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“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.