went on. We were now in full retreat--retreat from the
possibility of quitting.

During the first night out, an odd circumstance befell us that, for some
hours, seemed likely to lose us our boat. As usual, we set to drifting
at dark. The moon, close on its half, was flying, pale and frightened,
through scudding clouds. However, the wind blew high and the surface of
the water was unruffled. There could be nothing more eerie than a night
of drifting on the Missouri, with a ghastly moon dodging in and out
among the clouds. The strange glimmer, peculiar to the surface of the
tawny river at night, gives it a forbidding aspect, and you seem
surrounded by a murmuring immensity.

We were, presumably, drifting into a great sandy bend, for we heard the
constant booming of falling sand ahead. It was impossible to trace the
channel, so we swung idly about with the current. Suddenly, we stopped.
Our usual proceeding in such cases was to leap out and push the boat
off. That night, fortunately, we were chilly, and did not fancy a
midnight ducking. Each taking an oar, we thrust at the bar. The oars
went down to the grip in quicksand. Had we leaped out as usual, there
would have been two burials that night without the customary singing.

We rocked the boat without result. We were trapped; so we smoked awhile,
thought about the matter, and decided to go to bed. In the morning we
would fasten on our cork belts and reach shore--perhaps. Having reached
shore, we would find a stray skiff and go on. But the _Atom II_ seemed
booked for a long wait on that quicksand bar.

During the night a violent shaking of the boat awakened us. A heavy wind
was blowing, and the prow of the boat was swinging about. It soon
stopped with a chug. We stood up and rocked the boat vigorously. It
broke loose again, and swung half-way around. Continuing this for a
half-hour, we finally drifted into deep water.

The next day we passed Cannon Ball River, and reached Standing Rock
Agency in the late evening. Sitting Bull is buried there. After a late
supper, we went in search of his grave. We found it after much lighting
of matches at headstones, in a weed-grown corner of the Agency
burying-ground. A slab of wood, painted white, bears the following
inscription in black: "In Memory of Sitting Bull. Died Dec. 15, 1890."

Perched upon the ill-kept grave, we smoked for an hour under the flying
moon. A dog howled somewhere off in the gloomy waste.

That night the Erin