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It feels like every eye in the world is watching me.

I slowly hold up the ball. And then I start to bend over and — slowly, slowly — lay down the rifle on the sand.

Clark and the others are casting glances at me, too, while trying to keep an eye on the Lakota. "Eli? What in thunder are you doing?"

"Trust me, sir."

Showing the Lakota I now only have the ball in my hand, I point across the river to the boy. He's confused and looks over to his chiefs for advice. The Partisan just shakes his head no, without knowing what I'm going to do. Black Buffalo, though, holds up his hand in more of a let's-wait-and-see gesture.

I make a sweeping arc with my hand, for practice, without releasing the ball. . . .

Cocking my arm back, I swing forward and throw it — a nice, easy, underhand pitch — across the water.

It lands at the Lakota kid's feet on the far riverbank. He doesn't know what to do. Black Buffalo looks at the ball, back at me, and then at his son. This time, he nods. The Partisan turns away in a huff.

The kid sets down his bow and arrow and picks up Floyd's ball like I hoped he would. He looks at me, and I mime the throwing gesture. He gets it, and without even practicing, throws the ball over the river, back to me.

We do that one more time. Though after I throw the ball to the Lakota side, I make another deliberate show of picking up a damp piece of willow tree driftwood and holding it aloft.

The Lakota kid is puzzled, but he throws the ball back again.

And now, as the ball comes flying toward me, I swing, make contact, and hit the ball toward the boy and the Lakotas. It falls a little short, landing with a plop in the water near their feet. . . .

"What game is that?" Black Buffalo asks. I'm so excited, I don't wait for the translator and answer, "Baseball!"

Clark and Lewis both give quizzical looks at my evident understanding of Lakota.

"And if this is September," I tell Black Buffalo, "it's just about time for the playoffs." . . .

I see that the Lakota kid is picking up a stick, too. He stands, holding it the way I held mine, but not before tossing the ball back over the water to me.

I guess he’s ready for an at-bat.

Men on both sides are lowering their weapons.

It looks like the Corps of Discovery will make it through the day and off of Good Humor Island.

And if that means I've messed with history a little, it feels all right.