“Where was he when they found him?” John had his map ready.

“Well, let’s see. They found him on September 11th, and they had traveled thirteen days, not counting stops, and made one hundred and sixty miles by the river. They must by then have been at least thirty miles above what is now Fort Randall, South Dakota—I should say, somewhere near Wheeler, South Dakota. Well, something of a walk for George, eh?”

“Rather!” was Jesse’s comment. “Oh, I suppose it’s easy to call him a dub, but the commanding officers didn’t.”

“But now,” went on their leader, “a lot of things have been happening since Shannon left, and here are a lot of interesting things to keep in mind. One thing is, they expected a trading boat up. That must have been from St. Louis, for Trudeau’s post. That was long before the days of the regular fur forts, and that accounts for all this country having its French names on it.

“Another thing or two: By this time, in lower South Dakota, everybody was killing buffalo and elk, great quantities of splendid meat. By now, also, in early September, they had got on the antelope range for the first time, and their first ‘goat,’ as they called it, was skinned and described. They got another new animal, which they called a ‘barkeing squirel,’ or ‘ground rat’—on September 7th. That was the first prairie dog, a great curiosity to them—the same day they saw their first ‘goat.’ They managed to drown out one prairie dog, which I never heard of anyone else being able to do. They dug down six feet, and did not get halfway to the ‘lodge,’ as they called the den.

“Also, they saw the western magpie, which seemed a ‘verry butifull’ bird to them. Also again, on September 5th, they had seen their first blacktail deer, which now, until they got into the Mandan and Yellowstone country, was to outnumber the whitetail, which they called the ‘common deer,’ because they never had seen any other sort. On one day, September 17th, Lewis and his men killed two blacktail, eight ‘fallow’ deer, and five ‘common’ deer. Gass—who by now has been elected sergeant to take poor Floyd’s place—in his Journal says they killed thirteen common deer, two blacktailed, three buffalo, and a ‘goat’ that day—not a half bad day, that, eh? Don’t you wish we’d been along?

“But Gass in his book also says something I want you to remember, for it may help explain the ‘fallow’ deer which Clark mentions, and which I don’t understand at all. Gass says: ‘There is another species of deer in this country, with small horns and long tails. The tail of one we killed was 18 inches long.’ Now that precisely coincides with the ‘fantail’ deer which some old-time hunters of my acquaintance say they have killed in the Black Hills country, though scientists say there never was any fantail deer. Our men were now right east of the Black Hills. For myself, I am convinced there was a fantail deer, and that it has far more rights as a species than the dozen or more ‘species’ of bears which our Washington scientists keep on finding.

“But even this is not all I am trying to get into your minds about this country where our lost hunter Shannon was wandering alone. They were getting all sorts of elk, catfish, and beaver, from the last of August on, but better here—on September 5th they saw both ‘goats’ and wild turkeys on the same day. Did you know that wild turkeys ranged so far north? Well, they at that time overlapped the range of the buffalo, the elk, the blacktailed deer, the badger, the antelope, the prairie dog, and the magpie.

“And in this hunting paradise, they killed on one day, September 8th, two buffalo, one large elk, one small elk, four deer, three turkeys, and a squirrel. All gone now, even almost all the prairie dogs and maybe the magpies; and we haven’t seen any young wild geese on our trip, either. But now, following out the record of these men, we can see what a wonderful hunting country they had been in, almost every day from St. Louis, especially here, where the lower country began to blend with the high Plains and their game animals. Great days, boys—great days! Alas! that they are gone for you and me forever.”

“You’re getting off the track, Uncle Dick,” said John, critically, just now, as the former concluded his long talk on the game animals.

“Why, what do you mean?”

“While Shannon was lost, and while they were all having such good luck hunting, they at last had found their Sioux and got them in for a council. That was under an oak tree, at the mouth of the Jacque, or James, River, on August 29th. Old man Dorion had found his son Pierre, who was trading among the Sioux, it says. Well, they got five chiefs and about seventy others, and they all went into council.”

“Oak tree, did you say, John? Oak tree this far north?” Jesse was particular.

“Yes, sir, oak tree—lots of them all through here then. Clark tells how the deer and elk ate the acorns, and how fond they were of them. Didn’t you notice that?”

“Well, let’s push off and run up to the old council ground,” said Rob, who was always for getting forward. “It can’t be more than a few hours’ run, for we don’t stop at any towns, you know.”

They did this, and spent some time studying the spot, so that they could believe they were on the very council ground where Lewis and Clark first met the Sioux, below the Calumet Bluff, on the “Butifull Plain near the foot of the high land which rises with a gradual assent near this Bluff.” At least a trace of the old abundance of the timber could be seen. They consulted their Journal and argued for a long time.

“This is where they sent out the two men to hunt for the lost man Shannon,” said Rob. “And here is where our captains made their big treaty speeches with the Sioux and gave them medals and the D.S.O., and the Congressional Medal and things. They had a lot of government ‘Good Indian’ certificates all ready to fill in, and it peeved them when one of the chiefs handed back his certificate and said he didn’t care for it, but would rather have some whiskey.

“Those Sioux must have been a surly bunch,” said Rob. “But Captain Lewis impressed them very much, and Captain Clark let down his long red hair and astonished them, and everybody fed them and gave them presents; and they appointed young Mr. Dorion a commissioner, and gave him a flag, and told him to bring about a peace between all these tribes—the Sioux, Omahas, Pawnees, Poncas, Otoes, and Missouris—and to try to get chiefs of each tribe to go down the river and to Washington, to see the Great Father. And the Journal kept them good and busy, setting down the names of the different bands of the Sioux and telling how they looked.”

