solation he sat, a desolate soul.

CHAPTER VII

THE MOUNTAINS

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 pat