunch of the men from the two commands rode over. Oliver saw that here at the red cliffs the Platte came tumbling out of the mountain country. High upon either hand rose the scarlet walls, about one hundred yards apart, their shelves dotted with a few pines, their tops bearing a fringe of the same dark-green. The river roared loudly, as it boiled down. Many rocks stuck up through the current. “It’s wuss above,” quoth William New, when they all emerged, and rode away. “’Tain’t any place for human being to travel in. Thar’s one place called Fiery Narrows――wagh!” “Ah, who fears?” laughed Descoteaux, Frenchman, of the Frémont party. “Where Monsieur Frémont go, I go.” “I, too,” announced Clément Lambert, his comrade. Frémont himself, with Basil Lajeunesse, his trusted adjutant, surveyed the place, the next morning; and when they rode back it was rumored that the lieutenant was more determined than ever to launch his boat, on the return from the South Pass. As the company continued to advance, the next day, the country grew drier. Grasshoppers jumped in clouds from beneath hoof and wheel; so that William New, with whom Oliver rode, shook his head. “Signs air bad,” he mumbled. “When hoppers air many, grass air few.” No Indians had yet been sighted; but early in the afternoon a sudden commotion swept the line, as from scouting service in the advance back galloped four Frémont men. “Aux armes!” they shouted. “To arms! They come――the savages!” Around whirled their horses Kit Carson and Frémont, and while the lieutenant and Lucien Maxwell and Basil Lajeunesse urgently strove with the van, Kit Carson sped recklessly adown the line to the rear. “To the river, boys!” he shouted. “We’ll fort thar, an’ let ’em come! Quick, now!” How the men jumped to his clear tones! The river was near, on the right; its hither bank was high and steep; pack animals and mule teams were forced into trot and lope; the packs swayed and jolted, the carts jolted and swayed; loud rose the cries of the drivers. Just as on the Santa Fé Trail, in the attack by the Kiowas, now here upon the edge of the river, under the steep bank the carts were instantly wheeled into a semi-circle, enclosing the horses and mules. Over the bank peered the defenders, rifle muzzles forward, Oliver ready with his tack-studded gift from Kit. “Bang! Whang!” sounded the reports as several of the Frémont men fired their guns, to be certain of their condition. Mr. Bissonette and the Indian who was to protect the march from attack by his people had not “forted” with the column; they had at once ridden on, to meet the enemy, and to explain. Now here they came, back, with two new Indians. “Wagh! Sioux!” grunted the men around Oliver.