Читать книгу With Sam Houston in Texas онлайн

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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.