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 hauled and pushed on up the crooked, rapid Jefferson, with never a word from the search party.

"We'll all be turnin' into fishes," groaned Pat. "Me toes are webbed like a beaver's, already. Sure, it's an awful empty country; an' we're thray thousand miles from home."

On August 16 they approached where the river forked once more. It was always forking, decided Peter. Before, not many miles, was a gap in the mountain range. The river seemed to lead for the gap. Were they going to follow it in? And then where would they be? The trees were ceasing. There were only three in sight. What would the camps do for wood? Ahead were brush and rocks; and this night the camp fires were made from willow branches. Whew, but the water was cold—the source of the river evidently was near, in the melting snow.

The river doubled in a great curve, before it reached the forks. Captain Clark had sent Reuben Fields and George Shannon ahead, to the forks, but they reported no news. In the morning he set out, with Chaboneau and Sa-ca-ja-we-a, to walk across the bend, while the boats were hauled around by way of the river.

As all were hauling and puffing, somebody cried aloud. It was Sergeant Ordway, on the foremost rope.

"Look, lads!" he bade. "The captain's sighted something!"

"Look at Sa-ca-ja-we-a! Has she gone crazy?"

"Hooray!" cheered Patrick Gass. "Tis the In