John grinned, and pointed to the page. “‘The Warriers are Verry much deckerated with Paint Porcupine quils and feathers, large leagins and mockersons, all with buffalow robes of Different Colors, the Squars wore Peticoats and a White Buffalow roabe with the black hare turned back over their necks and Sholders.’ I’ll say they had plenty to do, writing and hunting and making speeches. It wasn’t any pleasure party, when you come right down to it, now!”

“We haven’t found George Shannon yet,” interrupted Jesse, dryly.

“Give us time!” answered Rob. “I vote to stay here all night. I can see the blue smokes of their council fires, and see the men dancing, and the painted Indians sitting around, and the great council pipe passing—red pipestone, with eagle feathers on the stem; and meat hanging in camp, and the squaws cooking, dogs yelping, drums going. Oh, by Jove! Oh, by Jove! Those were the things to make you sit up late at night! I wish we’d been along.”

“We are along!” said Uncle Dick, soberly. “If you can see those stirring scenes, we are along. So, Rob, as you say, we’ll pitch our camp and dream, for at least a day, of our own wonderful America when it was young.”

John and Jesse were busy clearing a place for the tent. “I want the fire right close up to the tent,” said John, “and we don’t want to burn off either a tent pole or an overhead guy rope.”

“Oh,” rejoined Jesse, the youngest of them all, “I’ll show you how to do that!”

He dug into his war bag and brought out a roll of stout wire. “Run this from the top of the front pole on out, ten or twelve feet, and stretch it over a couple of shear poles. See? That’ll stiffen the tent, and yet you can build a fire right under the wire, and it won’t hurt it any.”

“A good idea, Jesse,” approved their leader as he saw this. “A mighty good idea for cold weather—about as good as your open fireplace of sheet steel with a stovepipe—open wider in front than behind, and reflecting the heat into the tent. I’ve tried that last invention of yours, Jess, and it works fine in coolish weather. We’ll try it again, maybe.”

“I’m making me a new kind of airplane now,” said Jesse, modestly. “It’s different in some ways. I like to sort of figure things out, that way.”

“That’s good. And to-night, son, I want you to see whether you can’t figure out a nice fat catfish on your set line. We need meat in camp; and that’s about what it’ll have to be, I suppose.”

Thus, talking together of this thing and that, they made their own comfortable camp, spreading down their own buffalo robes on the ground for their beds, on the old council ground of the Sioux. They had a hearty supper and soon were ready to turn in, for the mosquitoes were bad enough, as they found. Rob sat late at night alone by the little fire.

“Come on to bed, Rob,” called Jesse. “What do you see out there, anyway?”

“Indians,” replied Rob. “Sioux in robes and feathers. Two men in uniform coats, one tall and dark, the other tall and with red hair. Don’t you see them, too?”

CHAPTER XIII

“He goes in the gunny sack for supper,” said Rob. “Do you suppose he’ll keep for three days, a hundred and fifty miles? I shouldn’t wonder if Shannon would enjoy a bite, for he’ll be hungry by that time.”

“It’s a long, long way, up to the Mandans!” John began to sing again. “Six hundred miles. And we’ll have to have gas pretty soon.”

They finished their breakfast, and, with the skill they had gained in many camps together, soon were packed and on their way above the old council camp of the Sioux.

“Buffalo and elk, every way you can look!” exclaimed John. “Elk swimming across the river. Herds of game feeding on the bluff sides! Grouse, foxes, prairie dogs, jack rabbits, pelicans, squirrels, deer, wolves—the boats full of meat all the time, and two or three beaver every night! Now there’s cottonwoods. By and by the river’ll begin to take a straighter shoot north. It’s a long, long way up to the Mandans!”

“And right through the country of those roaming, murdering Sioux!” added Rob.

“Right you are, Rob,” said Uncle Dick. “The Sioux used to hunt and rob as far as Fort Laramie, six hundred miles up the Platte, and on the head of the Jim River in Dakota, and all between. Their homes were where their hats were—and they hadn’t any hats.”

For some days now they threaded their way among the countless islands and sand bars of the great river, until at last they made camp early on the evening of June 9th, near the point which, as closely as they could figure it, was about where the Lewis and Clark bateau lay at the time George Shannon was found wandering on the Plains, alone and ready to despair. This was about thirty miles below the mouth of the White River.

“Well, we’ve got him,” said Jesse, solemnly, “and told him never to leave camp without matches and ammunition and an ax. And that’s that!”

“Time for another catfish, Jesse,” said their leader. “John, you take the .22 and wander along the edge of the bluff. You might see a young jack rabbit. I don’t believe I’d bother the ducks, for that’s against the law and we don’t break laws even when we are not watched. Rob, you and I will make camp—we’ll not need anything but the mosquito bars.”

Inside the hour a shout from Jesse informed them that he had another catfish on his throw line, and soon he had it flopping on the sand. He killed it stone dead by thrusting a stiff straw back into the brain through the “little hole in its face,” as he called the sinus which leads into the head cavity.

“I throw out my line,” said he, “with a piece of meat or minnow on the hook. Then I stick a stick down in the bank, two or three feet long, and take a half hitch around the top. It acts as a sort of rod and gives when the fish bites. He pulls down and swallows the bait, and the spring of the stick holds him safer than a straight pull would. To skin him, I cut around back of his front side fins and take hold of the skin with my pliers—just slit the hide a little down the sides, and it comes off. These channel cats aren’t bad to eat.”

John joined them before dark, with two half-grown jack rabbits which he had found on the bluffs below. He spoke of the fine view and of the splendid sunset he had seen. Rob was examining the rabbits, each of which had been shot squarely through the eye. “Dead-shot John, the old trapper!” said he. “That’s the way!”

