The unwonted tears of an Indian woman were in the eyes which looked up at him.
"Ah!" said she, in reproach. "I went with you. I cooked in the lodges. I showed the way. I was as one of your people. Now I say I go to your people, and you say no. You need me once--you no need me now! You say to me, your people are not my people--you not need Sacajawea any more!"
The Indian has no word for good-by. The faithful--nay, loving--girl simply turned away and passed from him; nor did he ever see her more.
Alone, apart from her people, she seated herself on the brink of the bluff, below which lay the boats, ready to depart. She drew her blanket over her head. When at length the voyage had begun, she did not look out once to watch them pass. They saw her motionless figure high on the bank above them. The Bird Woman was mourning.
The little Indian dog, Meriwether Lewis's constant companion, now, like Sacajawea, mercifully banished, sat at her side, as motionless as she. Both of them, mute and resigned, accepted their fate.
But as for those others, those hardy men, now homeward bound, they were rejoicing. Speed was the cry of all the lusty paddlers, who, hour after hour, kept the boats hurrying down, aided by the current and sometimes pushed forward by favorable winds. They were upon the last stretch of their wonderful journey. Speed, early and late, was all they asked. They were going home--back over the trail they had blazed for their fellows!
"Capitaine, Capitaine, look what I'll found!"
They were halting at noonday, far down the Missouri, for the boiling of the kettles. Lewis lay on his robes, still too lame to walk, watching his men as they scattered here and there after their fashion. It was Cruzatte who approached him, looking at something which the voyager held in his hand.
"What is it, Cruzatte?" smiled Lewis.
He was anxious always to be as kindly as possible to this unlucky follower, whose terrible mistake had well-nigh resulted in the death of the leader.
"Ouch, by gar! She'll bite me with his tail. She's hot!"
Cruzatte held out in his fingers a small but fateful object. It was a bee, an ordinary honey-bee. East of the Mississippi, in Illinois, Kentucky, the Virginias, it would have meant nothing. Here on the great plains it meant much.
Meriwether Lewis held the tiny creature in the palm of his hand.
"Why did you kill it, Cruzatte?" he asked. "It was on its errand."
He turned to his friend who sat near, at the other side.