"Which way, Will?" asked Meriwether Lewis. "Which is the river? If we miss many guesses, the British will beat us through. Which is our river here?"
They stood at the junction of the Yellowstone with the Missouri, and faced one of the first of their great problems. It was spring once more. The geese were flying northward again; the grass was green. Three weeks ago the ice had run clear, and they had left their winter quarters among the Mandans.
Five months they had spent at the Mandan village; for five months they had labored to reach that place; for five months, or more, they had lain at St. Louis. Time was passing. As Meriwether Lewis said, few wrong guesses could be afforded.
Early in April the great barge, manned by ten men, had set out down stream, carrying with it the proof of the success of the expedition. It bore many new things, precious things, things unknown to civilization. Among these were sixty specimens of plants, as many of minerals and earth, weapons of the Indians, examples of their clothing, specimens of the corn and other vegetables which they raised, horns of the bighorn and the antelope--both animals then new to science--antlers of the deer and elk, stuffed specimens, dried skins, herbs, fruits, flowers; and with all these the broken story of a new geography--the greatest story ever sent out for publication by any man or men; and all done in Homeric simplicity.
As the great barge had started down the river, the two pirogues which had come so far, joined by the cottonwood dugouts laboriously fabricated during the winter months, had started up the river, manned by thirty-one men.
With the pick of the original party, there had come but one woman, the girl Sacajawea, with her little baby, born that winter at the Mandan fortress. Sacajawea now had her place in the camp; she and her infant were the pets of all. She sat in the sunlight, her baby in her lap, by her side an Indian dog, a waif which Lewis had found abandoned in an Indian encampment, and which had attached itself to him.
Sacajawea smiled as the tall form of the captain came toward her. She had already learned some of the words of his tongue, he some of hers.
"Which way, Sacajawea?" asked Meriwether Lewis. "What river is this which goes on to the left?"
"Him Ro'shone," replied the girl. "My man call him that. No good! Him--big river"; and she pointed toward the right-hand stream.
"As I thought, Will," said Lewis, nodding; and again, to the Indian girl: "Do you remember this place?"