But they did not overtake the captain’s party on the morrow, nor on the next day. On the third day, which was August 11, the canoes stopped to take aboard some meat; the white pirogue continued on, until Captain Lewis espied a herd of elk in some willow brush, near the shore.
“Turn in, boys,” he bade. “Wait here. Come on, Cruzatte. We’ll get a few of those fellows.”
Out he leaped, gun in hand; and he and One-eyed Cruzatte disappeared in the brush.
“Faith, let’s hope there aren’t Injuns there, too,” quoth Sergeant Pat. “It’s a likely place for an ambush.”
“Hardly stands to reason there’d be elk whar there are Injuns,” remarked Alec Willard.
Everybody waited anxiously; gazed and listened. Two rifle-shots were heard, distant.
“There’s meat, I reckon,” said Alec.
Presently another shot; and in about ten minutes out from the willow brush and to the sandy shore burst Captain Lewis. He was running, limping, staggering—he’d been wounded—the left thigh of his leather breeches was stained red!
“To your arms, boys!” cried Sergeant Pat.