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. He said it in a hundred ways. His wide, deep, lustrous eyes,
shining with intelligence, had told him! So had the touch of his big
warm mouth in many a friendly pony kiss. His pony could laugh, too. He
had seen the smiles flicker about his mouth and eyes as he pretended to
bite his bare legs. How could any human being be cruel or mean to a
horse! His pony had given him new courage and conscious power. He was