"Plenty--you will find them back there."

Weucha, who came up after magnanimously shaking the hand of William Clark, peered with curiosity into Lewis's almost empty quiver. He smiled again, for that the white men had ridden well was obvious enough. He called a young man to him, showed him the arrow-mark, and sent him back to see how many of the dead buffalo showed arrows with similar marks.

In time the messenger came back carrying a sheaf of arrows. Grinning, he held up the fingers of two hands.

"Tell him that is nothing, Dorion," said Lewis. "We could have killed many more if we had wished. We see that the Sioux can ride. Now, let us see if they can talk at the council fire!"

The two leaders hastened to their own encampment to remove all traces of the hunt. An hour later they emerged from their tents clad as officers of the army, each in c.o.c.ked hat and full uniform, with sword at side.

With the fall of the sun, the drums sounded in the Indian village. The criers pa.s.sed along the street summoning the people to the feast, summoning also the chiefs to the council lodge. Here the head men of the village gathered, sitting about the little fire, the peace pipe resting on a forked stick before them, waiting for the arrival of the white chiefs--who could make the thunder come, who could make a strong chief of black skin beat his head upon the ground; and who, moreover, could ride stripped and strike the buffalo even as the Sioux.

The white leaders were in no haste to show themselves. They demanded the full dignity of their station; but they came at last, their own drum beating as they marched at the head of their men, all of whom were in the uniform of the frontier.

York, selected as standard-bearer, bore the flag at the head of the little band. Meriwether Lewis took it from him as they reached the door of the council lodge, and thrust the staff into the soil, so that it stood erect beside the lance and shield of Weucha, chief of the Yanktonnais. Then, leaving their own men on guard without, the two white chiefs stepped into the lodge, and, with not too much attention to the chiefs sitting and waiting for them, took their own places in the seat of honor. They removed their hats, shook free their hair--which had been loosened from the cues; and so, in dignified silence, not looking about them, they sat, their long locks spread out on their shoulders.

Exclamations of excitement broke even from the dignified Sioux chiefs.

Clearly the appearance and the conduct of the two officers had made a good impression. The circle eyed them with respect.

At length Meriwether Lewis, holding in his hand the great peace pipe that he had brought, arose.

"Weucha," said he, Dorion interpreting for him, "you are head man of the Yanktonnais. I offer you this pipe. Let us smoke. We are at peace.

We are children of the Great Father, and I do not bring war. I have put a flag outside the lodge. It is your flag. You must keep it. Each night you must take it down, roll it up, and put it in a parfleche, so that it will not be torn or soiled. Whenever you have a great feast, or meet other peoples, let it fly at your door. It is because you are a chief that I give you this flag. I gave one to the Omahas, another to the Otoes. Let there be no more war between you. You are under one flag now.

"I give you this medal, Weucha, this picture on white iron. See, it has the picture of the Great Father himself, my chief, who lives where the sun rises. I also give you this writing, where I have made my sign, and where the red-headed chief, my brother, has made his sign.

Keep these things, so that any who come here may know that you are our friends, that you are the children of the Great Father.

"Weucha, they told us that the Sioux were bad in heart, that you would say we could not go up the river. Our Great Father has sent us up the river, and we must go. Tomorrow our boats must be on their course. If the Great Father has such medicine as this I give you, do you think we could go back to him and say the Sioux would not let us pa.s.s? You have seen that we are not afraid, that we are chiefs--we can do what you can do. Can you do what we can? Can you make the thunder come? Is there any among you who has a black skin, like the man with us? Are any of your men able to strike the eye of a deer, the head of a grouse, at fifty paces with the rifle? All of my men can do that.

"I give you these presents--these lace coats for your great men, these hats also, such as we wear, because you are our brothers, and are chiefs. A little powder, a few b.a.l.l.s, I give you, because we think you want them. I give you a little tobacco for your pipes. If my words sound good in your ears, I will send a talking paper to the Great Father, and tell him that you are his children."

Deep-throated exclamations of approval met this speech. Weucha took the pipe. He arose himself, a tall and powerful man, splendidly clad in savage fashion, and spoke as the born leader that he also was. He pledged the loyalty of the Sioux and the freedom of the river.

"I give you the horse you rode this morning," said Weucha to Lewis, "the black runner. To you, red-haired chief, I give the white-and-black horse that you rode. It is well that chiefs like you should have good horses.

"Tomorrow our people will go a little way with you up the river. We want you for our friends, for we know your medicine is strong. We know that when we show this flag to other tribes--to the Otoes, the Omahas, the Osages--they will fall on the ground and knock their heads on the ground, as the black man did when the red-headed chief raised it above him.

"The Great Father has sent us two chiefs who are young but very wise.

They can strike the buffalo. They can speak at the council. Weucha, the Yanktonnais, says that they may go on. We know you will not lose the trail. We know that you will come back. You are chiefs!"

CHAPTER II

THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER

Late in the night the Yanktonnais drums still sounded, long after a dozen Sioux had spoken, and after the two white chieftains had arisen and left the council fire. The people of the village were feasting around half a hundred fires. The village was joyous, light-hearted, and free of care. The hunt had been successful.

"Look at them, Will," said Meriwether Lewis, as they paused at the edge of the bluff and turned back for a last glimpse at the savage scene. "They are like children. I swear, I almost believe their lot in life is happier than our own!"

