The Victim. Jr. Thomas Dixon
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 drooped 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 the master of Nature now when they flew along the trail through the deep woods. His horse had given him wings.
He looked up into the star-sown sky, and promised God to be kind and gentle to all the dumb world for the love of the beautiful friend He had given.
III
THE HERMITAGE
At the last stand on the banks of the winding Tennessee, the Major sat up late in eager discussion about Old Hickory with an enthusiastic Tennesseean. The ladies had retired, and the Boy listened with quiet eagerness to the talk.
"Waal, we're goin' ter make Andrew Jackson President anyhow, Major!" the Tennesseean drawled.
"I'm afraid they'll beat us," the Major answered, with a shake of his head.
"How'll they beat us when we git ready ter make the fight?"
"Old Hickory says himself, he ain't fit—"
"I reckon we know more about that than he does," persisted the man from Tennessee.
"The aristocrats don't think so—"
"What t'ell they got agin him? Ain't he the biggest man in this country to-day? Didn't he lick Spain and England both at Pensacola and didn't he finish the Red Coats at New Orleans—"
"They say his education's poor—"
"He knowed enough to make this country cock o' the walk—what more do they want—damn 'em!"
"They say he swears—"
The Tennesseean roared:
"Waal, if all the cussin' men vote fur him—he'll sho be elected!"
"The real trouble—" the Major said thoughtfully, "is what the scandal-mongers keep saying about his wife—"
"He's killed one son-of-a-gun about that already, an' they better let him alone—"
"That's just it, my friend: he killed that skunk in a duel and it's not the only one he has fought either. Old Hickory's got the temper of the devil."
"Waal, thar ain't nothin' in them lies about his wife—"
The Major lifted his hand and moved closer:
"There's just enough truth at the bottom of it all to give the liars the chance they need to talk forever—"
"I never knowed thar wuz ary grain er truth in hit, at all—"
"There is, though," the Major interrupted, "and that's where we're going to have a big fight on our hands when it comes to the rub. This Lewis Robards, her first husband, was a quarrelsome cuss. Every man that looked at his wife, he swore was after her, and if she lifted her eyes, he was sure she was guilty. There was no divorce law in Virginia and Robards petitioned the Legislature to pass an Act of Divorce in his favor. The dog swore in this petition that his wife had deserted him and was living with Andrew Jackson. He was boarding with her mother, the widow Donelson. The Legislature passed the Act, but it only authorized the Courts of the Territory of Kentucky to try the case, and grant the divorce if the facts were proven.
"Robards never went to Court with it for over two years, and Jackson, under the impression that the Legislature had given the divorce, married Rachel Robards at Natchez in August, 1791.
"Two years later, the skunk slips into Court and gets his divorce!
"As quick as Old Hickory heard this, he married her over again. There was a mighty hullabaloo kicked up about it by the politicians. They tried to run Jackson out of the country—the little pups who were afraid of him. He challenged the leader of this pack of hounds, and shot him dead—"
"Served him right, too," broke in the Tennesseean, removing his pipe, with a nod of his shaggy head.
"But it don't help him on the way to Washington!" The Major grunted, suddenly rising and dismissing the subject for the night.
The Boy's curiosity was kindled to see the great man whose name had filled the world.
The distance to Nashville was quickly covered. The Major pressed straight through the town without pause and drew rein at the General's gate.
The welcome they received from their distinguished host was so simple, so genuine, so real, the Boy's heart went out in loyal admiration.
The house was a big rambling structure of logs, in front of which stood a stately grove of magnificent forest trees. Behind it stretched the grain and cotton fields.
Nothing could surpass the unaffected and perfect courtesy with which the General welcomed his guests. The tall, stately figure, moving with the unconscious grace of perfect manhood, needed no rules of a dancing master for his guidance. He had sprung from the common people, but he was a born leader and ruler of men.
The Boy listened with keen ears to hear him rip out one of those terrible oaths of which so much had been said. His speech was gentle and kind, and he asked a blessing at every meal exactly as his own quiet, dignified father at home. In all the three weeks they remained his guests not an oath or an ugly word fell from his lips. The Boy wondered how people could tell such lies.
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