ud lamentations mingled with the preparations for the
departure.

Sacajawea, what of her? Her husband lived among the Mandans. This was
the end of the trail for her, and not the rudest man but was sad at
the thought of going on without her. They knew well enough that in all
likelihood, but for her, their expedition could never have attained
success. Beyond that, each man of them held memory of some personal
kindness received at her hands. She had been the life and comfort of
the party, as well as its guide and inspiration.

"Sacajawea," said Meriwether Lewis, when the hour for departure came,
"I am now going to finish my trail. Do you want to go part way with
us? I can take you to the village where we started up this river--St.
Louis. You can stay there for one snow, until Big White comes back
from seeing the Great Father. We can take the baby, too, if you like."

Her face lighted up with a strange wistfulness.

"Yes, Capt'in," said she, "I go with Big White--and you."

He smiled as he shook his head.

"We go farther than that, many sleeps farther."

"Who shall make the fire? Who shall mend your moccasins? See, there is
no other woman in your party. Who shall make tea? Who shall spread
down the robes? Me--Mrs. Charbonneau!"

She drew herself up proudly with this title; but still Meriwether
Lewis looked at her sadly, as he stood, lean, gaunt, full-bearded,
clad in his leather costume of the plains, supporting himself on his
crutch.

"Sacajawea," said he, "I cannot take your husband with me. All my
goods are gone--I cannot pay him; and now we do not need him to teach
us the language of other peoples. From here we can go alone."

"Aw right!" said Sacajawea, in paleface idiom. "Him stay--me go!"

Meriwether Lewis pondered for a time on what fashion of speech he must
employ to make her understand.

"Bird Woman," said he at length, "you are a good girl. It would pain
my heart to see you unhappy. But if you came with me to my villages,
women would say, 'Who is that woman there? She has no lodge; she does
not belong to any man.' They must not say that of Sacajawea--she is a
good woman. Those are not the things your ears should hear. Now I
shall tell the Great Father that, but for Sacajawea we should all have
been lost; that we should never have come back again. His heart will
be open to those words. He will send gifts to you. Sometime, I
believe, the Great Father's sons will build a picture of you in iron,
out yo