Meriwether Lewis knew the place of every man in the encampment. Ordway, Pryor, Gass--each of the three sergeants slept by his own mess fire, his squad around him. McNeal, Bratton, Shields, Cruzatte, Reuben Fields, Goodrich, Whitehouse, Coalter, Shannon--the captain knew where each lay, rolled up like a mummy. He had marked each when he threw down his bed-roll that night; for Meriwether Lewis was a leader of men, and no detail escaped him.
He passed now, stealthy as an Indian, along the rows of sleeping forms. His moccasined foot made no sound. Save for his uniform coat, he was clad as a savage himself; and his alert eye, his noiseless foot, might have marked him one. He sought some one of these--and he knew where lay the man he wished to find.
He stood beside him silently at last, looking down at the sleeping figure. The man lay a little apart from the others, for he was to stand second watch that night, and the second guard usually slept where he would not disturb the others when awakened for his turn of duty.
This man--he was long and straight in his blankets, and filled them well--suddenly awoke, and lay staring up. He had not been called, no hand had touched him, it was not yet time for guard relief; but he had felt a presence, even as he slept.
He stared up at a tall and motionless figure looking down. With a swift movement he reached for his rifle; but the next instant, even as he lay, his hand went to his forehead in salute. He was looking up into the face of his commander!
"Shannon!" He heard a hoarse voice command him. "Get up!"
George Shannon, the youngest of the party, sprang out of his bed half clad.
"Captain!" He saluted again. "What is it, sir?" he half whispered, as if in apprehension.
"Put on your jacket, Shannon. Come with me!"
Shannon obeyed hurriedly. Half stripped, he stood a fine figure of young manhood himself, lithe, supple, yet developed into rugged strength by his years of labor on the trail.
"What is it, Captain?" he inquired once more.
They were apart from the others now, in the shadows beyond Lewis's fire. Shannon had caught sight of his leader's countenance, noting the wildness of its look, its drawn and haggard lines.
His commander's hand thrust in his face a clutch of papers, folded--letters, they seemed to be. Shannon could see the trembling of the hand that held them.
"You know what I want, Shannon! I want the rest of these--I want the last one of them! Give it to me now!"