“Steve Austin?” And the Texan’s eyes kindled. “I’m from the DeWitt colony, myself, but the Austin colony was the first, and it’s the keystone of the state. Moses Austin (he died in 1821) we call the grand-daddy of Texas, and Steve his son’s our daddy. If it wasn’t for the way he can talk sense with the government we’d all have been booted out. But he’s worked hard for the people through ten years, and he ought to tend to his own interests for a spell. We need Houston. He’s six feet four and weighs according, and he can hold Texas steady when she begins to rock. Well,” continued the Texan, as if done, “I’m for Fort Gibson. Who’s coming along?” “How?” demanded the lieutenant. “There’s a skiff, and there’s the shore. This steamboat’s too plaguey slow for anybody from Texas.” “Do you know the way to Gibson from here?” “Yes, sir. It’s nigh seventy miles by river but only some fifty by land, mostly open country. We’ll likely meet up with Injuns who’ll keep us straight.” “Good! I’d rather be on dry land ashore than on mud in the middle of the river,” said the lieutenant, briskly. “If you’re bound for Gibson afoot, so are we. Want to come, Ernest?” Ernest nodded. “That your boy?” queried the Texan. “Not exactly. But he’s looking for somebody at Gibson, too, and he’s in a hurry.” “So?” mused the Texan, surveying Ernest kindly. “He ’pears like good Texas timber. If I can enlist him and Sam Houston both for that country, we’ll make a big state of it, sure. That’s the talk. All right. How many in your party?” he asked. “Six, and the boy.” “Anybody else for Fort Gibson?” invited the Texan, casting a glance about. But the crowd only laughed good-naturedly. “Fishin’s too good hyar, stranger,” they asserted, in lazy manner. The lieutenant hustled away. Presently he returned. “Ready,” he announced. “Our baggage will go by the steamer.” So they descended to the lower deck, where the little squad of soldier recruits were waiting at the gunwale, with their muskets and haversacks. “I’ve got enough for you, boy,” informed the lieutenant, to Ernest. “Your trunk will stay with the rest of the stuff.” And while a couple of roustabouts steadied the dug-out they all clambered cautiously in. A recruit seized one paddle, the Texan seized another that was lying in the bottom, and they shoved off without ceremony. The crowd above gawked after them. “Better let me take the bows,” quoth the Texan. “Then I can see. We have to go a little careful. This river’s powerful full of snags.” And it was fairly bristling with the jagged roots and branches of tree-trunks, some projecting well above the swirling current, some barely breaking the surface. Moreover, the dug-out, deep and narrow, and smooth of hull, was decidedly cranky. The soldier in the stern seemed not to be an expert paddler, and several times, in veering sharply, the boat canted with alarming readiness.