She nodded her head vigorously and smiled.
"See!"
With a pointed stick she began to sketch a map on the sand of the river bar, showing how the Yellowstone flowed from the south--how, far on ahead, its upper course bent toward the Missouri, with a march of not more than a day between the two. The maps of this new world that first came back to civilization were copies of Indians' drawings made with a pointed stick upon the earth, or with a coal on a whitened hide.
"She knows, Will!" said Lewis. "See, this place she marks near the mountain summit, where the two streams are close--some time we must explore that crossing!"
"I'm sure I'd rather trust her map than this one, here, of old Jonathan Carver," answered Clark, the map-maker. "His idea of this country is that four great rivers head about where we are now. He marks the river Bourbon--which I never heard of--as running north to Hudson Bay, but he has the St. Lawrence rising near here, too--and it must be fifteen hundred or two thousand miles off to the east! The Mississippi, too, he thinks heads about here, at the mouth of the Yellowstone, and yonder runs the Oregon River, which I presume is the Columbia. 'Tis all very simple, on Carver's maps, but perhaps not quite so easy, if we follow that of Sacajawea. This country is wider than any of us ever dreamed."
"And greater, and more beautiful in every way," assented his companion.
They stood and gazed about them at the scene of wild beauty. The river ran in long curves between bold and sculptured bluffs, among groves of native trees, now softly green. Above, on the prairies, lay a carpet of the shy wild rose, most beautiful of the prairie blossoms. All about were shrubs and flowers, now putting forth their claims in the renewed life of spring.
On the plains fed the buffalo, far as the eye could reach. Antelope, deer, the shy bighorn, all these might be seen, and the footprints of the giant bears along the beaches. It was the wilderness, and it was theirs--they owned it all!
Thus far they had seen no sign of any human occupancy. They did not meet a single human being, red or white, all that summer. A vast, silent, unclaimed land, beautiful and abounding, lay waiting for occupancy. There was no map of it--none save that written on the soil now and then by an Indian girl sixteen years of age.
They plodded on now, taking the right-hand stream, with full confidence in their guidance, forging onward a little every day, between the high banks of the swift river that came down from the great mountains. April passed, and May.