The toiling little steamboat “Arkansas” was stuck harder than ever, as seemed, on a mud-bar far up the shallow Arkansas River, in the old “Indian Country,” which is present Oklahoma.

“Back her! Back her!” were bawling a half-dozen voices, from her passengers.

“Go ahead! Give her steam! Push her over!” were bawling a half-dozen others.

“No! Swing her!”

The paddle-wheel astern threshed vainly; the red-shirted pilot in the pilot-house continually jangled the engine-bell; from the upper deck the captain yelled himself hoarse; on the lower deck the mate stumped around in cowhide boots and swore horridly; the negro roustabouts, ranged along the flat open bows and the guard-rails, to shove with poles, grunted and panted, and now and then one fell overboard when his pole slipped; the passengers advised and criticized; the many dogs barked; and young Ernest Merrill, scampering upstairs and down, so as to be certain to see everything that happened, could not feel that the boat budged forward or backward an inch.

“We’re rooted fast, this time,” spoke a pleasant voice in his ear, as from the forward rail of the upper deck he was sighting on the shore, to see whether they really did move. “There’s scarcely water enough under her here to float a peanut shell.”

It was his friend Lieutenant Neal, in charge of the army recruits bound, like Ernest, for Fort Gibson of the Indian Country. A fine young man was Lieutenant Neal; not much more than a boy himself. Ever since he and Ernest had got acquainted, on the first day up the Arkansas from where it emptied into the Mississippi, he had rather taken Ernest under his wing. He and his recruits were from New Orleans; and Ernest was from Cincinnati, in the other direction.

“She is stuck, isn’t she!” agreed Ernest. “But they’ll get her off, won’t they? They always have.”

For the “Arkansas” to be aground was nothing new. Through almost two weeks she had been threshing and thumping and snorting on her noisy crooked way, stemming the tricky current and dodging (when she could) the numerous bars and snags half-exposed by the falling water. But every now and again she struck.

Such was steamboat travel on the Arkansas River in this early fall of 1832.

That was a long trip, anyway, 640 miles by steamboat up to Fort Gibson amidst the Cherokees in the Indian Country. The Arkansas River had proved to be a lonely stream, winding amidst cane brakes and bayous and timber and wide flowery prairies, peopled chiefly by bear and deer and horses and wild fowl. At Little Rock, the first town of any consequence, and the capital of Arkansas Territory, about half the passengers left, and a dozen others came aboard. At Fort Smith, 300 miles further, on the line between Arkansas Territory and the Indian Country, a half of the remaining passengers (including some Texas emigrants and the most of the army recruits) filed ashore.

When Fort Smith was left behind, the passengers on board were, with the exception of Lieutenant Neal and Ernest, a rather tough set: reckless hunters and adventurers, each accompanied by several black-and-tan or yellow hounds, and all apparently bound as far as they could go into the Indian Country.

But it did not look as though they were to get much farther, by steamboat!

“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.

Speedily the word of the approaching visitor spread throughout the deck, and the passengers dropped every other amusement, to watch and hazard guesses. As the boat drew nearer, it was seen to be a dug-out, hollowed from a single large log. The paddler was bearded and evidently was a white man. He wore a broad-brimmed black felt hat and a buckskin shirt; and a long-barrelled rifle leaned against the gunwale beside him.

He scarcely looked up until his dug-out grazed the gunwale of the steamboat. Then he tossed a plaited hemp painter or tie-rope aboard, a couple of roustabouts held the dug-out steady, and grasping his rifle he followed the tie-rope with himself, clambering easily over the bow. He strode for the stairs. In addition to hat and shirt, he wore buckskin pantaloons and moccasins; a powder-horn and bullet-pouch, and bowie-knife in hide scabbard.

Thus he appeared on the upper deck.

“Howdy?” he greeted cordially, surveying the passengers. “Going or coming?”

He was a spare, tall, sinewy, bronzed man, with thick black beard, eagle eye, and hooked nose.

“Haw haw!” they laughed. “Wall, stranger, now you’re guessin’.”

“Whar might you be from?” demanded a spokesman.

“Texas—best country on earth; where all you fellows ought to be.”

Texas! Magic word! Before he had left Cincinnati, and all the way down the Ohio and the Mississippi, and up the Arkansas, Ernest had been hearing of “Texas, Texas, Texas”—a country which, although a part of Mexico, seemed to be a regular goal for Americans, who journeyed there, to tracts of land which had been assigned to American colonies; and there they were given acres and acres for a mere song. And here was a real Texan, was he?