“You didn’t think I’d shoot ’em anywhere but through the head, did you?” John inquired. “No sir, not yet!”

So, with meat in camp, they sat down, still in “verry good sperits,” as John quoted from the Journal.

Now day after day, hurrying hard as they could, they still drove on northward, along the great bends of what began to seem an interminable waterway. One bend, they fancied, they surely identified with the one mentioned in the Journal, which then was thirty miles around and not much over a half a mile across the neck. They reflected that in more than a hundred years the great river in all likelihood had cut through what Clark called the “Narost part,” the necks of dozens of such bends. On the map they identified the Rosebud Indian Reservation to the west. The great Plains country into which they now were advancing seemed wild, lonely, and at times forbidding, and the settlements farther and farther apart. They were in cattle country rather than farming country much of the time.

The Journal brought up the second great Sioux council of Lewis and Clark, on the “Teton river”—near Pierre, South Dakota—on the date of September 25th; but so faithful had the motive power of the good ship Adventurer proved, that our party pulled into the most suitable camping spot they could find not too near by, around noon of June 13th.

“Can’t complain,” said Rob, taking off his grease-spattered overalls and wiping his hands on a bit of waste. “We’ve slipped a day on our schedule, but from what we now know of this little old river, we are mighty lucky to be here and not down by Council Bluffs, or maybe Kansas City! It’s only a little over three hundred miles now to the Mandans. That’s as far ahead as I can think.”

“And as to rowing and paddling and poling and tracking her this far,” added John, “say, twelve hundred miles from the mouth of the Missouri—whew! It makes my back ache. Seems to me we’ve skipped along.”

“Well, why shouldn’t we?” demanded Jesse. “Those fellows had the finest kind of hunting in the world; over a thousand of miles of it, to here—over four thousand miles of it altogether—not a single day that didn’t have some sport in it, and they killed tons and tons of game. But all that is left for us is water and sand and willows. Ducks and grouse, yes, but we can’t shoot ’em. And I’ve got so I don’t crave to look a catfish in the face.”

Uncle Dick looked at the boys gravely and saw that the monotony of the long voyage was beginning to wear on them.

“Stick her through to the Mandans, fellows,” said he. “We’ll see what we’ll see. But Jesse, how can you complain of being bored when right now you are standing where Will Clark come pretty near being killed by the Teton Sioux?

“Yes, sir, it was right here that they tried to stop him from going back to the big boat. Then, for the first time, the Redhead Chief drew his sword—they always went into uniform when they had a council on—and Lewis and the men on the boat trained the swivel gun on the band of Sioux who were detaining Clark.

“You see, they had the council awning stretched on a sand bar in the mouth of the river, and the bateau was seventy yards off, anchored. They had sent out for the Sioux to come in, had smoked with them, given them provisions, made speeches to them, given them whisky and tobacco. The Sioux were arrogant, wanted more whisky and tobacco, and when Clark came ashore with only five men they tried to hold him up, grabbing the boat painter and pulling their bows. The second chief, says Clark, was bad, ‘his justures were of such a personal nature I felt Myself Compeled to Draw my Sword.... I felt Myself Warm and Spoke in verry positive terms.’ Which is all he says of a very dangerous scrape.”

“Whyn’t they bust into ’em with the swivel gun?” demanded Jesse. “At seventy yards they’d ’a’ got plenty of ’em.”

“Sure they would. And then maybe the Sioux would never have let them through at all and would have shot into every boat of white men that later came up the river. No, those young men showed courage and good judgment both. They did not know fear, but they did not forget duty, and they were there to make peace among all the tribes along the Missouri.

“President Jefferson knew that country would soon be visited by many of our fur traders, and he didn’t want the boats stopped. Lewis and Clark both knew this.”

“But the Sioux didn’t bluff them,” said Rob, “because Lewis went ashore with only five men, in his turn, and then they all pulled off a dance, and a big talk in a big council tent—it must have been big, for there were seventy Sioux in it, and just those two young American officers. The big pipe was on forked sticks in front of the chief, and under it they had sprinkled swan’s-down, and they all were dressed up to their limit. And though they could have been killed any minute, these two white men had that lot of Indians feeding from the hand, as the slang goes, Uncle Dick!”

Uncle Dick nodded, and Rob went on, referring to his Journal. “And then the big chief said what they had done was O.K., and asked the white men to ‘take pity on them’—which I think is an old Indian term of asking for some more gifts. Anyhow, the upshot was they smoked the peace pipe and ate ‘some of the most Delicate parts of the Dog which was prepared for the fiest and made a Sacrefise to the flag.’ Then they cleared away the floor, built up a fire in the lodge, and ‘about 10 Musitions began playing on Tambereens’—which made a ‘gingling noise.’ The women came in and danced, with staffs decorated with scalps, and everybody sang and everybody promised to be good.”

“Some party!” said Jesse, slangily; but Rob, now excited, went on with the story:

“Poor Clark nearly got sick from lack of sleep. But the next day the Sioux held on to the cable again and wanted to stop the boat till they had more tobacco. Then Lewis told the chiefs they couldn’t bluff him into giving them anything. Clark did give them a little tobacco and told the men not to fire the swivel. Then they ran up a red flag under the white, and the next Sioux that came aboard they told that those two flags meant peace or war, either way they wanted it, and if they wanted peace, they’d all better go back home and stay there, and not monkey with the buzz saw too long—well, you know, Uncle Dick, they didn’t really say that, but that was what they meant.

