“You keep your own cur’osity to yourself ef you’r goin’ to travel in these parts.  That’s a mighty good thing for you to learn.”

“Very true, madam,” said I, gently disengaging the revolver barrel from the line of my waist, “but won’t you tell me why you do these things with your son?”

“It’s none of your damned business,” she answered, “but I don’t mind tellin’ you.  I’m tryin’ to make a man out’n him.”

“Ah, and this is part of the drill?”

“Part of it.  You, Andrew Jackson, stick yore pistol up agin your head the way I tol’ you.  Now snap it, damn you!  Keep on a-snappin’!  Quit that jumpin’, I tell you!  Snap, it till you git through bein’ scared of it.  Do it now, or by Gawd, I’ll chase you over the side of the boat and feed you to the catfish, you low-down imertation of a he-thing.  Mister,” she turned to me again, “will you please tell me how come me to be the mother of a thing like this—­me, a woman of ole Missoury; and me a cousin of ole Simon Kenton of Kentucky beside?”

“My good woman,” said I, somewhat amused by her methods of action and speech, “do you mind telling me what is your name?”

“Name’s Mandy McGovern; and I come from Pike,” she answered, almost before the words were out of my mouth.  “I’ve been merried three times and my first two husbands died a-fightin, like gentlemen, in diffikilties with friends.  Then along come this Danny Calkins, that taken up some land nigh to me in the bottoms—­low-downest coward of a, man that ever disgraced the sile of yearth—­and then I merried him.”

“Is he dead, too, my dear woman?” I asked.

“Don’t you ‘dear woman’ me—­I ain’t free to merry agin yit,” said she.  “Naw, he ain’t dead, and I ain’t deevorced either.  I just done left him.  Why, every man in Pike has whupped Danny Calkins one time or other.  When a man couldn’t git no reputation any other way, he’d come erlong and whupped my husband.  I got right tired of it.”

“I should think you might.”

“Yes, and me the wife of two real men befo’ then.  If ever a woman had hard luck the same is me,” she went on.  “I had eight chillen by my two husbands that was real men, and every one of them died, or got killed like a man, or went West like a man—­exceptin’ this thing here, the son of that there Danny Calkins.  Why, he’s afraid to go coon huntin’ at night for fear the cats’ll get him.  He don’t like to melk a keow for fear she’ll kick him.  He’s afraid to court a gal.  He kaint shoot, he kaint chop, he kaint do nothin’.  I’m takin’ him out West to begin over again where the plowin’s easier; and whiles we go along, I’m givin’ him a ‘casional dose of immanuel trainin’, to see if I can’t make him part way intoe a man.  I dunno!” Mrs. McGovern dipped snuff vigorously.

Thereafter she looked at me carefully.  “Say, mister,” said she, “how tall are you?”

“About six feet, I think.”