“What might yore name be, stranger?” pursued the spokesman.

“Dick Carroll, gentlemen; from Gonzales in the DeWitt colony.”

“Fresh from Texas, be ye? Wall, what’s the chance down thar now? I hear tell you’ve been havin’ some right smart fightin’ with those thar Mexicans.”

“Yes; give us the latest news, sir,” requested the lieutenant.

The Texan eyed him, and thumped his rifle butt emphatically on the hot deck.

“I will, and gladly. News? Full of it. Fighting? Well, I reckon you-all know what’s been the trouble. By the Mexican constitution of 1824 all the states of the Mexican Republic were guaranteed rights and privileges, same as the states of the United States, and we Texans looked forward to having our own legislature and governor. Then that Don Anastasio Bustamante rose for the presidency of Mexico, overrode the constitution, made a sort of one-hoss monarchy of all Mexico, and followed out the plan they’d tried before of putting soldiers—the wust kind, being mostly thieves and murderers from the prisons—over us in Texas, oppressing Americans with taxes, selling our lands, saying that no more American settlers should come in, and such like.”

“I know,” nodded the lieutenant.

“Of course, that business doesn’t work with a people like us who’ve brought in their families, and settled according to agreement with the government, and improved the land and built houses, and done more in ten years than the Mexicans did in a hundred. So last spring while Don Santa Anna was heading a revolution in Mexico across the Rio Grande, to restore the rights of the constitution of 1824, we Texans did a little house-cleaning on our own account, and drove every monarchist and Bustamantist across the border. When I left, things had calmed down and the country was feeling hopeful again.”

“Then it’s a good place for Americans, is it?” asked the lieutenant.

“Yes, sir. It’s been a good country, and now it’ll be a better one. Where else in this world can a man with a family get three squar’ miles of the best soil, best grass, best water, in the best climate and among the best people on earth, for thirty dollars down, and the rest pay as he goes? We’ve all declared in favor of Santa Anna, the Mexican troops have gone to help him lick Bustamante; as soon as he’s made president he’ll give us what we want under the constitution of ’24. So come along, everybody. There’s land a-plenty and room for all.”

“Wall, stranger, you make a good talk,” spoke a passenger. “But what mought you be doin’ now, if it’s any of our business? You’ve said whar you’re from, but whar you goin’, out of such a fine country?”

“I’m on my way to Fort Gibson. Saw this boat p’inting down stream, so I borrowed a Choctaw dug-out and came to learn the news from above. What’s doing, up ’round Gibson?”

“Haw haw!” they laughed. “Cain’t tell nary thing by the looks of this boat, stranger. Fust we’re p’intin’ one way an’ next we’re p’intin’ ’nother, like a bob-tailed hoss in a millpond. We’re calkilatin’ on Gibson, ourselves. An’ what mought be yore business at Gibson?”

It was a great crowd for asking questions.

“I’m looking for Sam Houston.”

Sam Houston! This was another name, almost as familiar as Texas. Sam Houston! Why, he was the man who as a young officer had fought so bravely in the battle of Horseshoe Bend, in March, 1814, when General Andrew Jackson had saved Alabama and her sister states from the ravages of the fierce Creek Indians. He was the same man who when a boy had been adopted by the Cherokee Indians, in Georgia, and had lived with them; and he had been lieutenant in the regular army, and United States congressman from Tennessee, and had risen to be governor of Tennessee, and only a couple of years ago had quit everything and run away, back to the Cherokees again, in the Indian Country. And ’twas said that when now and then he reappeared in Washington he wore Indian costume! He certainly seemed to be a queer character.

“And what mought you be wishin’ with Sam Houston?”

The Texan was very patient under these queries. He rested on his long rifle, and spoke deliberately, surveying his audience.

“We want him in Texas, gentlemen. They held a meeting at Nacogdoches of Eastern Texas, the other day, and passed resolution to invite him to come down and help make Texas. He can have anything he asks for.”

“Who? Sam Houston?” laughed the steamboat captain—still in a bad humor. “Why, he’s turned squaw man; married to a half-breed Cherokee woman, up in the Cherokee nation. Went down to Washington on a scheme to get a government contract for selling supplies to the Cherokees, beat a senator there half to death, who dared criticize him, and raised an awful muss. Senate had him arrested, and if it wasn’t for Andrew Jackson I reckon they’d have put him in jail. Texas must be hard up, to send for him.”

