The Victim | Page 4

with quivering lips, and as the little figure slowly
faded into the shadows of the woods he called in broken accents:
"Kiss Mamma for me--and tell her I wanted to go back and say
good-by--but Joe wouldn't let me!"
"Yes, honey!"
"And you--watch out for that old drunk man we saw once in the woods,
Polly!"

"Yes!"
"Don't let him get you--"
"No--I won't--good--good-by!"
"Good-by--"
The last good-by stuck in the Boy's throat, but he lifted his blue eyes,
saw his pony and smiled through the tears.

II
THE WILDERNESS
A journey of a thousand miles through the unbroken wilderness--the
home of the Choctaw and Chickasaw Indian Nations and all on his own
beautiful pony! It was no time for tears.
The Boy's soul leaped for joy.
The party was a delightful one. Major Hinds, a veteran of General
Jackson's campaign, the commander of the famous Mississippi
Dragoons at the battle of New Orleans, was the leader, accompanied by
his wife, her sister and niece, and best of all a boy his own age, the
Major's little son Howell.
Howell also was riding a pony. He was a nice enough pony, of course,
as ponies went, but couldn't compare with his own. He made up his
mind to race the first chance they got, and show those pretty white
heels to his rival. He was just dying to tell him how fast they could beat
the ground--but he'd wait and surprise the party.
A negro maid accompanied the ladies and a stalwart black man rode a
pack-mule laden with tents, blankets and a cooking outfit. They
stopped at houses when one could be reached at nightfall. If not, they
camped in the woods beneath the towering trees. There was no need of

the tents unless it rained. So dense was the foliage that only here and
there a bright star peeped through, or a moonbeam shot its silvery
thread to the ground. The Indians were all friendly. It was the boast of
the Choctaws that no man of their breed had ever shed the blood of a
white man.
For days they followed the course of the majestic river rolling its
yellow flood to the sea and watched the lazy flat and keel boats drift
slowly down to New Orleans bearing the wealth of the new Western
World. The men who had manned these rude craft were slowly
tramping on foot back to their homes in the North. Their boats could
not stem the tide for the return trip. Every day they passed these weary
walkers. The Boy was sorry they couldn't ride. His pony's step was so
firm and quick and strong.
He raced with Howell the first day and beat him so far there was no fun
in it. He never challenged his rival again. He was the guest of Major
Hinds on this trip. It would be rude. But he slipped out in the dark that
night, and hugged his pony:
"You're the finest horse that ever was!" he whispered.
"Of course I am!" the pony laughed.
"I love you--"
"And I love you," was the quick response as the warm nose touched his
cheek.
In the second week, they reached the first stand, "Folsoms'," on the
border of the Choctaw Nation. These stands were log cabins occupied
by squaw men--whites who had married Indian women. They must
pass three more of these stands the Major said--the "Leflores," known
as the first and second French camps, and the one at the crossing of the
Tennessee River, which had the unusual distinction of being kept by a
half-breed Chickasaw Indian.
Here, weary, footsore travelers stopped to rest and refresh

themselves--and many dropped and died miles from those they loved.
The little graveyard with its rude, wooden-marked mounds the Boy saw
with a dull ache in his heart.
And then the first bitter pang of homesickness came. He wondered if
his sweet mother were well. He wondered what she said when they told
her he had gone. He knew she had cried. What if she were dead and he
could never see her again? He sat down on a log, buried his face in his
hands and tried to cry the ache out of his heart. He felt that he must turn
back or die. But it wouldn't do. He had promised his Big Brother. He
rose, brushed the tears away, fed and watered his pony and tenderly
rubbed down every inch of his beautiful black skin. He forgot the ache
in his new-found love and the strength which had come into his boy's
soul from the sense of kinship with Nature which this beautiful dumb
four-footed friend had brought him. No man could be friendless or
forsaken who possessed the love of a horse. His horse knew and loved
him.