“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.”