“Yes, sir. I will, sir.” And rejoiced, Sergeant Pryor, whose arm had healed, called off the names as he bustled hither-thither.
“Arrah!” mourned Patrick Gass. “That laves us out, fellows. ‘Not otherwise engaged,’ said the captain. An’ here we are with our fince not finished.”
Captain Clark and Chief Big White were hurrying for the river, and the village beyond.
“Don’t you want your rifle, Will?” called Captain Lewis, after.
“No, Merne. I’ll hunt as the Indians do. We’ll beat them at their own game.”
Already the Sergeant Pryor detachment were mounting. There were scarcely horses enough to go around, for only enough had been hired from the Mandans to supply the regular hunters.
“There are more at the village, lads,” called Captain Lewis.
The men without mounts went running, plodding, laughing, across the snowy ice, for the village. York was pressing after the captain and the chief. He carried a rifle and had a large knife belted around his soldier’s overcoat. Peter delayed not, but scurried, too.
“I stay by Marse Will,” was declaring York. “We show dem Injuns.”