thing curious about the average man's conception of
distance. During the entire trip we found no two men who agreed on this
general subject. After acquiring a book of river distances, we created
much amusement for ourselves by asking questions. The conversation very
often proceeded in this manner:

"Will you please tell us how far it is to So-and-So?"

"One hundred and fifty-two and a half miles!" (with an air of absolute
certainty).

"But you are slightly mistaken, sir; the exact distance is sixty-two and
seven-tenths miles!" (Consternation on the face of the omniscient
informant.)

Once a man told us that a certain town was one hundred and fifty miles
down stream. We reached the town in an hour and a half!

However, we had more success with the Indian. One day we came upon an
old Mandan buck and squaw, who were taking a bath in the river,
doubtless feeling convinced that they needed it. The current took us
within fifty yards of them. Upon our approach, they got out of the water
and sat in the sand quite as nude and unashamed as our first parents
before the apple ripened.

"Bismarck--how far?" I shouted, standing up in the boat.

The buck rose in all his unclothed dignity, raised his two hands, shut
and opened them seven times, after which he lowered one arm, and again
opened and shut a hand. Then with a spear-like thrust of the arm toward
the southeast, he stiffened the index finger in the direction of
Bismarck. He meant "seventy-five miles as the crow flies." As near as I
could figure it out afterward, he was doubtless correct.

At noon the next day we reached the mouth of the Knife River, near which
stood the Mandan village made famous by Lewis and Clark as their winter
quarters. Fort Clark also stood here. Nothing remains of the Fort but
the name and a few slight indentations in the ground. A modern steamboat
town, Deapolis occupies the site of the old post. Across the river there
are still to be seen the remains of trenches. A farmer pointed them out
to us as all that remains of the winter camp of the great explorers.

In the late evening we passed Washburn, the "steamboat center" of the
upper river, fifty water miles from Bismarck. It made a very pretty
appearance with its neat houses climbing the hillside. Along the water
front, under the elevators, a half-dozen steamboats of the good
old-fashioned type, lay waiting for their cargoes. Two more boats were
building on the ways.

Night caught us some fi