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.
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