But William Bratton "caught" the worst bear, to date. About five o'clock the boats were just being landed, for night camp, when a great crashing and shouting were heard; out from the brush burst William, and bolted, staggering and gesturing, for the nearest boat. He had lost his hat, his buckskin suit was torn, he could scarcely speak.
"Another man in a hurry," quoth Patrick Gass, as everybody reached for a gun. "Injuns, mebbe?"
"He-he-help!" panted William, lunging into the shallows and fairly falling across the gunwale of the white pirogue.
"Speak, man! What's the matter?" demanded Captain Lewis.
William heaved and gasped.
"Bear! White bear! Chasing me—close behind." Puff. Puff. "Shot him—chased me—mile and a half—almost caught me. Look out!"
"Whereabouts? Which direction?"
"Down river—back in brush, sir."
"Hah!" exclaimed the captain. "I'll go after him. Drouillard, the two Fields, Willard, Potts, Shields, Pryor, come with me. Bratton's found another bear. Want to go, York?"
"Nossuh, nossuh!" asserted York, with decisive emphasis. "I'd like to go mighty well, Marse Merne, but I got to stay right hyah an' take keer ob Marse Will."
Away hastened Captain Lewis and the seven men.