The Texan whirled on him indignantly.

“Don’t talk against Sam Houston to me, sir. I knew him in Tennessee, and you can’t tell us Tennesseeans anything about Sam Houston. He’s one of the noblest characters Providence ever created, sir. He’s got not a drop of mean or cowardly blood in his big body. I well know that after he parted from his wife (and the secret of his trouble has never passed his lips) he resigned governorship and all and fled to his friends the Injuns till he could straighten out again. But Old Hickory (and Ernest knew that meant General Andrew Jackson, the President) has stood by him, and anybody that Old Hickory sticks to through thick and thin must be pretty much of a man. You’ll see Sam Houston recover yet from whatever it is that floored him, and he’ll be honored in the history of this country long after you and I are forgotten. Where is he? Up at Gibson?”

“Yes,” sullenly responded the captain. “He passed through Little Rock, they say, some time ago, after being in that muss at Washington, so I reckon he’s running his trading store opposite the fort, again, and drinking whisky. They call him ‘Drunken Sam.’ You’ve a right to your opinion, but mine is that Houston’s fallen mighty low, for a senator and a governor.”

“Low as he is, he’s Sam Houston, and he’ll rise again,” sternly declared the Texan. “He’ll speak for himself, like he’s done before.”

“How’s the feeling on annexation to the United States, sir?” queried the lieutenant. “There’s a report at New Orleans that President Jackson has asked Houston to investigate with that in view.”

The Texan laughed easily.

“We’ve 20,000 Americans in Texas, sir, but we’re not aiming now to cut loose from Mexico. We’ve pledged ourselves to Santa Anna and the constitution of 1824. What we want is our state rights in the Mexican republic, and Sam Houston to lead us.”

“How about Austin?”

“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.

“Steady, steady,” warned the Texan, when the men violently gripped the gunwales. “I’ll do the steering. You lad in the stern, hold her.”

They were making for the high banks, and the current was carrying them swiftly down, for this was the rapid side of the river. The laden dug-out was hard to control. Now the steamboat was some distance above them, and receding. On a sudden the Texan exclaimed with—

“Look out! Back her! Back her, I say!”

Even as he spoke the dug-out struck with a shock, hung, swerved, tilted—a hidden snag underneath rose and fell and clung vengefully—water began to flow in over the gunwale on the up-stream side—several of the recruits sprang half to their feet, leaning. “Steady! Steady!” bade the lieutenant—and amidst a general cry, over she went. His heart in his mouth, Ernest pitched backward, and with a splash the water closed above him. He shut his lips tight just in time.

As soon as he could right himself he kicked and paddled vigorously to reach the surface. Up he blindly came, working hard; his head burst the surface, and hit with a thump. Ouch! Clawing, he opened his eyes, but for a minute he could not see. Everything was bleared and dark. He panted, and paddling and kicking he wildly stared. Something hard was close above him and surrounding him, like an umbrella. He stretched up a hand, and explored. Wood! His knees hit a sharp edge, below water. His fingers encountered a projection, near his head, and he hung on.

Now he knew. He was under the boat! He certainly was. The covering was the bottom, inside, his knees had hit the gunwale and his fingers had found the bow (or stern) where the gunwales came together in a point. Yes, he was underneath the up-side-down dug-out, and he was floating along with the current; at any rate, there was nothing but water under him when he extended his feet as far as he dared.

The space was not pitchy dark, for some light filtered through the water; soon he could dimly make things out. A bobbing object bumped against him; it was a canvas haversack.

For the present he had plenty of room and plenty of air; and by kicking occasionally, and hanging on with his fingers, he easily kept afloat. But, jiminy, what a fix! He shouted, and his voice rang hollowly in his ears, almost deafening him. Maybe he could dive from under. He took a long breath and sank and kicked, doubling his neck—and bumped his head again, on one gunwale, and his shins on the other. Huh! That didn’t work, so in a panicky fear he came up inside to breathe. Shucks!

Now his feet dragged momentarily on a bar, but lost it. Once more he tried to dive. He must get out from under. He sank, turned in a ball, kicked and paddled and groped, pushed luckily with the soles of his feet against the opposite gunwale—and away he slid, scraping his back. He held his breath as long as he could; then out he popped, into sunshine and freedom!

