The captains stood up in the white pirogue. Captain Clark looked back, at the canoes, and waved his hat, and smiled. Before, on the right, was a great collection of houses set amidst trees—and at the river bank, near where the two rivers joined, loomed a huge (at least, to Peter it seemed huge) whitish stone fort, flying the United States flag. Many boats plied the current. St. Louis!
Captain Clark lifted his hand and called an order. But already every rifle in pirogue and canoes had been leveled, on every trigger was a tense finger—and “Bang!” spoke all together.
“Hooray!”
Before the boats had touched the landing, the people of St. Louis had gathered there like magic; they were running, shouting, jostling. Exclamations sounded again and again. The air trembled with the excitement. In the boats, the men were agrin—waving, calling, and old Cruzatte capering. Only the captains and Big White stood motionless, as proper for chiefs, waiting until the pirogue made landing.
“Eet ees Lewis an’ Clark!”
“Dey haf return’ from de dead!”
“Huzza! Huzza! Welcome home!”
“Where you been, these two years and a half?”
Important personages pressed forward, to grasp the captains and shake their hands vigorously.
“What news, Captains? What news from beyond the Mandan town? Did you succeed in crossing the mountains?”