k to
St. Louis--or at least to our caches on the Missouri."

"How is your salt, Will?" asked Lewis. "And your powder?"

"In fine shape," was the reply. "We have put the new-made salt in some
of the empty canisters. There is plenty of powder and lead left, and
we can pick up more as we reach our caches going eastward. With what
dried meat we can lay up from the elk here, we ought to make a good
start."

Thus they planned, these two extraordinary young men, facing a
transcontinental journey of four thousand miles, with no better
equipment than the rifles which had served them on their way out. As
for their followers, all the discontent and doubt had given way to an
implicit faith. All seemed well fed and content, save one--the man on
whose shoulders had rested the gravest responsibility, the man in
whose soul had been born the vision of this very scene.

"What is the matter with you, Merne?" grumbled his more buoyant
companion. "Are you still carrying all the weight of the entire
world?"

Lewis turned upon his friend with the same patient smile. Both were
conscious that between them there was growing a thin, impermeable
veil--something mysterious, the only barrier which ever had separated
these two loyal souls.

Sacajawea, the Indian girl, was as keen-eyed as the red-headed chief.
In the new boldness that she had learned in her position as general
pet of the expedition, she would sometimes talk to the chief
reproachfully.

"Capt'in," she said one day, "what for you no laff? What for you no
eat? What for you all time think, think, think? See," she extended a
hand--"I make you some more moccasin. I got picture your foot--these
fit plenty good."

"Thank you, Bird Woman," said Lewis, rousing himself. "Without you we
would not be here today. What can I give you in return for all
that--in return for these?"

He took the pair of handsomely stitched moccasins, dangling them by
the strings over one finger; but even as he did so, the old brooding
melancholy fell upon him once more. He sat, forgetful of the girl's
presence, staring moodily at the fire. Sacajawea, grieving like a
little child, stole silently away.

Why did Meriwether Lewis never laugh? Why did he always think, think,
think? Why had there grown between him and his friend that thin,
indefinable reserve?

He was hungry--hungry for another message out of the sky--another gift
of manna in the wilderness. Who had brought those mysterious letters?
Whoever h