“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?”