“The Sioux followed alongshore and begged tobacco for fifty miles, clean up to the Ree villages, near the mouth of the Cheyenne River. Oh, they found the Sioux, all right; and glad enough they were to get through them, even paying tribute as they had done.”

“That’s a fair statement of the Teton affair,” nodded the leader of the party. “Many a white life that tribe took, in the seventy-five years that were to follow. For the next hundred miles there were either Sioux or Rees pestering and begging and keeping the party uneasy all the time.”

“And I’ll bet they were glad to get to the Rees, too,” commented John. “Those half-Pawnees raised squashes, corn, and beans. But by now, if they had had a good shotgun or so along, they could have killed all sorts of swans, brant and other geese, and ducks, for they were running into the fall migration of the wild fowl. Grouse, too, were mentioned as very numerous. They stuck to big game—it was easy to get meat when you could see a ‘gang of goats’—antelope—swimming the river, and the hills covered with game.”

“Uncle Dick,” resumed Rob, as they again gathered around the map and Journal spread down on the tent floor, “those men must have had some notion of the country, even had some map of it.”

“Yes, they had a map—made by one Evans, the best then to be had, and I suppose made up from the fur traders’ stories. But it was incomplete. Even to-day few maps are anywhere near exactly accurate. For instance, when they came to the Cheyenne River—which, of course, the traders called the Chien, or Dog, River—Clark said that nothing was known of it till a certain Jean Vallé told them that it headed in the Black Hills.

“Of course, it’s all easy now. We know the Black Hills are in the southwest corner of South Dakota, and that the Belle Fourche River of the old cow country runs into the Cheyenne, which flows almost east, into the Missouri. But if Mr. Vallé had not been out to the Black Hills, Lewis and Clark would not have been able to give this information. Then, again, while they were at the Ree village, on October 10th, two more Frenchmen came to breakfast, ‘Mr. Tabo and Mr. Gravolin,’ who were already in this country.

“To me, one of the most interesting things is to see the overlapping and blending of all these things—how the turkey once overlapped the antelope and prairie dog; how the Rees, who were only scattered branches of the Pawnees, properly at home away down in Kansas—overlapped the Sioux, who sometimes raided the Pawnees below the Platte.

“And these French traders said the Spaniards sometimes came to the mouth of the Kaw River, and even on the Platte. So there we were, overlapping Spain to the west. And up above, Great Britain was overlapping our claims to the valley of the Columbia and even part of this Missouri Valley. You can see how important this journey was.

“You’ll remember the lower Brulé Sioux Reservation, below us and west of the river. The Cheyenne Reservation is in above here, below the mouth of the Cheyenne River. From there the river takes a pretty straight shoot up into North Dakota. A great game country, a wild cow country, and now a quiet farming country. A bleak, snow-covered, wind-swept waste it then was. And it was winter that first stopped that long, slow, steady, tireless advance of the ‘Corps of Vollenteers.’”

“I see they broke one more private before they got to the Mandans,” said John, running ahead in the pages of the book.

“Yes, that was Newman, who had been found guilty of mutinous expressions. Seventy-five lashes and expulsion from the Volunteers was what the court of nine men gave him. They always were dignified, and they enforced respect from whites and Indians alike.”

“Well,” grumbled Jesse, “it looks to me like there had been a whole lot of people wandering around across this country long before Lewis and Clark got here.”

“Right you are, my boy. The truth is that right across these Plains there went west the first American exploring expedition that ever saw the Rockies. The French nobleman Verendrye, his three sons, and a nephew, not to mention quite a band of Indians, started west across from the Mandan country in 1742. On January 1, 1743, he records his first sight of the Rocky Mountains, which he calls the Shining Mountains—a fine name it is for them, too.

“The Verendrye expedition was the first to cross Wyoming or the Dakotas so far in the west. They came back through the Bad Lands, above here, and Verendrye records in his journal that near a fort of the Arikara Indians he buried a plate of lead, with the arms and inscription of the king. He did this in March, 1743. It always was supposed that this was at or near Fort Pierre, South Dakota. That suspicion was absolutely correct.

“In a little railway pamphlet put out by the Northern Pacific Railway it is stated that on Sunday, February 16, 1913—one hundred and seventy years after Verendrye got back that far east—a school girl playing with some others at the top of a hill scraped the dirt from the end of a plate, which then was exposed about an inch above the ground. She pulled it out. The story said it looked like a range-stove lining. It was eight and a half inches long by six and a half inches wide and an eighth of an inch in thickness. Well, it was discovered to be the old Verendrye lead plate—that’s all!”

“That’s a most extraordinary thing!” said Rob. “Well, anyhow, it shows the value of leaving exploring records. So you couldn’t blame William Clark for writing his name at least twice on the rocks.”

“No, the story of the Verendrye plate is, I think, one of the most curious things I have ever read in regard to early Western history. You never can tell about such things. Well, in any case Verendrye, the first white man who ever saw the Shining Mountains, died in 1749. That was fifty-five years before Lewis and Clark started up the river.

“There is not a hundred miles, or ten miles, or one mile, along all these shores which has not historical value if you and I only knew the story.”

“But it’s a long, long way up to the Mandans still,” began John once more.

His Uncle Dick gayly chided him.

“It’ll not be so long—only a little over three hundred miles from here.”

“If only there were the buffalo!” said Jesse.

“Yes, if only there were the buffalo, and the antelope and the Indians! I’d give a good deal to have lived in those days, my own self. Good night, Jess. Good night, Rob and Frank.”

CHAPTER XIV

“No, there’s where you are wrong,” said his uncle. “The old-timers always slept with the hair outside, and the Indians wore their robes that way. ‘Buffalo know how to wear his hide!’ is the way an Indian put it. And, you see, a buffalo always did wear his hair outside! Next to the musk ox, he was the hardiest animal on this continent and could stand the most cold. No blizzards on these plains ever troubled him. He could get feed when other animals starved.”

