"Captain, dear," said honest Patrick Gass, putting an arm under his wounded commander's shoulders as he eased his position in the boat, "ye are not the man ye was when ye hit me that punch back yonder on the Ohio, three years ago. Since ye're so weak now, I have a good mind to return it to ye, with me compliments. 'Tis safer now!"
Gass chuckled at his own jest as his leader looked up at him.
The boiling current of the great Missouri, bend after bend, vista after vista, had carried them down until at length they had reached the mouth of the Yellowstone, and had seen on ahead the curl of blue smoke on the beach--the encampment of their companions, who were waiting for them here. These wonderful young men, these extraordinary wilderness travelers, had performed one more miracle. Separated by leagues of wild and unknown land, they met now casually, as though it were only what should be expected. Their feat would be difficult even today.
William Clark, walking up and down along the bank, looking ever upstream for some sign of his friend, hurried down to meet the boats, and gazed anxiously at the figure lifted in the arms of the men.
"What's wrong, Merne?" he exclaimed. "Tell me!"
Lewis waved a hand at him in reassurance, and smiled as his friend bent above him.
"Nothing at all, Will," said he. "Nothing at all--I was playing elk, and Cruzatte thought it very lifelike! It is just a bullet through the thigh; the bone is safe, and the wound will soon heal. It is lucky that we are not on horseback now."
By marvel, by miracle, the two friends were reunited once more; and surely around the camp fires there were stories for all to tell.
Sacajawea, the Indian girl, sat listening but briefly to all these tales of adventure--tales not new to one of her birth and education. Silently and without question, she took the place of nurse to the wounded commander. She had herbs of her own choosing, simple remedies which her people had found good for the treatment of wounds. As if the captain were her child--rather than the forsaken infant who lustily bemoaned his mother's absence from his tripod in the lodge--she took charge of the injured man, until at length he made protest that he was as well as ever, and that they must go on.
Again the paddles plied, again the bows of the canoes turned downstream. It seemed but a short distance thence to the Mandan villages, and once among the Mandans they felt almost as if they were at home.