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.