CHAPTER IX
THE SUMMONS
The winter was wearing away. The wild fowl were passing northward, landward. The game had changed its haunts. March was coming, the month between the seasons for the tribes, the time of want, the leanest period of the year.
Meriwether Lewis, alone one morning in the comfortable cabin which served as a house for himself and his friend, sat pondering on these things, as was his wont. His little Indian dog, always his steady companion, had taken its place on the top of the flatted stump which served as a desk, near the maps and papers which Lewis had pushed away. Here the small creature sat, motionless, mute, its eyes fixed adoringly upon its master.
The captain did not notice it. He did not at first hear the rap on the door, nor the footfall of the man who entered inquiringly.
“Yes, Sergeant Ordway?” said he presently, looking up.
Ordway saluted.
“Something for you, sir. It seems to be a letter.”