“My name is Ernest Merrill,” stammered Ernest, standing stock still. “Where are you from?” “From Cincinnati, Ohio.” “How came you here?” “I was travelling on a steamboat up the Arkansas River, and the steamboat stuck on a mud-bar, so I got off to walk the rest of the way.” “Where are you going?” “Fort Gibson.” “What do you want at Fort Gibson?” “My uncle. He sent for me.” “Who is your uncle?” “He’s Sergeant John Andrews, in the United States army.” “Who is with you?” “N-nobody,” faltered Ernest, determined to be honest. “There were Lieutenant Neal and some soldiers and a Texan, but the dug-out capsized with us and I got under it and lost ’em. They must be around somewhere, though,” he added, as a warning. “Have you no parents?” “Yes, sir; I’ve my mother, but she’s sick and my uncle was to take me till she’s well. He’s going to be discharged pretty soon.” Ernest could no longer keep himself from trembling. His knees were _so_ wobbly, and his stomach _so_ empty, and the haversack _so_ heavy; and he was alone, and the Indian was very big. The Indian seemed to notice the symptoms. He smiled――a beautiful but sad smile――and beckoned with a great fore-finger. “Come here, my boy,” he bade, in his fine resonant voice. “Fear nothing. You are as safe with me as in your mother’s lap.” And he added, with a dignified gesture of his open hand: “I am Sam Houston.” II ON THE ROAD TO TEXAS Ernest went forward, across the little park. Now he was not a particle afraid. Something in the man’s big finger and steady voice put him at his ease. Besides, this was no Indian; it was Sam Houston in Indian clothes. Truly, an astonishing meeting, but a happy one. So Ernest went forward. “What have you there, my boy?” asked Sam Houston, referring to the haversack. “It’s a knapsack,” replied Ernest. “I found it under the boat.” “Whom does it belong to?” “One of the soldiers. He lost it when the boat capsized; so I took it with me.” “Where are the soldiers?” “I don’t know. I guess they swam ashore while I was floating down.” “Let me see.” Ernest passed the haversack to him, and squatted down while Sam Houston unbuckled the flap. After all, there wasn’t much of any use in the haversack: only two pairs of socks, and a suit of underclothing, and a razor and strop, and a “housewife” or little case containing needles and thread, and several newspapers, and a tin plate and steel knife and fork and pewter spoon, and some soggy crackers or hardtack, and a cotton _night-cap_. None of the clothing would fit Ernest. The haversack had weighed so much because it was water-soaked. Sam Houston stowed everything carefully back again, and buckled the flap. “We will restore this to the Government when we get to Fort Gibson,” he said. “It is not yours or mine. Can you travel? Come.” And he stood. “I have provision. You can eat as you go. Your uncle is no longer at the cantonment, but never mind. Sam Houston will watch over you.”