“She’s independent, all right,” observed William New. “She stands out alone. But I reckon she war named ’cause some o’ Ashley’s beaver-hunters, who broke this trail, after the Injuns, ten or fifteen year ago celebrated Fourth o’ July hyar, or Indypendence Day, as it air called down east.” Independence Rock was a huge bare weather-beaten, rounded mass of gray granite, forty yards high and 650 yards long, rising right out of the plain, on the north of the Sweetwater. As seemed to Oliver, curiously examining the surface, about everybody who had passed had carved or scratched his name or initials. Here were names of trappers, traders and missionaries, already thickly placed as high as arm could reach from horseback. To read the collection was a fascinating pastime. Oliver found Kit Carson’s name, and Jim Bridger’s, and Jim Beckwourth’s, and William New’s, and Ike’s, and Sol Silver’s, and General Ashley the famous Missouri fur-trader’s; etc. And there were many Indian signs; and there were names, freshly carved, of the emigrants who had passed by only two or three weeks before. And a large “_Independence_.” This afternoon part of the company (whose names were already upon the rock) went buffalo hunting; but Oliver and the others attacked the rock. “Hooray!” cheered the red-headed Irishman Tom Tobin, appearing from the other side of the rock, carrying a ladder made from cross-sticks tied with hide thongs to a pair of lodge-poles. “Sioux ladder,” pronounced Mariano the Mexican. “Bueno!” Climbing by aid of this, they placed their names much higher than any names yet. Early the next day the second of the Sweetwater Trail wonders was reached. This was Devil’s Gate, five miles above Independence Rock. It was another canyon, but very narrow, about 300 yards long, and almost 150 deep; and through it, among boulders and jagged blocks, roared the Sweetwater. The trail to the South Pass made a circuit back from this Devil’s Gate, so as to dodge the rough ridge; but Lieutenant Frémont and the scientific Mr. Preuss, and Oliver and many others who never had seen into Devil’s Gate, or who wanted to see into it again, rode over to the rim and peered down. The trail was growing rougher. The Sweetwater rippled in and out of little parks or pockets amidst the low hills of its valley; a mountain range bordered the valley on either hand, and to the south the slopes were ablaze with fires set by the Indians to drive the game (said William New) back to the open country. The fire seemed to make rains gather; and to-night’s camp was another wet, uncomfortable camp, but nobody complained. However, the rain, sweeping down from the high country, certainly was cold! “See thar?” invited Trapper New, to Oliver, the next morning, pointing ahead. They were topping a little rise, still near the faithful guiding Sweetwater; and far before, against the horizon, in a vista opened to the march, a line of dark mountains.