THE brigade rode away for the Valley of the Green. Bands were hastening eastward now, and the summer rendezvous camps were gathering—Snake, Flathead, Nez Perce, Pend d'Oreille. White Beaver medicine! White Beaver medicine! The words were on every tongue. What they meant, none knew; if the Nez Perces knew, they would not say. But the flame was everywhere, spreading like wildfire. Strong medicine, to make the hearts stout!
Who had spread this, whence it had come, what it meant, was impossible to say. Most took it literally. Carson suspected some other meaning, suspected that Laforay knew or guessed; but Laforay held stubborn silence and disclaimed knowledge.
“I've allus found the strongest medicine is a strong heart,” said old Bridger. “The trail we've opened into Oregon ain't to be closed.”
“Right. The goods caravan from the Missouri ain't come in, is overdue. The Utes and the ’Rapahoes are holding off. Mebbe they got the medicine, or are waiting on it—”
“No!” Laforay yelled out excitedly. “It come by the South Pass! It come now. She’s be on the way. It bring smoke, shooting, shouting—hurry!”
“Hey!” Yells lifted to those in council. “There go the Injuns!”
Dream or shrewd hearing on Laforay’s part, no matter. The Indians were mounting and pelting away. The whites followed, rifles ready to hand. There was mad running and mounting and madder riding. Bridger took the lead, others pelted after, at his heels.
The rider galloping in on the trail from the South Pass had fired his rifle in air as signal, but Bridger scarcely drew rein on meeting him.
“What’s the sign?”
“Caravan’s near the top, bound over and down.”
“That there White Beaver medicine?”
“You've said it.”
“Come on!”—and Bridger thundered away with the mob at his heels.
The long-scored trail up the slope of the South Pass was flattened by the thudding hoofs. Now the summit rose ahead, bare and level, the open gateway into an Oregon hung up as the prize to the stronger party.
The verge of the broad summit was ahead. There they glimpsed a milling throng, whites and Indians, volleys of shouts, smoke spurting, guns banging. Bridger had his rifle ready, others were ready, as they tore in. The caravan was surrounded. It looked like a battle in all truth.
Then Bridger gaped. Horses were reined in. Astounded realization drove home.
Not a battle at all. Madly circling whites and Nez Perces flashing salutes of harmless powder, yelling jubilantly. Gawking trappers and Indians, the St. Louis caravan at impatient halt. In the centre of all a little group of travellers, trail-worn, on their knees, facing Oregon. Carson heard the murmurs of the crowding Nez Perce women:
“White Beaver! White Beaver! The White Beaver come!”
Bridger gasped in astonishment. “White women! Ain't so! Can't be!”
It was. Two white women, white women, young women. The doctor of last summer’s rendezvous. Whitman, stood up and came to Bridger.
“You see, I brought them, as I engaged to do!”
“Ain't so!” gasped Bridger. “Another medicine dream, that’s what!”
Some laughed. But Whitman frowned, puzzled.
“That’s what I don't understand. Bridger. They tell us we've been expected. These Nez Perces keep talking about white beaver having come; they seem to refer to the women. I took two Nez Perce boys east with me last year. They talked a great deal about a white beaver dream, some medicine sign that would cross the mountains and change the color of the country. When they learned that white women were coming with us. they seemed tremendously impressed. Could they have sent word ahead? It is impossible.”
Jim Bridger rubbed his chin.
“The arrer flies,” he muttered. “The arrer flies. If you can tell me how Injuns read sign out of the air. I can tell you why buffler stampede on a calm day, with not even a snake in striking distance of ’em. Where you aim to go?”
“On through Oregon. To the lower Columbia.”
“Them your wagons?”
“Yes.”
“Can't be did. You can't take wheels, let alone women.”
“One of the ladies is my wife. The other is the wife of Brother Spalding. They are going through. The wagons will go as far as possible. We’ll mark a trail for other wheels to follow with other Americans, men and women, for Oregon. We’ll be making ready for them.”
“Aim to settle your women out yonder? Why, there ain't a white woman 'twixt here and the mouth of the Columby! None there, even.”
Whitman laughed. “There soon will be. We carry the Bible, the home, Bridger. We’re here to occupy Oregon. You’ll soon see the trails of the plains and mountains white with wagons.”
Laforay broke out all a-stare. “I see the sign, sure! White women—White Beaver sign. It pass the mountains, make the stronger side who have it!”
CARSON felt a touch, and turned. Singing Bird stood there, her eyes shining.
“Little Chief, you are glad? You will follow the white women? The Nez Perces say they are the medicine; all the land will be white, not red.”
“Go back with the women. Singing Bird.” said Carson. “Presently I will come All will be made straight. The trail is clear.”
Bridger’s jovial voice broke in:
“Movin' along. Kit; ketch up, ketch up! There’ll be doin’s in the camp. We’ll all dance medicine. Danged if white skins ain't good for eyes and heart! How somever, I didn't come out here to tend pot on the trapline. Brown skin’s fittenest there.”
Carson made no answer. He climbed into the saddle and sat there, alone, his gaze flickering across the scene, yet seeing nothing here. Singing Bird had gone with the others. Two white women, only two; but they were breaking a medicine trail clear across the plains into farthest Oregon.
Wheels. A new symbol Carson mused darkly, to replace the old symbol of the medicine sack. That was passing now. Wheels were coming; farmers. Nobody else could see it, but Carson saw it as he sat there. The brief flaming glory of the mountain men was doomed. They were doomed. Beaver was doomed, and trapping. Queer how the men had talked that night in camp, about living to see what would happen around here! They would all see it quickly enough, but none of them had guessed right. Wheels—that was it. White women and wheels and homes.
Carson thrilled suddenly. He had it. He had found it—the elusive thing, the aim and end, the reason for his being here, the future ahead of him. Prime mountain man? No! He was done with all that, forever. He had found himself now. Wheels were coming; wheels with need for guides, white women with need for guards. The mountain passes must be explored, the country opened up. “Bridger says it can't be done. It must be done, it will be done; wheels will go everywhere. There’s the future for a man.”
He stirred in the saddle. His long gaze focused on the figures trudging afar. Queer things stirred in his brain, in his heart. A moment had swept everything away; he was changed, everything was changed. His eyes were opened, and the road was opened, the road of the future. Singing Bird was compliant; whatever happened, in her view, was good. Let her go.
Queer, he thought, what depth of wisdom lay in medicine talk. White beaver medicine—to make strong those who have it. Make strong! These were white women, making their men strong in the present and the future. The vanishing race, the mountain men, would stick to their lodge-keepers, and pass with the beaver. That was all done now. The plains would be white with wagon-tops. White women for white men!
Pursuit of youth, headstrong, implacable, intent, the ambition of months, the long trail by snow and stream—all changed in a moment. All over and gone and departed. He realized it, struggled against it, yielded to it as he sat brooding. Already his decision was made. Yet he lingered upon thought …
As he picked up his reins, something stirred at his belt; it was the scalp of Plenty Eagle, so long sought, so bitterly taken. That, too, was a symbol.
Carson smiled, dropped the scalp in the dusty road and sent his horse forward on the trail of the future. He had found himself, Kit Carson, at last.