Paddling, and drinking the open air, he blinked, dazzled, until he could gaze about. What good fortune that he had learned to swim! However, he saw nothing but the surface of the water, and the two shores, and the dug-out, bottom-side up and looking like a big narrow turtle. Above him the river curved widely, and around the curve was the steamboat, probably; but he was alone. Nobody had floated down with him.

He was nearer to the low shore than to the high, so he must have been carried diagonally by a cross current. His feet touched bottom again, and he started to wade, on tiptoe—when he suddenly bethought himself. He struck out for the boat, held to it with one hand and groped under it with the other, and hauled out the haversack. There might be something in it to wear or eat, if the water had not spoiled all the stuff. He felt somewhat like Robinson Crusoe; and pushing the heavy haversack he headed for the nearer shore.

The water shoaled rapidly, until waist-high and knee-deep in the mud he forged along, lugging the haversack (which weighed about a ton!), until he emerged at what he had supposed was a low meadow. It had looked like level grass; but he discovered that it wasn’t land, after all. It was a regular swamp; with coarse cane and grass higher than his head, and underfoot a squashy bog in which he sank to his knees again. And the mosquitoes! And the damp heat! Shucks, and twice shucks! But there were no two ways, now. He toiled manfully on, lugging the precious haversack, shoving through the jungle, plumping in the soft boggy turf, not able to see a thing except the cane and grasses, and the mosquitoes that ate him, with the sun boiling him and his feet like lead.

It seemed to be a tremendously wide swamp. He kept a sharp lookout for snakes, and tried his best to make a bee-line by sighting on some tree-tops that, from occasional open spots, he could glimpse far before. His breath came in gasps, his heart thumped, the mosquitoes and the heat were awful, and the perspiration simply poured down his face. He was leaving the river behind, but when he got out of the swamp, then where would he be?

Hurrah! He guessed that he was reaching the edge, at last. The bogginess was not so deep, and the jungle not so high. His head began to stick above the rushes; his shoulders followed, and he could see about him.

The trees were plain: a large timber-patch, across a short stretch of level prairie. Out of the swamp and upon the hard prairie Ernest staggered; and down he sank, in the hot sun, gasping. A sorry sight he was, too: a bare-headed boy (he had lost his hat, of course), in blue flannel shirt and gray jeans trousers and coarse cowhide shoes, soaked to the skin and muddy to the waist. He was glad to drop the haversack and wipe his face with his wet bandanna handkerchief. Then he took off his shoes and socks, wrung his socks as free as he could of mud and water, emptied his shoes, put socks and shoes on again; and after a breathing space decided to try for the shade of the trees.

With a grunt he picked up the haversack (which he would investigate later), and plodded on. It was another long pull to the trees, for he was pretty weak in the knees. But he made it, without a stop; and as he crossed the border, from sun to shade, how good the coolness felt!

The timber patch was quiet, except for the twitter of birds. Once, as he wandered curiously forward, seeking the best seat so as to rest and examine the haversack, he heard a quick rustle and a series of thumps, as if he had disturbed a deer; but he did not see the deer. Apparently he had the timber all to himself. This was rather fun, exploring—especially if the haversack contained something to eat. But the undergrowth was thick, and there were still some mosquitoes; and the proper place in which to sit down would be an open space warmed by the sun. The shade was almost too cool. After he had rested and dried off, and perhaps had a bite to eat, he would start out and look for the steamboat, up the river. Or maybe he could find the lieutenant, who might be looking for him.

An open space appeared ahead. Ernest made for it, broke through into it—and abruptly stopped short, staring and hugging his haversack. The first thing that his quick eyes saw was a big Indian, directly opposite.

The Indian was sitting down, cross-legged. He was a frightfully big Indian—quite the biggest Indian imaginable. He wore dark whiskers, covering his chin, but he was an Indian, sure; for he had on a gaily figured, dirty calico hunting-shirt, open at the throat so that his hairy chest showed, and buckskin trousers, and embroidered moccasins, and around his large head was wound a strip of red cloth, in several folds, turban fashion. His hair appeared to hang in a pig-tail, or braided queue, down his back. A quiver of feathered arrows lay beside him, and a short strung bow was across his knees.

He sat without a movement, scarcely winking his eyes, which, bold and steady and very blue, surveyed Ernest, while Ernest surveyed him. Ernest had the feeling that this Indian had seen him first; and there, half in sun and half in shade under the tree at the clearing’s edge, had waited for him to approach.

“Who are you, boy?” The Indian had spoken, in a deep, resonant voice—and he had spoken good English.

“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.”