The famous border fortress was built around a square, the living quarters on one side, the trading rooms on another.  Few Indians were admitted at one time, other than the Indian wives of the engages, the officials of the fur company or of the attached white or halfbreed hunters.  Above some of the inner buildings were sleeping lofts.  The inner open space served as a general meeting ground.  Indolent but on guard, Old Laramie held her watch, a rear guard of the passing West in its wild days before the plow.

All residents here knew Jim Bridger.  He sought out the man in charge.

“How, Bordeaux?” he began.  “Whar’s the bourgeois, Papin?”

“Down river—­h’east h’after goods.”

The trader, hands on his little counter, nodded to his shelves.

“Nada!” he said in his polyglot speech.  “Hi’ll not got a damned thing lef’.  How many loads you’ll got for your h’own post, Jeem?”

“Eight wagons.  Iron, flour and bacon.”

“Hi’ll pay ye double here what you’ll kin git retail there, Jeem, and take it h’all h’off your hand.  This h’emigrant, she’ll beat the fur.”

“I’ll give ye half,” said Bridger.  “Thar’s people here needs supplies that ain’t halfway acrost.  But what’s the news, Bordeaux?  Air the Crows down?”

“H’on the Sweetwater, h’awaitin’ for the peelgrim.  Hi’ll heard of your beeg fight on the Platte.  Plenty beeg fight on ahead, too, maybe-so.  You’ll bust h’up the trade, Jeem.  My Sioux, she’s scare to come h’on the post h’an’ trade.  He’ll stay h’on the veelage, her.”

“Every dog to his own yard.  Is that all the news?”

“Five thousand Mormons, he’ll gone by h’aready.  H’womans pullin’ the han’cart, sacre Enfant!  News—­you’ll h’ought to know the news.  You’ll been h’on the settlement six mont’!”

“Hit seemed six year.  The hull white nation’s movin’.  So.  That all?”

“Well, go h’ask Keet.  He’s come h’up South Fork yesterdays.  Maybe-so quelq’ cho’ des nouvelles h’out West.  I dunno, me.”

“Kit—­Kit Carson, you mean?  What’s Kit doing here?”

“Oui. I dunno, me.”

He nodded to a door.  Bridger pushed past him.  In an inner room a party of border men were playing cards at a table.  Among these was a slight, sandy-haired man of middle age and mild, blue eye.  It was indeed Carson, the redoubtable scout and guide, a better man even than Bridger in the work of the wilderness.

“How are you, Jim?” he said quietly, reaching up a hand as he sat.  “Haven’t seen you for five years.  What are you doing here?”

He rose now and put down his cards.  The game broke up.  Others gathered around Bridger and greeted him.  It was some time before the two mountain men got apart from the others.

“What brung ye north, Kit?” demanded Bridger at length.  “You was in Californy in ’47, with the General.”

“Yes, I was in California this spring.  The treaty’s been signed with Mexico.  We get the country from the Rio Grande west, including California.  I’m carrying dispatches to General Kearny at Leavenworth.  There’s talk about taking over Laramie for an Army post.  The tribes are up in arms.  The trade’s over, Jim.”