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 River, which, as Fremont knew, drains the great central valley of California. Here was an incidental proof of the approaching end of the long and terrible journey, for in nothing are local influences in America more distinctly reflected than in the arms and utensils of the natives.

Very eager were the questions put to the new-comers, who were, so to speak, links between the east and the west of the mighty barrier to be crossed, and having heard all that they could tell, Fremont informed his men of the resolution he had already long before come to himself, of crossing the Californian Mountain. Again a young man was induced by a large present to act as guide, and on the 1st February the great enterprise was begun.

Silently—for they knew how hazardous was the task before them—the explorers commenced the ascent of the mountain, along the valley of a tributary stream of the Salmon-trout River. Deeper and deeper became the snow, and it was soon necessary to break a road. Ten men were told off for this service, mounted on the strongest surviving horses, each man in succession opening a path until he and his steed became exhausted, when he drew aside and let his comrade pass him. Sixteen miles were thus traversed; a height of 6,750 feet above the sea-level was attained, and still the icy peaks reared their heads with no sensible diminution in their lofty inaccessibility.

On the 4th February, two Indians joined the party, and one of them, an old man, made a harangue, much of which was understood by Fremont, who had now learned something of the language of the mountaineers. "Rock upon rock, rock upon rock, snow upon snow, snow upon snow lies before you," said the speaker, "and even if you get over the snow, you will not be able to get down from the mountains." The guide, on whom no word was lost, was so overcome by the apparent hopelessness of the situation, that he covered his face with his blanket and wept bitterly. "I wanted to see the whites," he moaned; "I came away from my own people to see the whites, and I wouldn't care to die among them, but here" Sobs checked his voice; "and," as Fremont adds with the quaint humor which runs throughout much of his narrative, "seated round the tree, the fire illuminating the rocks and the tall boles of the pines round about, and the old Indian haranguing, we presented a group of very serious faces."

The next morning, the guide, overcome by the horror awakened by the Indian's prophecy of disaster, ran away, and Fremont, rallying his men about him, offered to go forward on snow-shoes, with one companion, a Mr.