"Tut, tut, Merne--moralizing again?" laughed William Clark, the light-hearted. "Come now, help me get my eelskin about my hair. We may need this red mane of mine further up the river. I trust to take it back home with me, after all, now that we seem safe to pa.s.s these Sioux without a fight. I am happy enough that our business today has come out so well. I am a bit tired, and an old bull gave me a smash with his horn this morning; so I am ready to turn into my blankets.

Are all the men on the roll tonight?"

"Sergeant Ordway reports Shannon still absent. It seems he went out on the hunt this morning, and has not yet come back. I'll wait up a time, I think, Will, to see if he comes in. It is rather a wild business for a boy to lie out all night in such a country, with only the wolves for company. Go you to your blankets, as you say. For me, I might be a better sleeper than I am."

"Yes, that is true," rejoined Will Clark, rubbing his bruised leg. "It is beginning to show on you, too, Merne. Isn't it enough to be astronomer and doctor and bookkeeper and record-keeper and all that?

No, you think not--you must sit up all night by your little fire under the stars and think and think. Oh, I have seen you, Merne! I have seen you sitting there when you should have been sleeping. Do you call that leadership, Captain Lewis? The men are under you, and if the leader is not fit, the men are not. Now, a human body will stand only so much--or a human mind, either, Merne. There is a limit to effort and endurance."

His friend turned to him seriously.

"You are right, Will," said he. "I owe duty to many besides myself."

"You take things too hard, Merne. You cannot carry the whole world on your shoulders. Look now, I have not been so blind as not to see that something is going wrong with you. Merne, you are ill, or will be.

Something is wrong!"

His companion made no reply. They marched on to their own part of the encampment, and seated themselves at the little fire which had been left burning for them.[4]

[Footnote 4: The original journals of these two astonishing young men--one of them just thirty years old, the other thirty-four--should rank among the epic literature of the world. Battered about, scattered, separated, lost, hawked from hand to hand, handed down as unvalued heritages, "edited" first by this and then by that little man, sometimes to the extent of actual mutilation or alteration of their text--the journals of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark hold their ineffacable clarity in spite of all. Their most curious quality is the strange blending of two large souls which they show. It was only by studying closely the individual differences of handwriting, style, and spelling, that it could be determined what was the work of Lewis, which that done by Clark.

And what a labor! After long days of toil and danger, under unvarying hardships, in conditions of extremest discomfort and inconvenience for such work, the two young leaders set down with unflagging faithfulness countless thousands of details, all in such fashion as showed the keenest and most exact powers of observation. Botanists, naturalists, geographers, map-makers, builders, engineers, hunters, journalists, they brought back in their notebooks a ma.s.s of information never equaled by the records of any other party of explorers.

We cannot overestimate the sum of labor which all this meant, day after day, month after month; nor should we underestimate the qualities of mind and education demanded of them, nor the varied experience of life in primitive surroundings which needed to be part of their requisite equipment. It was indeed as if the two friends were fitted by the plan of Providence for this great enterprise which they concluded in such simple, unpretending, yet minutely thorough fashion.

Neither thought himself a hero, therefore each was one. The largest glory to be accorded them is that they found their ambition and their content in the day's work well done.]

William Clark went on with his reproving.

"Tell me, Merne, what are you thinking of? It is not that woman?"

He seemed to feel the sudden shrinking of the tall figure at his side.

"I have touched you on the raw once more, haven't I, Merne?" he exclaimed. "I never meant to. I only want to see you happy."

"You must not be too uneasy, Will," returned Meriwether Lewis, at last. "It is only that sometimes at night I lie awake and ponder over things. And the nights themselves are wonderful!"

"Saw you ever such nights, Merne, in all your life? Breathed you ever such air as these plains carry in the nighttime? Why do you not exult--what is it you cannot forget? You don't really deceive me, Merne. What is it that you _see_ when you lie awake at night under the stars? Some face, eh? What, Merne? You mean to tell me you are still so foolish? We left three months ago. I gave you two months for forgetting her--and that is enough! Come, now, perhaps some maid of the Mandans, on ahead, will prove fair enough to pipe to you, or to touch the bull-hide tambourine in such fashion as to charm you from your sorrows! No, don't be offended--it is only that I want to tell you not to take that old affair too hard. And now, it is time for you to turn in."

William Clark himself arose and strolled to his own blanket-roll, spread it out, and lay down beneath the sky to sleep. Meriwether Lewis sought to follow his example, and spread open his robe and blankets close to the fire. As he leaned back, he felt something hard and crackling under his hand, and looked down.

It was his custom to carry in his blankets, for safekeeping, his long spygla.s.s, a pair of dry moccasins and a buckskin tunic. These articles were here, as he expected to find them. Yet here among them was a folded and sealed envelope--a letter! He had not placed it here; yet here it was.

He caught it up in his hand, looked at it wonderingly, kicked the ends of the embers together so that they flamed up, bent forward to read the superscription--and paused in amazement. Well enough he knew the firm, upright, characterful hand which addressed this missive to him:

TO CAPTAIN MERIWETHER LEWIS.--ON THE TRAIL IN THE WEST.

A feeling somewhat akin to awe fell upon Meriwether Lewis. He felt a cold p.r.i.c.kling along his spine. It was for him, yes--but whence had it come? There had been no messenger from outside the camp. For one brief instant it seemed, indeed, as if this bit of paper--which of all possible gifts of the G.o.ds he would most have coveted--had dropped from the heavens themselves at his feet here in the savage wilderness.

His heart had been on the point of breaking, it seemed to him--and it had come to comfort him! It was from her. It ran thus: