At last they saw them coming, the paddles flashing in unison in the horny hands which tirelessly drove the boats along the river. They could see them—men with long beards, clad in leggings of elk hide, moccasins of buffalo and deer; their head-dresses those of the Indians, their long hair braided. And see, in the prow of the foremost craft sat two men, side by side—Lewis and Clark, the two friends who had arisen as if from the grave!
“Present arms!” rang out a sharp command, as the boats lined up along the wharf.
The brown and scarred rifles came to place.
“Aim! Fire!”
The volley of salutation blazed out even with the chorus of the voyageurs’ cheers. And cheers repeated and unceasing greeted them as they stepped from their boats to the wharf. In an instant they were half overpowered.
“Come with me!”
“No, with me!”
“With me!”
A score of eager voices of the first men of St. Louis claimed the privilege of hospitality for them. It was almost by force that Pierre Chouteau bore them away to his castle on the hill. And always questions, questions, came upon them—ejaculations, exclamations.
“Ma foi!” exclaimed more than one pretty French maiden. “Such men—such splendid men—savages, yet white! See! See!”