“He’d paw down through the snow to the grass,” said Jesse.

“Again you are wrong. A horse paws snow. The buffalo threw the snow aside with his hairy jaws or his whole head—he rooted for the grass!”

“Well, I didn’t know that.”

“A good many things are now forgotten,” said his friend. “Writers and artists and even scientists quite often are wrong. For instance, in pictures you almost always see the herd led by the biggest buffalo bull. In actual fact it was always an old cow that led the herd. The bulls usually were at the rear, to defend against wolves. And when a buffalo ran, he ran into the wind, not downwind, like the deer. Few remember that now.

“Take the antelope, too. The old hunters always knew that the antelope shed his horns, same as a deer, but scientists denied that for years, because they didn’t happen to see any shed horns. I have had an antelope buck’s horn pull off in my hand, in the month of May, and it left the soft core exposed, covered with coarse black filaments like black hairs. Naturally, in the fall, at the time Lewis and Clark got their ‘goat,’ as they called the antelope, the horns were on tight, so they supposed they didn’t shed.

“They sent President Jefferson specimens of the new animals they found—the antelope, prairie dog, prairie badger, magpie, bighorn, and a grizzly-hide or so. They got their four bighorn heads at the Mandans, none very large, though ‘two feet long and four inches diameter’ seemed big to them. And I shouldn’t wonder if those horns could have been pulled off the pith after they got good and dry. The horns of the bighorn will dry out and lose at least ten per cent of their measurement, in a few years’ hanging on a wall. I have had a bighorn’s curly horn come off the pith in rough handling three or four years after it was killed; but of course the horns never were shed in life.”

“Did they get them along the Missouri?” asked Jesse, now.

“Not until they got above the mouth of the Yellowstone. There they killed a lot of them.”

“They saw one big grizzly track before they got to the Mandans,” said Rob, who was listening.

“Oh yes—that might have been. Alexander Henry the younger tells us of grizzlies in northern Minnesota in early days. In all the range country along the Missouri from lower South Dakota the grizzly used to range, and he was on the Plains all the way to the Rockies, and from Alaska to New Mexico and Utah, as I can personally testify. Just how far south he ran in here I don’t know—some think as far south as upper Iowa, but we can’t tell. He couldn’t do much with deer and antelope, and worked more on elk and buffalo, when it came to big meat. He’d dig out mice and eat crickets, though, as well.

“Yes, he’d been all along this country, I’m sure.

“But Lewis and Clark didn’t really kill any grizzlies until they got above the Yellowstone—and then they certainly got among them. Gass records sixteen grizzlies met with between the Yellowstone and the Great Falls of the Missouri. He usually calls them ‘brown bears,’ which shows the great color range of the grizzly. Lewis and the others call them ‘white bears.’ The typical grizzly had a light-yellowish coat, often dark underneath.

“Of course, color has nothing to do with it. I’ve seen them almost black. The silvertip is a grizzly. The giant California bear was a grizzly. The great Kadiak bears which you boys saw were grizzlies of a different habitat. I’ve seen a grizzly with a hide almost red. But of course you know that the ‘cinnamon bear’ is practically always a black bear; and a black bear mother may have two cubs, one red and one quite black.

“Scientists try to establish a dozen or two ‘species’ of bears—even making different ‘species’ of the black bears of the southern Mississippi bottoms—Arkansas, Louisiana, etc.—and I don’t know how many sorts of ‘blue bears’ and ‘straw bears,’ ‘glacier bears,’ etc., among the grizzlies. Of course, bears differ, just as men do. But the one thing which remains constant is the length of the claws, or front toe nails—what the Journal calls their ‘talons.’ In a black bear these are always short. In a grizzly they are always long—they get them up to four and one-half inches, and I believe some of your Kadiaks have even longer claws. Colors grade, but claws don’t. I even think the polar bear is a grizzly of the North—white because he lives on snow and ice, and with a snaky head because he has to swim. But his claws he needed and kept.

“The long-clawed bears were all predatory; the short-clawed ones never were. Not long ago I read a magazine story about a black bear which killed a moose with seven-foot horns. There never was a black bear ever killed any moose, and there never was any moose with horns that wide. Such things are nonsense—like a great part of the magazine animal fiction.”

Rob was interested. “Too bad they’ve trapped off about all the grizzlies,” he said now. “I’ve tried a lot of kinds of sport, and of them all, I like grizzly hunting, quail shooting, and fly fishing for trout.”

“Not a bad selection! Well, the first is hard to get now. The grizzly is closer to extinction than the elk or the buffalo, for the buffalo breed in domestic life, and the grizzly—well, he hasn’t domesticated yet. He’s the one savage—he and the gray wolf—that would never civilize. And he’s gone.”

“But, Uncle Dick, those bears must have been a different species from grizzlies nowadays. Look how they fought? Even Lewis came near being killed by them more than once.”

“Yes, they’d fight, in those days, for they were bigger and bolder, and they had not yet learned fear of the rifle. You must remember that while, in this country up to the Mandans, the early traders had been ahead of Lewis and Clark, above the Yellowstone no white man ever had gone. Those bears thought a white man was something good to eat, and they offered to eat him.

“Their rifles were muzzle loaders—I’ve often and often tried to find just the size ball they used, but I can’t find such exact mention of their weapons—but they were light and inefficient single-shot rifles, as we now look at it, even in the hands of exact riflemen, as all those men were. So the grizzlies jumped them. They shot one sixteen times. Lewis had to jump in the river to escape from one. Oh, they had merry times in those days, when grizzlies were regular fellows!”

