Yes, except for Pat, the sentry, all the big boat was deserted. There was a great time ashore. Crouched panting and dripping, Peter witnessed, from behind the mast. The shore was bright, the figures plainly outlined. There were the two white chiefs. Of this he was certain. They had on their heads the queer hats; they wore long tight blue shirts that glittered with ornaments; they carried the long knives, in sheathes at their sides; the one was the chief with the yellow hair, and the other was the chief with the red hair. The ’Nited States were giving a feast and dance, evidently. Two of them were making music by drawing a stick across a box held to their chins; and the others, and the Indians, sat in a circle, around the fire, watching the dances. It was now the turn of the Otoes, for they sprang up, and into the centre, to dance. Peter knew them, one by one: Head Chief Little Thief, Big Horse, Crow’s Head, Black Cat, Iron Eyes, Bix Ox, Brave Man, and Big Blue Eyes――all Otoes except Crow’s Head and Black Cat, who were Missouris. They danced. It was the Oto Buffalo Dance. The ’Nited States warriors cheered――and on a sudden cheered louder and clapped their hands together, for into the centre had leaped a new figure, to dance by himself. He was the black medicine man! His eyes rolled white; his teeth were white; but all the rest of him was black――and he was very large. Assuredly, the ’Nited States must be a great and powerful nation, with such medicine men, decided little Peter, watching. Along the deck Patrick Gass hissed and beckoned. “Here,” he bade. Peter scurried to him. “Get down in for’d,” and Pat pointed to the open door of the forecastle or wooden house that had been built in the bows, under a higher deck. “Stow yourself away an’ kape quiet. Ye’ll find a place.” Peter darted in. It was a room lined with beds in tiers from floor to ceiling: the white warriors’ sleeping-room. Clothing was hanging against the far end; down the centre was a narrow table. Like a cat again, Peter sprang upon the table, scrambled into the highest of the bunks on this side, and came to the far-end wall. The wall did not meet the roof; it was a bulkhead partition dividing off the room from the remainder of the bows. Peter thrust his arm in over the top, and could feel, there beyond, a solid bale on a level with the bunk. He wriggled in over, landed cautiously, explored with hands and feet, in the darkness――and stretched out in a space that had been left between the ballast of extra supplies and the deck above. Good! That warm August night the “’Nited States” men of Captains Lewis and Clark slept on the sand, in the open air, by the river; and in the tent of the captains slept Chief Little Thief. But Patrick Gass, when relieved from guard duty, slept in the forecastle, near Peter――that being, as he yawned, “more convanient.” III PETER MEETS THE CHIEFS