“By gracious!” fidgeted the lieutenant, mopping his brow under his stiff-visored forage-cap. “This is bad, to be held up so, when we’re almost there. I could better have gone overland from Smith. How far is it to Gibson now, captain?” The captain was tired and hot and cross. “Less’n fifty miles by land, if you know the trail. Those who are in a tearing hurry can get out and walk. I’d no business trying this end of the river. I _told_ all you fellows I probably couldn’t make it. Little Rock is as high as a boat should go, after July; and here we are, 300 miles beyond. Pretty soon we’ll be navigating in dew.” And the captain stalked indignantly away. Not a breath of air was stirring. The sun shone hotly down from the clear sky, and was reflected, almost as hotly, from the glassy surface of the smoothly flowing river. On the right hand, up stream, a gently rolling prairie of high grass, dotted with clumps of trees, sloped to the water’s edge; on the left hand, which was the nearer of the two shores, yellow banks had been cut and rose ten feet and more until crowned by brush and trees. Both shores looked deserted, although it was said that the Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, who had been removed from east of the Mississippi, inhabited the country. The “Arkansas” had ceased her efforts, which had only swung her around on the pivot of her hull. The paddle-wheel hung idle. The negro roustabouts were leaning on their long poles, puffing and resting. The booted mate sat in some shade in the bows and mopped his crimson face. The pilot in the pilot-house left his bell-rope, perched himself on the window-ledge, and lighted his pipe. The passengers subsided. Some cast lines over and began to fish. Others sat at cards. Some went to sleep, with their dogs. Taken altogether, the scene was not very hopeful; and the lieutenant, gazing around, gnawed his moustache. “Pshaw, Ernest!” he said. “What next?” “Yaas,” drawled a lean, sallow backwoodsman, who with his pack of hounds and flint-lock rifle had come aboard at Fort Smith. “Sometimes these boats air hung fast this-away for a week, when the water’s right low. An’ if the cap’n cain’t work ’em loose he jus’ natterly waits for a rain to riz the river under him.” “But I can’t wait for a rain,” protested the lieutenant. “I’ve orders to put my men into Gibson.” “Let’s walk,” urged Ernest, for the land looked inviting and maybe they’d find deer on their route. Then―――― “Hello!” spoke the lieutenant, eying the shore. “Here comes a boat. Well, it’s good to see a sign of life somewhere.” A small boat had put out from the high left-hand banks. It was making for the steamer. One man, paddling, seemed to be the only person in it.