“We will restore this to the Government when we get to Fort Gibson,” he said. “It is not yours or mine. Can you travel? Come.” And he stood. “I have provision. You can eat as you go. Your uncle is no longer at the cantonment, but never mind. Sam Houston will watch over you.”
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.