“

Well, Jesse, how’d you sleep last night?” inquired Billy in the morning, as he pushed the coffee pot back from the edge of the little fire and turned to Jesse when he emerged from his blankets.

“Not too well,” answered Jesse, rubbing his eyes. “Fact is, it’s too noisy in this country. Up North where we used to live, it was quiet, unless the dogs howled; but in here there’s towns and railroads all over—more than a dozen towns we passed, coming up from the Great Falls, and if you don’t hear the railroad whistles all night, you think you do. Down right below us, you can throw a rock into the town, almost, and up at the Forks there’ll be another squatting down waiting for you. All right for gasoline, Billy, but we’re supposed to be using the tracking line and setting pole.”

“Sure we are—until we meet the Shoshonis and get some horses.”

“Well, I don’t want to camp by a railroad or a wire fence any more.”

“No? Well, we’ll see what we can do. Anyhow, one thing you ought to be glad about.”

“What’s that?”

“Why, that you don’t have to walk down into that ice water and pole a boat or drag it for two or three hours before breakfast. Yet that’s what those poor men had to do. And three times they mention, between the Forks and the mountains, the whole party had to wait breakfast till somebody killed some meat. Anyhow, we’ve got some eggs and marmalade.”

“Well, they got meat,” demurred Jesse, seating himself as he laced his shoes.

“Thanks to Drewyer, they usually did. He got five deer, one day, and about every time he went out he hung up something. I think he’d got to the front in the party now, next to Lewis and Clark. Chaboneau they don’t speak well of.

“Shields was a good man, and the two Fields boys. But, though Clark was mighty sick, and Lewis got down, too, for a day or so, in here, they were about the best men left. The others were wearing out by now.

“You see”—here Billy flipped a cake over in the pan—“they couldn’t have had much wool clothing left by now—they were in buckskin, and buckskin is about as good as brown paper when it’s wet. They had no hobnails, and their broken, wet moccasins slipped all over those slick round stones. You ever wade a trout stream, you boys?”

“I should say so!”

“Well, then you know how it is. While the water is below your knees you can stand it quite a while. When it gets along your thighs you begin to get cold. When it’s waist deep, you chill mighty soon and can’t stand it long—though Lewis stripped and dived in eight feet of water to get an otter he had shot. And slipping on wet rocks——”

“Don’t we know about that! We waded up the Rat River, on the Arctic Circle.”

“You did! You’ve traveled like that? Well, then you can tell what the men were standing here. They hadn’t half clothes, a lot of them were sick with boils and ‘tumers,’ as Clark calls them. Some were nearly crippled. But in this water, ice water, waist deep, they had to get eight boats up that big creek yonder—beaver meadows all along, so they couldn’t track. Sockets broke off their setting poles, so Captain Lewis, he ties on some fish gigs he’d brought along. One way or another, they got on up.

“They now began to get short rations, too. At first they couldn’t get any trout, or the whitefish—those fish with the ‘long mouths’ that Lewis tells about. I’ll bet they never tried grasshoppers. But along above here they began to get fish, as the game got scarcer. Lewis tells of setting their net for them.”

“You certainly have been reading that little old Journal, Billy!”

“Why shouldn’t I? It’s one great book, son. More I read it, the more I see how practical those men were. Now, those men were all fine rifle shots, and they’d go against anything, though along here there wasn’t many grizzlies, and all of them shy, not bold like the buffalo grizzlies at the Falls. But they didn’t hunt for sport—it was meat they wanted. Once in a while a snag of venison; antelope hard to get; no buffalo now, and very few elk; by now, even ducks and geese began to look good, and trout.

“The ducks and geese and cranes were all through here—breeding grounds all along. That was molting time and they caught them in their hands. They killed beaver with the setting poles, and one day the men killed several otter with their tomahawks, though I doubt if they could eat otter. You see, as Clark’s notes say, the beaver were here in thousands. I suppose when so big a party went splashing up the creek the beaver and otter would get scared and swim out to the main stream, and there some one would hit them over the head as they swam by.”

“One thing,” said Jesse, “I don’t think they flogged any of the men any more. I don’t remember any since they left the Mandans.”

“Maybe they didn’t need it, and maybe their leaders had learned more. Ever since Lewis picked the right river at the Marias forks, I reckon the men relied on him more. Then, he’d be poking around shooting at the sun and stars with his astronomy machines, and that sort of made them respect him. Clark was a good sport. Lewis, I reckon, was harder to get along with. But they both must have been pretty white with the men. They tell of the hardships of the men, and how game and patient they are—not a whimper about quitting.”

“I know,” said Jesse, hauling out his worn copy of the Journal from his bed roll and turning the leaves; “they speak of the way the men felt:

“Anxious times about now, eh? But still, I don’t think the leaders ever once lost their nerve. Here’s what Lewis wrote about it:

“No wonder the men wanted horses now—they knew the river’s end was near. And yet they were four hundred miles, right here, from the head of the Missouri!” Billy had his Journal pretty well in mind, so he went on frying bacon.

