nder at the parting of the rivers. It will show you pointing on
ahead to show the way to the white men. Sacajawea must never die--she
has done too much to be forgotten. Some day the children of the Great
Father will take your baby, if you wish, and bring him up in the way
of the white men. What we can do for you we will do. Are my words good
in your ears?"

"Your words are good," said Sacajawea. "But I go, too! No want to stay
here now. No can stay!"

"But here is your village, Sacajawea--this is your home, where you
must live. You will be happier here. See now, when I sleep safe at
night, I shall say, 'It was Sacajawea showed me the way. We did not go
astray--we went straight.' We will not forget who led us."

"But," she still expostulated, looking up at him, "how can you cook?
How can you make the lodge? One woman--she must help all time."

A spasm of pain crossed Lewis's face.

"Sacajawea," said he, "I told you that I had made medicine--that I had
promised my dream never to have a lodge of my own. Always I shall live
upon the trail--no lodge fire in any village shall be the place for
me. And I told you I had made a vow to my dream that no woman should
light the lodge fire for me. You are a princess--the daughter of a
chief, the sister of a chief, a great person; you know about a
warrior's medicine. Surely, then, you know that no one is allowed to
ask about the vows of a chief!

"By and by," he added gently, "a great many white men will come here,
Sacajawea. They will find you here. They will bring you gifts. You
will live here long, and your baby will grow to be a man, and his
children will live here long. But now I must go to my people."

The unwonted tears of an Indian woman were in the eyes which looked up
at him.

"Ah!" said she, in reproach. "I went with you. I cooked in the lodges.
I showed the way. I was as one of your people. Now I say I go to your
people, and you say no. You need me once--you no need me now! You say
to me, your people are not my people--you not need Sacajawea any
more!"

The Indian has no word for good-by. The faithful--nay, loving--girl
simply turned away and passed from him; nor did he ever see her more.

Alone, apart from her people, she seated herself on the brink of the
bluff, below which lay the boats, ready to depart. She drew her
blanket over her head. When at length the voyage had begun, she did
not look out once to watch them pass. They saw her motionless figure
high o