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  “Boys,” Clark said with a grin, “there’s good eatin’ ahead.”

  They doubled their pace. It was downhill for three miles, but then the trail ascended another mountain, and they had to stop repeatedly to rest their horses. When they reached the top the trail turned south and dropped into a watershed broken into steep, forested canyons. It was a tough, rocky decline, and the men had to dismount and lead their horses much of the way. It was almost dark when they reached a creek tumbling through rocks and boulders.

  By Clark’s calculations, they had come 32 miles. His hunger gnawed at him, and he was weary in every muscle. Even the horses were starving and thin. “We’ll call this Hungry Creek,” he told the men. “But tomorrow we’ll hit that prairie and fill our bellies.”

  As he lay on his back and watched the stars wheel up in the night sky, he was not so sure. A violent headache had come on, and nausea swelled in his empty stomach. He felt cold and weak, almost dizzy, and he was beginning to lose sensation in his feet.

  The thick band of the Milky Way lay across the heavens as if it had been sprinkled there by a beneficent God. Silently he sent up a message: If you mean for us to survive, Lord, you could help by bringing some game across our path.

  Clark’s mother and father sat at either end of the table, his father in a black wool suit. His sisters and brothers lined both sides: George, Annie, Lucy, Elizabeth, Johnny, Edmund, and Fanny. Even Jonathan and Dickie, who had been dead for so many years, were there. The table was piled high with turkey and ham and potatoes and grits, and he could smell the gravy, heavy with fat. From the kitchen came the scent of sugar and plum pies. His mouth watered and his stomach growled. But he could not understand a sound he kept hearing. It was like a birdcall but soft and melodic, almost a cooing: oooh, oooh, oooh. He opened his eyes and saw large, straight pines rising far up into a gray dawn. In one of them sat a bird he had never seen: it looked like a dove, but it was gray, with a long pointed tail bordered with white.

  The sense of loss was so sharp he ached. His family, his long-dead brothers and parents, but even more so the food … It had been so close: turkey and gravy and potatoes with butter, sugar and plums. He rose to his feet and staggered, nearly blacked out, sat down again, put his head between his knees. Angry red boils had broken out on his calves and thighs, for want of anything but meat.

  He rose again and went to the creek to slap its icy water on his face. In the dawn light he could feel autumn in the air, could smell it in the damp, cold earth.

  The trail paralleled the creek, edging higher up the side of the canyon as the creek fell. Within two miles they were 80 yards above it, the trail a narrow foothold. At times, when rocks jutted out of the side of the canyon, the men had to dismount and lead their horses. The animals laid their ears back, the whites showing as their eyes rolled in fear. Clark’s legs wobbled as he walked; he felt stricken and hollow. If it got any steeper, the horses would refuse to move, and they would have to shoot one of them and eat it.

  At midmorning the trail dropped down toward a small glade, where to Clark’s astonishment he saw a horse grazing, a spotted gray. He looked around the glade for any sign of its owners but saw no one.

  “Sir,” Colter whispered, “can I kill ’im?”

  Clark hesitated, still looking for some sign of Indians. Finally he nodded. “No sense lettin’ him get away.”

  Colter raised his flintlock, sighted, and pulled the trigger. The gun roared and the horse buckled. Eagerly the men rushed forward—all except Drouillard, who kept his horse at a walk. Half French, half Shawnee, he was their best woodsman. His long black hair fell on his shoulders, Indian style, and a dirty red headband kept it out of his eyes.

  The Field brothers skinned and butchered the animal while Collins and Colter built a fire. They waited only until the first pieces were singed before they began to tear chunks off and devour them. No one said a word; all concentrated on their eating.

  When their bellies were full, Clark ordered the rest of the horse hung up in a tree for the corpsmen who followed them.

  Sated, the men sat back and watched their horses graze. It was warm now, the sun slanting golden through the trees and dappling the small meadow. They were giddy with relief: they knew now that they would get out of these mountains and find game, probably today, maybe tomorrow—but they knew. It had not been just hunger that had kept them silent for so long; it had been fear.