“Why, what you talking about, Billy? They made the Forks by July 27th, and by the end of August they were over the Divide, headed for the Columbia!”

“Sure. And at the Two Forks, where the Red Rock River turns south, the other creek—Horse Prairie Creek that they took—only ran thirty miles in all. The south branch was the real Missouri, but they kept to the one that went west. That was good exploring, and good luck, both. It took them over, at last.”

“But, Billy, everybody knows that Lewis and Clark went to the head of the Missouri.”

“Then everybody knows wrong! They didn’t. If they had they’d never have got over that year, nor maybe ever in any year. I tell you they had luck—luck and judgment and the Indian girl. SacÁgawea kept telling them this was her country; that her people were that way—west; that they’d get horses. For that matter, there were strong Indian trails, regular roads, coming in from the south, north and west; but it wasn’t quite late enough for the Indians to be that far east on the fall buffalo hunt at the Great Falls. It took them more than a month to figure out the trail from here to the top. But if they had started south, down the Red Rock——”

“Tell me about that, Billy.”

“We’re working too hard before breakfast, son! Go get the others up while I fry these eggs. If we don’t get off the Fort Rock and on our way, somebody’ll think we’re crazy, camping up here.”

Soon they were all sitting at breakfast around the remnants of the little fire, and after that Billy went after the horses while the others got the packs ready.

Jesse was excitedly going over with Rob and John some of the things which Billy had been saying to him. Uncle Dick only smiled.

“First class in engineering and geography, stand up!” said he, as he seated himself on his lashed bed roll. The three boys with pretended gravity stood and saluted.

“Now put down a few figures in your heads, or at least your notebooks. How high up are we here?”

“Do you mean altitude, or distance, sir?” asked Rob.

“I mean both. Well, I’ll tell you. Our altitude here is four thousand and forty-five feet. That’s twenty-five hundred and twenty feet higher than the true head of the Mississippi River—and we’re not to the head of the Missouri by a long shot, even now.

“And how far have we come, say to the Three Forks, just above here?”

“That’s easy,” answered John, looking at his book. “It’s twenty-five hundred and forty-seven miles, according to the last river measurements; but Lewis and Clark call it twenty-eight hundred and forty-eight miles.”

“That’s really of no importance,” said Uncle Dick. “The term ‘mile’ means nothing in travel such as theirs. The real unit was the day’s work of ‘hearty, healthy, and robust young men.’ One set of figures is good as the other.

“Still, it may be interesting to see how much swifter the Missouri River is than the Father of Waters. From the Gulf of Mexico to the source of the Mississippi is twenty-five hundred and fifty-three miles. Up our river, to where we stand, is just six miles short of that, yet the drop is more than twenty-five hundred feet more. One drops eight and a quarter inches to the mile, and the other nineteen inches to the mile.

“But understand, we’re talking now of the upper thread of the Mississippi River, and of the Three Forks of our river—which isn’t by any means at its head, even measuring to the head of the shortest of the three big rivers that meet here. Now, add three hundred and ninety-eight miles to twenty-five hundred and forty-seven miles. See what you got?”

“That’s twenty-nine hundred and forty-five miles!” exclaimed John. “Is it that far from the head to St. Louis?”

“Yes, it is. And if you took the Lewis and Clark measurements to the Forks it would be thirty-two hundred and forty-seven miles.

“And if we took their distances to the place where they left their canoes—that’s what they called Shoshoni Cove, where the river petered out for boats—we’d have three thousand and ninety-six miles; two hundred and forty-seven miles above here, as they figured it, and they weren’t at the summit even then. Now if we’d take their probable estimate, if they’d finished the distance to the real head of the Missouri, we’d have to allow them about thirty-two hundred and forty-nine miles plus their overrun, at least fifty miles.

“Yes, if they’d have gone to the real source, they’d have sworn it was over thirty-three hundred miles to St. Louis, and over forty-five hundred miles to the Gulf. The modern measurements make it forty-two hundred and twenty-one miles.

“So, young gentlemen, you can see that you are now coming toward the head of the largest continuous waterway in the world. It is five hundred miles longer than the Amazon in South America, and more than twelve hundred miles longer than the river Nile, in Africa.

“Now, Meriwether Lewis did not know as much about all these things as we do now, yet see how he felt about it, at his camp fire, not so far from here:

“‘The mountains do not appear very high in any direction tho’ the tops of some of them are partially covered with snow, this convinces me that we have ascended to a great hight since we have entered the rocky Mountains, yet the ascent has been so gradual along the vallies that it was scarcely perceptable by land. I do not believe that the world can furnish an example of a river runing to the extent which the Missouri and Jefferson’s rivers do through such a mountainous country and at the same time so navigable as they are. if the Columbia furnishes us such another example, a communication across the continent by water will be practicable and safe.’