XI
WHICH WAY TO THE COLUMBIA?
"Wirrah, but tired I am!" groaned Patrick Gass.
It was June 3, and in the nineteen days they had come more than 300 miles from Brown-bear-defeated Creek. What with the constant wading and tugging to conquer the narrow, swift current and the strong head winds, well might all groan.
Night alarms had disturbed the camps. Once the men had been aroused only just in time to drag the captains' hide lodge away from a spot upon which a burning tree was about to fall; and, again, a stupid buffalo bull had charged through, and only the little black dog had saved the camp from much damage.
But the Rock or Shining Mountains were nearer. On Sunday a week ago Captain Lewis, climbing a hill, had seen them, to the west. The Sho-sho-nes or Snake Indians might be expected any day. Their country was near, also.
Now the river had split: one branch for the north, one for the southward; and the captains did not know which branch to follow. So they ordered camp here at the forks, below present Fort Benton in north central Montana.
A travel-worn camp it was, too—of bearded, long-haired men, their buckskin and elk-hide suits shriveled
