Lost with Lieutenant Pike / How from the Pawnee Village the boy named Scar Head marched with the young American Chief clear into the Snowy Mountains; how in the dead of winter they searched for the Lost River and thought that they had found it; and how the Spanish Soldiery came upon them and took them down to Santa Fé of New Mexico, where another surprise awaited them

by Edwin L. Sabin

Now (Good!) here came the lieutenant and the doctor, ploughing down a slope, their packs on their backs, but nothing else. Snowy and breathing hard, they arrived. The men, plodding, had seen; and having given up hope plodded on, saying not a word. Only Sergeant Meek greeted, saluting as best he might:

“All well, cap’n. Good morning to you, sirs.”

“No luck this time, sergeant,” wheezed the lieutenant, cheerily, but with face pinched and set. “We missed you, and spent the night together in the snow.”

“Yes, sir. We couldn’t see, for the storm, sir, and had to camp in the nearest shelter.”

“You did right, sergeant. The storm was so thick that I found even the compass of little help. The doctor and I became separated and were fearful that we had lost each other as well as the party. Halt the men.”

“Squad, halt,” rasped the sergeant.

The men waited, panting and coughing.

“It’s evident there are no buffalo down in the open, lads,” spoke the lieutenant. “The doctor and I have sighted never a one nor any sign of one. The storm has driven them back and higher, into the timber. We’ll make in the same direction, and be crossing the mountains while seeking meat.”

He and the doctor led off, heading westward, to climb the Great White Mountains. The route commenced to get more rolling—up and down, up and down, over the rounded foothills concealed by the snow. ’Twas leg-wearying, breath-taking work. The snow grew deeper. In the hollows it had gathered shoulders high; upon the slopes it was waist high. The little column was straggling. Stub, the smallest member, trying to tread in the broken trail, was at times almost buried.