John nearly always had precise facts at hand. He now found his copy of the little journal of Patrick Gass. “Here’s how big one was,” he said. “Gass calls it a ‘very large brown bear,’ and it measured three feet five inches around the head, three feet eleven inches around the neck, five feet ten and one-half inches around the breast. His foreleg was twenty-three inches around, and his talons were four and three-eighths inches. He was eight feet seven and one-half inches long.”

“That was a big grizzly,” Uncle Dick nodded, “a very big one, for this latitude. The biggest silvertip grizzly I ever knew in Montana weighed nine hundred pounds. But they were bigger in California and all up the Pacific coast—trees and bears grew bigger there, for some reason. You boys have killed Kadiaks as big as this Gass grizzly. But you didn’t do it with a flintlock, small-bore, muzzle loader, fair stand-up fight. And your Kadiak bear would run when it saw you—so would a Lewis and Clark grizzly; only it would run toward you! Six men of them went out after one of them and wounded it, and it almost got the lot of them. Another time a grizzly chased a man down a bank into the river—bad actors, those grizzlies, in those times.”

John looked at his watch. “Getting late, folks,” said he. “On our way?”

“On our way!” And in a few moments the Adventurer had her load aboard.

“You will now notice the Sioux running along the bank,” said John, “trailing the boat, shooting ahead of it, threatening to stop it, begging tobacco, asking for a ride—all sorts of a nuisance. But we spread the square sail, set out, and proceeded on!”

In fact, so well had they cast out ahead, as usual, the nature of the country into which they were coming, and so well had they studied its history, that it needs not tell their daily journey among the great bluffs, the wide bars, and the willow-lined shores of the great river.

Gradually, the course of the river being now more nearly to the north, they noted the higher and bleaker aspect of the Plains, which the Journal described as land not so good as that below the Platte. Of the really arid country farther west, and of the uses of irrigation, the Journal knew little, and spoke of it as a desert, though now, on the edge of the river, the clinging towns and the great ranch country back of them, with the green fields of farms and the smokes of not infrequent homes, warned them that the past was gone and that now another day and land lay before them.

After many misadventures among the countless deceiving channels and bars of the river, and after locating the several Indian villages of the past and of to-day—the Rees, the Sioux bands, the Cheyennes—they did at last cross the North Dakota line at the Standing Rock agency, did pass the mouths of the Cannon Ball and Heart Rivers, and raise the smokes of Bismarck on the right, and Mandan on the left bank, with the great connecting railway bridge. They drove on, and at length chose their stopping place below Mandan, on the west shore.

Now, as always at the river towns they had passed, they met many curious and inquisitive persons, eager to know who they were, where they were going, whence they had come, and how long they had been on the way.

“Well, sir,” said Rob to one newspaperman who drove up to their little encampment the next morning, in pursuit of a rumor he had heard that the boat had ascended the river from its mouth, “since you ask us, we are the perogue Adventurer, Company of Volunteers for Northwestern Discovery, under Captains Meriwether Lewis and William Clark. We are in search of winter quarters, and we hope the natives are peaceful. We have been, to this landing, just forty-nine days, five hours and thirty-five minutes, this second day of July.”

“But that’s impossible! Why, it’s over a thousand miles from here to St. Louis by water!” remarked the editor, himself a middle-aged man.

“Would you say so, sir?”

“Well, how far is it?”

“You should know, sir; you live here.”

“But I never had any occasion to know or to care,” smiled the visitor.

Rob smiled also. “Well, sir, according to Patrick Gass——”

“I never heard of him——”

“——who kept track of it a hundred and seventeen years ago, it’s about sixteen hundred and ten miles, though we don’t figure it quite sixteen hundred. Call it fourteen hundred and fifty-two, as the river chart does.”

“Jerusalem! And you say you made it in forty-nine days? Why, that’s—how many miles a day?”

“Well, we set out to do over forty miles a day, but we couldn’t quite make it. We ran against a good many things.”

“And broke all known and existing records at that, I’ll bet a hat! How on earth!”

“Well, you see, sir,” Rob went on, politely, “we’ve rigged a double outboard, with an extension bed on the stern. They’re specially made for us and they’re powerful kickers. In fair water and all going good, they’ll do six and eight an hour, with auxiliary sail; and we traveled ten hours nearly every day. But then, it wasn’t always what you’d call fair water.”

“At least, we got here for the Fourth,” he added. “We began to think, down by the Cannon Ball, that we wouldn’t. We planned to spend the Fourth among the Mandans.”

“If there’s ice cream,” interrupted Jesse.

“Ice cream?” The visitor turned to Uncle Dick, who sat smiling. “All you want, and won’t cost you a cent! Come on up to my house, won’t you, and spend the night? Have you got all the eggs and butter and bread and fruit you want—oranges, lemons, melons?”

“Of melons we got quite a lot at the upper Arikaree village,” said Rob, solemnly. “But oranges—and ice cream—they didn’t have those!”

Uncle Dick joined their visitor in a hearty laugh. “These chaps are great for making believe,” said he. “We’re crossing on the old Lewis and Clark trail, as nearly as we can. We’re going to the head of the Missouri River, and my young friends are trying to restore the life of the old days as they go along.”

“Fine! I wish more would do so. I’m ignorant, myself, but I’m going to be less so. An idea, sir!

“Well,” he continued, “you’ll have to come up to town and stop with me. I’ll get a man to watch your boat—not that I think it would need much watching. You’ll be here over the Fourth, at least?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Uncle Dick, now introducing himself, “we’re ready to take a little rest and look around a little among the Mandans! Can you show us where the old Lewis and Clark winter quarters were?”

