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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.

It probably was about ten o’clock when, as they topped a little rise, Ernest’s friend pointed ahead.

“Yonder is our destination,” he said, solemnly—and using the high-sounding language of which he evidently was fond. “There lies the cantonment of Fort Gibson; and across the stream from it waits the humble habitation of Sam Houston.”

Slightly to the south of west showed a river, marked by its line of trees. That was the Arkansas. From the north another river joined it; and on the hither shore of this river, a few miles above its mouth, was a group of buildings, occupying a lovely placid site in the sunny open. Across the wide grassy prairie that stretched to the river ambled the pony, with its double burden—Ernest holding fast and peering.