  FOUR

  September 1805

  Swan Lighting watched Winter Walking reach into the pit with her wooden bowl and lift out a pile of camas bulbs. The day was warm, and the heat of the pit made the sweat bead on the old woman’s forehead.

  Behind her, in the distance, two young boys raced through the meadow back toward camp, their legs barely visible in the long grass. Something about the way they ran made Swan take a second look. They were frightened. They did not slow until they neared three old men who stood before the lodges. Alarmed, Swan hurried over to hear what they said. Had a Snake war party eluded her father and his warriors?

  “Strange men, on horses,” the older boy gasped, pointing back from where they had come. “Pale skin and hair like buffalo on their faces … Bad smell.” He leaned over, trying to catch his breath.

  “They gave us these,” the other added, his chest still heaving. He held up a piece of long, thin, red material the length of a meadow snake.

  Buffalo Head took the material and lifted it into the sun, where it glistened like water.

  “Buffalo hair on their faces?” Three Elks asked.

  “Yes,” the older boy responded. “Their leader had reddish hair—on his head and face.”

  “Almost white skin,” the other said. “And Snake saddles.”

  Swan could see apprehension ripple over the men’s faces.

  “But they are not Snakes,” she said quickly. “You said they were pale skinned.”

  “Yes.”

  Swan’s people had heard of white-skinned men: Soyappos, Across-Water People. Several Nimíipuu who had been captured by other nations and taken far toward the rising sun had seen them. In the Time of Hot Weather some had heard stories from their Crow friends of a band of Soyappos on their way to the waters where the sun set.

  “Go find Lone Elk,” Buffalo Head said to the older boy.

  Lone Elk, their village headman, was her husband’s grandfather. He had seen more than 70 springs, his long hair white and his brown skin well creased. When he arrived, the boys retold their story. Lone Elk squinted as he stared to the south, where men on horseback were now visible.

  Every man in the camp had gathered. The women, frightened by what they had heard, were gathering up their children and riding north and east, into the forest. “Who will go meet these white-skinned men?” Lone Elk asked.

  There was silence. Finally Raven Spy, a gray-haired old scout, volunteered. Tall and loose jointed, clad only in his breechcloth, he mounted his horse and loped off toward the strangers. Swan Lighting stood with Lone Elk while the others hurried to gather their weapons.

  Raven Spy greeted the strangers and turned back toward the village, leading them peacefully.

  There were seven. Their horses were poor, their ribs protruding beneath their skins, and the riders looked worse. Camp dogs sniffed and growled at them, the hair on their backs straight up.

  The leader smiled as he dismounted. He was the oddest-looking human Swan had ever seen: his eyes were round and blue, his broad forehead a shocking shade of pink beneath hair redder than a sorrel horse’s, which was gathered in a single braid down his back. Below his round eyes his face was covered with hair of the same color, rough and curly, like a buffalo’s.

  She sniffed, then recoiled. He smelled like he had not bathed in two moons. He kept repeating something that included the word peace—a type of sinew used in sewing.

  Lone Elk signed a greeting, asked from where he traveled.

  From seventeen nations toward rising sun, the stranger signed back.

  Th
e men glanced at one another, questions in their eyes. A Steelhead tewat had prophesied that a new kind of man would come from the rising sun, different from any they had yet seen. Many new things they would teach, and bring messages without speaking.

  We travel to great lake where sun sets, bad-tasting lake, the stranger signed.

  “Ah-heh,” Lone Elk said.

  You are Pierced Nose? The Soyappo made the sign with his forefinger, slashing under his nose.

  Cupnitpelu, Lone Elk said. This was their older name, People Who Walked Out of Mountains.

  “Chopunnish,” Red Hair said. Then he signed: Our hearts are happy to be here with you. We are hungry, have no food.

  Swan could see surprise in Lone Elk’s ancient, hooded eyes. His people always offered food to visitors, as any nation would; these strangers should have understood that. He turned and beckoned them toward his lodge.

