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“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.”
II
ON THE ROAD TO TEXAS
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Ernest went forward, across the little park. Now he was not a particle afraid. Something in the man’s big finger and steady voice put him at his ease. Besides, this was no Indian; it was Sam Houston in Indian clothes. Truly, an astonishing meeting, but a happy one. So Ernest went forward.
“What have you there, my boy?” asked Sam Houston, referring to the haversack.