“Sure! To-morrow we can steam on up to that place, and also the site of old Fort Clark. Then I’ll show you around among the painted savages of our city!”

They all laughed, and after pulling up the boat, drawing tight the tent flaps, and spreading the tarpaulin over the cargo, they joined their new friend in his motor car and sped off for the town, where they were made welcome and obliged to tell in detail the story of their long journey.

CHAPTER XV

“All Clark tells us about Fort Mandan is that it was on the north bank, that the ground was sandy, and that they cleared the timber to make room. He says they had cottonwood and elm and some small ash, but complains that the logs were large and heavy and they had to carry them in on hand spikes, by man power. They used no horses in rolling up the logs.

“But Patrick Gass tells more about the way they did. They had two rows of cabins, in two wings, at right angles, and each cabin had four rooms in it. I think the men slept upstairs, for when the walls were up seven feet they laid a puncheon floor, covered with grass and clay, which Gass says made ‘a warm loft.’ This projected about a foot, and a puncheon roof was put over that.

“The outer wall was about eighteen feet high. They had several fireplaces. They made a couple of storerooms in the angle of the two wings, and then put up their stockade in front, to complete their square. This stockade was made of upright logs, and had a gate, like most of the frontier posts, so that, what with their swivel gun and all their rifles, they could have made quite a fight against any sort of an attack, although they had no trouble of any kind.

“They were not very far from the Mandan villages. Quite a settlement this was, in these parts—not mentioning nine deserted villages inside of sixty miles below—two Mandan villages, built with the Mandan dirt-covered lodges, like those of the Rees; and besides that, villages of Sioux and Gros Ventres, and of a band they called the Watasoons, and seventy lodges of Crees and Assiniboines who came in later and the fierce Minnetarees—plenty of savages to warrant the expedition in taking no chances.”

“I’ve read that the Indians at first were not so friendly,” said Rob. “There were British traders among them, weren’t there?”

“Oh yes, the Northwest Fur Company was in there, and an Irishman by the name of McCracken was on the ground at the time. Alexander Henry got there in 1806, you know. Now, Lewis sent out a note by McCracken to the agent at Fort Assiniboine. Those traders were none too friendly, and tried to stir up trouble. Two more of the Nor’westers, Larocque and McKenzie, came in, with an interpreter and four men, and the interpreter, LaFrance, took it on him to speak sneeringly of the Americans. It did not take Captain Lewis long to call him to account.”

“Well, our fellows were up in there all alone, weren’t they?” exclaimed Jesse.

“They certainly were, but they held their fort; and they held all the Northwestern country for us. As soon as the Northwest Fur Company found out that Lewis and Clark intended to cross the Rockies to the Columbia, they sent word East, and that company sent one of their best men, Simon Fraser, to ascend the Saskatchewan and beat the Americans in on the Columbia. But he himself was beaten in that great race by about a couple of years! So we forged the chain that was to hold the Oregon country to the United States afterward. Oh yes, our young captains had a big game to play, and they played it beautifully.

“They always talked peace among these Mandans and others, because they wanted the Missouri River opened to the American fur trade. They waited around, and held talks, and swapped tobacco for corn, and the American blacksmiths made for them any number of axes and hatchets and other things. By and by the Indians began to figure that they were more apt to get plenty of goods up the Missouri from the Americans than overland from the British traders. Do you see how that began to work out? Oh, our boys knew what they were about, all right. And the result was that our fur trade swept up that river like an army with banners as soon as Lewis and Clark got back home. In a few years we had a hundred and forty fur trading posts on the Missouri and its upper tributaries, and from these our bold traders pushed out by pack train into every corner of the Rocky Mountains.”

“Gee!” said Jesse, in his frequent and not elegant slang. “Gee! Those were the days!”

“Right you are—those were the days! Those were the great days of adventure and romance and exploration. It was through the fur trade that we explored the Rocky Mountains. Can’t you see our men of the fur posts, paddling, rowing, sailing, tracking—getting up the Missouri? Great days, yes, Jesse—great days indeed.”

“I wish we had a picture of that old stockade!” sighed John.

“None exists. Not a splinter of it remains; it was burned down in 1805, and the ruins later engulfed by the river. But I fancy we can see it, from the description. So there our party spent that first winter, and long and cold enough it was.

“They had to hunt or starve, but soon their buffalo and elk and deer and antelope got very thin, mere skin and bones. It was bitter cold, and the hunters came in frozen time and again—a hard, bare, bitter fight it was. From all accounts, it was an old-fashioned winter, for the mercury—they spelled it ‘merkery’—froze solid in a few minutes one day when they set the thermometer out of doors!”

“And it must have been cool inside the houses, too,” ventured John. “But of course they had to do their writing and fix up their things.”

“Quite so—they had to get their specimens ready to ship down the river in the spring. Then they had to make six canoes for use the next year, and as they found the timber unsuitable near the river, the men had to camp out where they found the trees, and then they carried the canoes by hand over to the river, a mile and a half.

“They sent the big flatboat, or bateau, down the river, and thirteen men went with it. The two perogues and the six new cottonwood dugouts they took on west, up the river, when they started, on March 7, 1805, to finish their journey across the continent. Of these men, the party who went through, there were thirty-one; and there was one woman.”

“I know!” said Jesse. “Sacágawea!”

“Right! Sacágawea. Make it two words. ‘Wea’ means ‘woman.’ ‘Bird Woman’ was her name—Sacága Wea. And of the entire party, that Indian girl—she was only a girl, though lately married and though she started west with a very young baby—was worth more than any man. If it had not been for her they never would have got across.

