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