“Here’s a pretty pickle,” muttered the chief with the red hair――and Peter wondered what he meant. “Well, you come along with me.” And he added, to the sick man, “I’ll be back directly, Charley; as soon as I’ve turned this stow-away over. Do you want anything?” “No, sir. I’m sleepy. Maybe I’ll sleep,” and the sick man’s voice trailed off into a murmur. “Come here,” bade the red-haired chief to Peter, beckoning with his finger. And Peter followed Captain William Clark, of the United States Artillery, and second in command of this Captains Lewis and Clark government exploring expedition up the Missouri River, through the doorway, into the sunshine and the open of the great barge’s deck. Captain Clark led straight for the stern, but on the way Peter, keeping close behind him, with his quick eyes saw many things. The white warriors, in buckskins or in cloth, were busy here and there, mending clothes and tools and weapons and assorting goods, or viewing the river banks――and all paused to gaze at him. The big sail was pulling lustily, from its mast. At the stern two warriors were steering. In the barge’s wake were sailing the two smaller barges, the red one and the white one. They followed gallantly, the river rippled, the banks were flowing past. Nothing was to be seen moving on the banks, and the site of the Omaha village, and the sand sprit where the council with Little Thief had been held, were gone. Good! Before the cabin in the stern of the barge were standing the slim, yellow-haired chief and Patrick Gass, and they were watching Peter coming. The slim chief was dressed in his blue clothes and his odd hat, and wore his long knife by his side. His hair hung in a tail. Patrick Gass was dressed as always. His eyes twinkled at Peter, as if to say: “Now, what are you going to do?” Peter knew what he was going to do. He was going to stay with the ’Nited States. But the slim chief’s face betrayed no sign. He simply waited. For this Captain Meriwether Lewis, of the First United States Infantry, the leader of the exploring expedition sent out by President Jefferson and Congress, was not much given to smiles, and was strong on discipline. A thorough young soldier, he, who felt the heavy responsibility of taking the expedition safely through, with the help of Captain Clark. “Here’s what I’ve found, Merne,” announced Captain Clark, with half a laugh. “Who is he, Will?” Captain Lewis’s query was quick, and his brows knitted a trifle. “He says he’s white. I found him in the forec’sle when I went in to see about Floyd.” “How is Floyd?” “No better.” “How’d that boy get there?” “Ran away from the Otoes, he says, and hid himself in the bows beyond the bulkhead. Like as not he’s been there a day or two.” “What’s your name?” demanded the Long Knife Chief, of Peter. “Peter.” “What else?” “Peter――Kerr.” “Where did you live?” “Oto. No like Oto. No like Indian. White boy.” “Hah! Did the Otoes steal you?” “Osage. Oto buy me.”