“You see, up to this place, the Mandan towns, they had some idea of the country, and so also they had beyond here as far as the mouth of the Yellowstone—that’s two hundred and eighty-eight miles above here. But beyond the mouth of the Ro’ Jaune—it even then was called Roche Jaune, or Yellow Stone, by the early French voyageurs—it was said the foot of white man never then had passed. There was no map, no report or rumor to help them. If they had a guide, it couldn’t be a white man.

“Now among the Mandans they found a man called Chaboneau, or Charboneau, a Frenchman, married to two Indian women, one of whom was Sacágawea. He had bought her from the Minnetarees, where she was a captive.

“Just think how the natives traveled in those days! You know the Sioux hunted on the upper Platte, as far as the Rockies. Well, this Minnetaree war party had been west of the Rockies, or in the big bend of the Rockies, at the very head of the Missouri River, among the Shoshonis. They took Sacágawea prisoner when she was a little girl, and brought her east, all the way over to Dakota, here. But she was Indian—she did not forget what she saw. She knew about the Yellowstone, and the Three Forks of the Missouri.

“Well now, whether it was because Chaboneau, the new interpreter, wanted her along, or whether Lewis and Clark figured she might be useful, Sacágawea went along, all the way to the Pacific—and all the way back to the Mandans again. Be sure, her husband did not beat her any more, while they were with the white captains. In fact, I rather think they made a pet of her. They found they could rely on her memory and her judgment.

“So the real guide they had in the nameless and unknown country was a Shoshoni Indian girl. It looked almost like something providential, the way they found her here, ready and waiting for them—the only possible guide in all that country. And to-day, such was the chivalry and justice of those two captains of our Army—and such the chivalry and justice of the men of Oregon and the enthusiasm of the women of Oregon—you may see in Portland, near the sea to which she helped lead our flag, the bronze statue of Sacágawea, the Indian girl. That, at least, is one fine thing we have done in memory of the Indian.

“And within the last two or three years a bronze statue of Meriwether Lewis and William Clark has been erected at Charlotteville, Virginia, near the home of Meriwether Lewis—that was at Ivy station, to-day only a scattered settlement. And away down in Tennessee, in the forest of Lewis County, named after him, I have stood by the monument that state erected over the little-known and tragic grave of Captain Meriwether Lewis—far enough from the grave of the poor Indian girl who worshiped him more than she could her worthless husband.

“No one knows where Sacágawea was buried, though her history was traced a little way after the return to this country. She was buried perhaps in the air, on a scaffold, and left forgotten, as Indian women were, and we no more can stand by her grave than we can be sure we stand on the exact spot where Will Clark built his winter quarters among the Mandans.

“Great days, boys—yes, great days, and good people in them, too. So now I want you to study a little here.

“Look back down the river, which has seemed so long for you. To-morrow will be the Fourth of July. It was Christmas that Lewis and Clark celebrated with their men in their stockade.”

Their new friend had for the most part been silent as he listened to this counselor of the party. He now spoke.

“Then I take it that you are going on up the river soon, sir?” said he. “I wish you good journey through the cow country. You’ll find the river narrower, with fewer islands, so I hear; and I should think it became swifter, but—I don’t know.”

“I was going to come to that,” said Uncle Dick, turning to Rob, John, and Jesse. “What do you think? I’d like you to get an idea of the river and all it meant, but we have only the summer and early fall to use. I don’t doubt we could plug on up with the motors, and get a long way above Great Falls, but about the time we got to where we could have some fun fishing or maybe shooting, we’d have to start east by rail. So I’d planned that we might make a big jump here.”

“How do you mean, sir?” Rob asked.

“Change our transportation.”

“Oh—because Lewis and Clark changed here?”

“Natural place for us to change, if we do at all,” said Uncle Dick. “We ought to stick as close to the river as we can, and as a matter of fact we have covered the most monotonous part of it. But we had to do that, for there was no other way to get here and still hang anywhere near to the river. And until we got here we struck no westbound railroad that would advance us on our journey.

“Here we could get up the Yellowstone by rail, but we are working on the Missouri. If we run on by motor car up to Buford, there we can get by rail over to the Great Falls, and still hang closer to the river; although, of course, we’ll not be following it.”

“But what’ll we do with our boat?” began Jesse, ruefully. “Hate to leave the little old Adventurer.”

“Well, now,” answered his uncle. “We couldn’t so well take her along, could we?”

“I’d like mighty well to buy her,” interrupted the editor. “That is, if you care to sell her.”

“I never knew my boys to sell any of their sporting equipment,” said the other. “But I expect they’d give it to you, right enough. Eh, boys?”

They looked from one to another. “If the gentleman wanted her,” began Rob, at last, “and if we’ve done with her, I don’t see why we couldn’t. But I think we ought to take the motors along as far as we can, because we might need them.”

“Good idea,” Uncle Dick nodded. “We can get a trailer here, can’t we?” he asked of their friend.

“Sure; and a good car; too. I’ll drive you up to Buford, myself, for the fun of it—and the value of it to me. I’ll get a car at Bismarck. We can pack your outfit in the trailer and the motors, too, easily. You can check and express stuff through to Great Falls from Buford—and there you are. How’ll you go from there—boat?”

“I don’t believe so,” replied Uncle Dick. “I believe we’d have more freedom if we took a pack train above Great Falls, and cut across lots now and then, checking up in our Journal all the way.”

“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed John. “Horses!”

“Lewis and Clark used horses for some distance, at the crossing,” said Uncle Dick, “so I think we may dare do so. We want all the variety we can get, and all the fun we can get, too. What do you say, young gentlemen?”