His uncle “no longer at the cantonment!” Why? And where, then? Ernest’s heart sank. “He has been transferred,” quoth Sam Houston, briefly, as he strode, carrying the haversack, Ernest trotting in the wake of his great strides. Ernest asked no further. He felt that he was in good hands, and that Sam Houston knew what was to be done. In a few minutes they arrived at the edge of the timber, where a small, bob-tailed pony was tethered to a tree. The pony nickered at their approach. From the tree Sam Houston took down the carcass of a deer, hanging there. He laid it over the horse’s haunches and tied it fast. He slung his quiver at his thigh, and the haversack from the saddle, against the horse’s side. The pony did indeed seem _very_ small; but after handing Ernest a strip of dried meat, extracted from the bosom of his shirt, and saying, “Chew on this, my boy,” Sam Houston untied the animal, lifted Ernest astride the deer carcass behind the rude saddle, and confidently mounted, himself. Thus they rode away, at an easy amble, Ernest perched high and hanging tight, his legs and the legs of the deer dangling. Up hill and down, through a rolling prairie land of rich grass and occasional brush and trees, they rode; they saw deer and wild turkeys, and crossed several trails; and at sunset they halted, by a creek, to spend the night. They chewed more of the dried meat, Sam Houston cut some dried grass, spread it, and from the saddle untied a blanket, and laid it out. “There is our bed, yours and mine,” he said. “Some day you will remember that you shared the couch of Sam Houston.” Ernest snuggled beside him, and slept soundly until daybreak. After a scanty breakfast they rode on. It probably was about ten o’clock when, as they topped a little rise, Ernest’s friend pointed ahead. “Yonder is our destination,” he said, solemnly――and using the high-sounding language of which he evidently was fond. “There lies the cantonment of Fort Gibson; and across the stream from it waits the humble habitation of Sam Houston.” Slightly to the south of west showed a river, marked by its line of trees. That was the Arkansas. From the north another river joined it; and on the hither shore of this river, a few miles above its mouth, was a group of buildings, occupying a lovely placid site in the sunny open. Across the wide grassy prairie that stretched to the river ambled the pony, with its double burden――Ernest holding fast and peering. Soon he could make out the Stars and Stripes floating on the breeze, from its tall flag-staff. Several Indians――real Indians――were met, on their ponies. They were dressed much like Sam Houston; some carried bows, some muskets. With them Sam Houston exchanged a dignified word of greeting. And presently the fort itself was reached――but it did not appear to be much of a fort; just a small collection of low, shabby wooden buildings around a parade-ground.