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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.

“My name is Ernest Merrill,” stammered Ernest, standing stock still.

“Where are you from?”

“From Cincinnati, Ohio.”

“How came you here?”

“I was travelling on a steamboat up the Arkansas River, and the steamboat stuck on a mud-bar, so I got off to walk the rest of the way.”

“Where are you going?”

“Fort Gibson.”

“What do you want at Fort Gibson?”

“My uncle. He sent for me.”

“Who is your uncle?”

“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.