  A few women had begun to return, reassured that there was no danger. Lone Elk gestured toward Winter Walking, asked her to gather food. Then he led the men into his tipi. Swan wanted to hear what was said, so she followed them in and spread buffalo robes around the dead embers of the fire.

  In a few minutes Winter Walking and two others returned with bowls filled with qawas bread, warm camas, a little dried buffalo meat, dried salmon, and dried berries. Their dogs trailed after them, noses in the air. Red Hair signed his thanks, and the Soyappos fell on the food like coyotes who had gone a month between kills.

  Swan turned away in disgust. They had not even given Lone Elk time to thank Creator for the meal.

  More and more of the women, freed now from their fears, crowded into the lodge to see the strange visitors. Their children stared openmouthed. One reached out and tugged the hair on a Soyappo’s face. The man winked, speaking in his own tongue as he removed the boy’s hand. The Soyappos laughed, and though they did not understand the man’s words, the People joined in.

  When they had eaten their fill, the Soyappo leader rose and left the lodge. Swan moved away as he passed, to avoid his stench. When he returned, he handed a round, flat piece of shining stone to Lone Elk. The headman fingered the gleaming object, turned it over and over, showed everyone the designs on it—a face on one side, two hands clasped on the other. Next the Soyappo handed beads and other objects to the women, who oohed and chattered as they compared their gifts.

  Swan was not sure what to do with the curved, reddish metal band the Soyappo handed her. She had never seen an ornament such as this—not even among the goods they traded for at Celilo Falls. He reached over and slid it onto her wrist, and she recoiled from his touch.

  When he was finished handing out gifts, the Soyappo signed to Lone Elk, Can you show us how to get to Great Waters That Taste Poorly?

  Lone Elk thought for a moment. Twisted Hair can show you, he signed. His winter village is on Clear Water.

  Happy with their gifts and excited now, the entire village retrieved their horses and accompanied the Soyappos to Twisted Hair’s camp, a short ride across the prairie, toward the sunset.

  Lone Elk sent his village crier to the other camps spread throughout the prairie. “Tell them about these strangers,” Swan Lighting heard him say. “Tell them we know not if they are friends or if they mean some treachery. Ask them to come for a council—and bring their weapons.”

  Clark stripped off his filthy buckskins and stepped into the stream. He felt a bit ludicrous, his naked body so white. But he reeked, and in his experience, Indian women had little tolerance for that aroma.

  God, he needed a woman. Most of the men lay with native women every chance they could get. His slave, York, was a legend among the Mandans and Arikaras, who believed that if their women slept with him, their husbands might inherit some of his power. York had been more than happy to meet the demand—had got good and cocky about it.

  Only Lewis seemed above temptation. Not once, in the entire 16 months they had been gone, had he taken a woman.

  The stream was only three feet deep, its bottom soft and silty. But damn, it felt good. He sank into it, held his head under. He stood up and soaped himself, then undid the queue in his hair, rubbed soap through until he had worked up a good lather. Finally he sank back down into the stream and rinsed off.

  When he stood up and opened his eyes they caught something moving beyond the trees. It was the short-haired woman who’d been there when he and the men first arrived; she carried leather water bags in both hands. She was taller than the other women, but she had the broad face and high cheekbones common to her people. She wore a plain deerskin dress with no fringe, and her hair did not even reach her shoulders, but she was still striking.

  She stopped, stared in his direction. Clark smiled at her, let her take a long look.

  She turned abruptly and moved back toward camp, and Clark chuckled.

  The shadows were lengthening when the Indians served their evening meal. Clark watched the short-haired woman, the only one who wasn’t serving. She had broad shoulders and full breasts that floated beneath her dress.

  She stared back at him. Most of the Chopunnish squaws looked away, refused to meet his eyes, but not this one. She was like the elk, in a herd, who dares you to shoot.

  Well, he could take a dare. He put his bowl aside and walked to the cooking pits, where she stood watching other women lift out piles of bulbs. He smiled and pointed at the bulbs, then used sign language: What’s this?

