``The little deevil!'' exclaimed Tom again.
I looked up, burning with this praise from Tom (for Ihad never thought of praise nor of anything save his happiness and Polly Ann's).I looked up, and my eyes were caught and held with a strange fascination by fearless blue ones that gazed down into them.I give you but a poor description of the owner of these blue eyes, for personal magnetism springs not from one feature or another.
He was a young man,--perhaps five and twenty as I now know age,--woodsman-clad, square-built, sun-reddened.
His hair might have been orange in one light and sand-colored in another.With a boy's sense of such things I knew that the other woodsmen were waiting for him to speak, for they glanced at him expectantly.
``You had a near call, McChesney,'' said he, at length;``fortunate for you we were after this band,--shot some of it to pieces yesterday morning.'' He paused, looking at Tom with that quality of tribute which comes naturally to a leader of men.``By God,'' he said, ``I didn't think you'd try it.''
``My word is good, Colonel Clark,'' answered Tom, simply.
Young Colonel Clark glanced at the lithe figure of Polly Ann.He seemed a man of few words, for he did not add to his praise of Tom's achievement by complimenting her as Captain Sevier had done.In fact, he said nothing more, but leaped down the bank and strode into the water where the body of Weldon lay, and dragged it out himself.We gathered around it silently, and two great tears rolled down Polly Ann's cheeks as she parted the hair with tenderness and loosened the clenched hands.
Nor did any of the tall woodsmen speak.Poor Weldon!
The tragedy of his life and death was the tragedy of Kentucky herself.They buried him by the waterside, where he had fallen.
But there was little time for mourning on the border.
The burial finished, the Kentuckians splashed across the creek, and one of them, stooping with a shout at the mouth of the run, lifted out of the brambles a painted body with drooping head and feathers trailing.
``Ay, Mac,'' he cried, ``here's a sculp for ye.''
``It's Davy's,'' exclaimed Polly Ann from the top of the bank; ``Davy shot that one.''
``Hooray for Davy,'' cried a huge, strapping backwoodsman who stood beside her, and the others laughingly took up the shout.``Hooray for Davy.Bring him over, Cowan.'' The giant threw me on his shoulder as though I had been a fox, leaped down, and took the stream in two strides.I little thought how often he was to carry me in days to come, but I felt a great awe at the strength of him, as I stared into his rough features and his veined and weathered skin.He stood me down beside the Indian's body, smiled as he whipped my hunting knife from my belt, and said, ``Now, Davy, take the sculp.''
Nothing loath, I seized the Indian by the long scalp-lock, while my big friend guided my hand, and amid laughter and cheers I cut off my first trophy of war.
Nor did I have any other feeling than fierce hatred of the race which had killed my father.
Those who have known armies in their discipline will find it difficult to understand the leadership of the border.
Such leadership was granted only to those whose force and individuality compelled men to obey them.I had my first glimpse of it that day.This Colonel Clark to whom Tom delivered Mr.Robertson's letter was perchance the youngest man in the company that had rescued us, saving only a slim lad of seventeen whom I noticed and envied, and whose name was James Ray.Colonel Clark, so Iwas told by my friend Cowan, held that title in Kentucky by reason of his prowess.
Clark had been standing quietly on the bank while Ihad scalped my first redskin.Then he called Tom McChesney to him and questioned him closely about our journey, the signs we had seen, and, finally, the news in the Watauga settlements.While this was going on the others gathered round them.
``What now?'' asked Cowan, when he had finished.
``Back to Harrodstown,'' answered the Colonel, shortly.
There was a brief silence, followed by a hoarse murmur from a thick-set man at the edge of the crowd, who shouldered his way to the centre of it.
``We set out to hunt a fight, and my pluck is to clean up.We ain't finished 'em yet.''
The man had a deep, coarse voice that was a piece with his roughness.
``I reckon this band ain't a-goin' to harry the station any more, McGary,'' cried Cowan.
``By Job, what did we come out for? Who'll take the trail with me?''
