Willow Run had risen six feet, and now was impassable. Because of that, and the mud, two more days were required, to take all the baggage into the White-bear Islands camp.
That evening, July 2, the captains ordered an attack on the largest island, ruled by a king of the white bears.
"Sure, they're so sassy we got to tache 'em a lesson," quoth Pat.
But although the island was thoroughly searched, by all hands, including Peter, only one bear fell. Drouillard shot him through the heart as he was charging, and he died without doing any damage.
"Have ye seen the falls, boy?" queried Pat, of Peter, the next morning. Peter shook his head. "Well, nayther have I," continued Pat. "I've been workin' too hard—an' so 've ye. But with the permission of the commandin' officers we'll jest take a day off, b' gorry, an' make a tour of inspection. We'll lave the other lads to finish the iron boat."
And inspect the falls they did, from end to end. It was a marvelous spectacle—ten miles of rush and roar and spray and foam. The eagle was on her nest in the top of the lone cottonwood on the island. The Indians at the Mandan and Minnetaree villages had said there would be an eagle.
"An' ten thousand buff'lo!" exclaimed Sergeant Pat, surveying from the brink of one of the falls. "Ten thousand grazin', an' another thousand drowned in the rapids. Sure, they're bein' carried down like chips."
