When William Clark returned from his three days' scouting trip, his forehead was furrowed with anxiety. His men were silent as they filed into camp and cast down their knapsacks.
"It's no use, Merne," said Clark, "we are in a pocket here. The other two forks, which we called the Madison and the Gallatin, both come from the southeast, entirely out of our course. The divide seems to face around south of us and bend up again on the west. Who knows the way across? Our river valley is gone. The only sure way seems back--downstream."
"What do you mean?" demanded Meriwether Lewis quietly.
"I scarce know. I am worn out, Merne. My men have been driven hard."
"And why not?"
His companion remained silent under the apparent rebuke.
"You don't mean that we should return?" Lewis went on.
"Why not, Merne?" said William Clark, sighing.
"Our men are exhausted. There are other years than this."
Meriwether Lewis turned upon his friend with the one flash of wrath which ever was known between them.
"Good Heavens, Captain Clark," said he, "there is not any other year than this! There is not any other month, or week, or day but this! It is not for you or me to hesitate--within the hour I shall go on. We'll cross over, or we'll leave the bones of every man of the expedition here--this year--now!"
Clark's florid face flushed under the sting of his comrade's words; but his response was manful and just.
"You are right," said he at length. "Forgive me if for a moment--just a moment--I seemed to question the possibility of going forward. Give me a night to sleep. As I said, I am worn out. If I ever see Mr. Jefferson again, I shall tell him that all the credit for this expedition rests with you. I shall say that once I wavered, and that I had no cause. You do not waver--yet I know what excuse you would have for it."
"You are only weary, Will. It is my turn now," said Meriwether Lewis; and he never told his friend of this last letter.
A moment later he had called one of his men.
"McNeal," said he, "get Reuben Fields, Whitehouse, and Goodrich. Make light packs. We are going into the mountains!"
The four men shortly appeared, but they were silent, morose, moody. Those who were to remain in the camp shared their silence. Sacajawea alone smiled as they departed.
"That way!" said she, pointing; and she knew that her chief would find the path.
May we not wonder, in these later days, if any of us, who reap so carelessly and so selfishly where others have plowed and sown, reflect as we should upon the first cost of what we call our own? The fifteen million dollars paid for the vast empire which these men were exploring--that was little--that was naught. But ah, the cost in blood and toil and weariness, in love and loyalty and faith, in daring and suffering and heartbreak of those who went ahead! It was a few brave leaders who furnished the stark, unflinching courage for us all.