  She looked startled, but she pointed to a pile of uncooked roots, white stems with a small black bulb at the bottom. “Camas.”

  The pit beside her was a good ten feet in diameter. It had been opened up, and the hot bulbs still gave off steam. The natives had heated stones, put the roots in with them, then covered it all with dirt and grass and built a fire on top. When it was done, they uncovered the roots and dried them—the pits were surrounded on two sides by drying racks. Clark stepped closer to the pit, reached down, and picked up a bulb. Still warm, it was brown and syrupy, like a roasted onion, but it tasted sweet, almost like licorice.

  Good, he signed, then rubbed his stomach.

  She looked away.

  He laughed, then said out loud, “I don’t bite.”

  Her eyes darted at him. He could see that others were watching them now, and he realized he’d best make a show of propriety for them. He pointed east and signed: You have been over mountains?

  Many times, she signed back. We hunt buffalo.

  It is safe for your people?

  Our men are great warriors.

  Who do they fight?

  Snakes, Paiutes, Bannocks, Blackfeet, Big Bellies. Blackfeet and Big Bellies have firerock guns.

  You need guns?

  Her eyes took on urgency. Yes. We have only three, and they no longer work.

  He held up a hand, as if to tell her to wait, and walked to where his flintlock, powder horn, and leather pouch of balls lay on his pack. When he returned with them, he held up the powder horn and said, out loud, “You need powder and balls.”

  She looked confused.

  He poured powder into the barrel of the gun, describing what he was doing in English. He pulled out a ball, showed it to her. “We drop one of these in”—he slid the ramrod down the barrel—“and tamp it down like so.”

  He held the gun up to his shoulder and sighted, lowered it and pointed to the trigger. “We pull this, it falls on a flint, creates a spark inside. The spark makes the powder burn. You hear thunder, and the ball flies.”

  She stared at the gun, confused.

  He held it up to his shoulder, sighted at the trees in the distance, and fired. A child cried out, and as the smoke cleared he could see that everyone was staring at him. He grinned and winked at them, then handed her the gun.

  She shrank back, did not take it. “It’s all right,” he said. “Just hold it so I can load it again.” He held the gun barrel up, its stock on the ground, then gestured to her to hold it, nodded when she seemed to understand. Tentatively she reached out, gripped the barr
el.

  “That’s it. Now I pour in the powder”—he did so—“and drop in the ball. Then I use the ramrod.” When he was done, he grinned at her and stepped back, motioned for her to pick up the rifle.

  Swan held it in both hands, felt its heft, then swung it to point at his chest. He flinched, and everyone laughed. He grinned at her, then staggered back, held his heart, collapsed onto his knees, and fell face forward onto the grass. The laughter stopped abruptly.

  He opened one eye, looked at her, then sat up, grinning. Everyone laughed again, and she felt sheepish.

  He stood and said something, then moved to her side, held the rifle up, and moved her left hand down the barrel, talking the entire time in his strange tongue, like a slow-moving stream. She drew back from the contact, but he moved her other hand to the trigger, then moved behind her and showed her how to aim down the long barrel. He stood close to her, his arms holding hers in place, his fuzzy cheek against her head. Her face turned hot; she could not believe he was touching her like this. He was a crazy man; what would he do next? He held her hand on the trigger and pressed down, and the gun kicked back into her shoulder as it roared. Pain shot through her, and she dropped the gun and stepped away, her other hand holding her shoulder.

  He smiled at her, amused, and she had an impulse to kick him between the legs. Suddenly he winced, as if she had actually done it, and bent over slightly. Then he almost doubled over, one hand on his stomach. I’m sorry, he signed, straightening up. I must go.

  Aieee, these white men are strange, she thought, watching him pick up the gun and hurry toward the forest. First he bathes in our drinking water; then he shows himself to me naked; then he touches me, in front of everyone else. She felt shamed, soiled.

  She saw another Soyappo rise and hurry toward the forest, half bent over. Suddenly, she understood: they had eaten too much after fasting. They were not only strange and rude; they were stupid.