“Those air the Wind River mountains, to north o’ the South Pass. Pass cuts one end o’ them, I reckon. They’re heap medicine mountains; Injuns say they’re ha’nted by evil spirits. The Crows won’t go in ’em.” “How far?” asked Oliver, gazing hard. “Seventy miles, ’bout.” The Sweetwater was slowly dwindling, as they approached its sources. They picked up an Indian horse whose hoofs were sore; and an Indian dog, who was glad of the scraps that the men tossed to him. But he wasn’t friendly, and Oliver named him “Wolf.” Rain, and rain, and rain! That was now the weather program, every day; and when, five days beyond Devil’s Gate, at last the morning broke with sunshine, suddenly near at hand, right before, rose grandly with complete robe of dazzling white the Wind River mountain-chain. So high and aloof were they, that upon their flanks the rain had been snow. And now the South Pass was near indeed, for the Sweetwater was dividing into several streams, spreading like the veins of a leaf, to drain the little side valleys. “What do yore figgers say as to our height up?” queried Ike, carelessly, of Mr. Preuss. “I cannot tell you, yet, my friend,” responded Mr. Preuss, nervously. “Wall,” remarked Ike, “I can tell you without figgers that we’re climbing. Cactuses air going; moss air beginning; an’ that’s a sartin sign, in the hills.” Oliver kept his eyes sharp set for the celebrated pass. He had before crossed the top of the Rocky Mountains; but here was a pass the most famous of all――said to be the only single pass by which the traveller changed at once from the east side to the west side of the mountains. So he watched keenly. The morning was rainy, again; Kit Carson and Lieutenant Frémont led the march away from the wheel-marked road which had been followed much of the time, and took a saddle and pack trail that swung out, one side. They all rode along leisurely and without trouble, winding about upon a series of billowy slopes, with the Wind River Mountains gradually unfolding gap and crest, on the right. After a ride of five or six miles Kit Carson and Lieutenant Frémont halted, and engaged in a discussion, while now and then pointing and examining. The cavalcade gradually gathered about them. “I’ve been hyar, on an’ off, during a dozen years,” was saying Kit Carson, mildly. “An’ I nor any other man can ever be exactly sure. But ’cording to my notion an’ my recollection, this ought to be it.” “It seems so to me, too,” concurred the lieutenant. “But where’s the pass?” queried Oliver, of William New. Trapper New chuckled. “Whar? Look under yore hoss, boy. You’re on it!” “South Pass?” stammered Oliver, astounded. “Right. Kit says the top――didn’t ye hear him? Behind air the United States, before air Oregon. All that ’ere country, west to the mouth o’ the Columbia at the Pacific Ocean; that air Oregon. And wagh! what a beaver country! Down below us, northwest, air the Valley o’ the Green River, big trappers’ rendezvous place.”