“Was I?” asked Adam, with coolness.  “Oh, yes!  I went over to talk with him about a buffalo skin and some antlers of elk that he wanted for Roselands—­and the stars were shining when I came away.”  To himself he said, “Now why did he start like that a moment back?  It wasn’t because the snow had stopped and the stars were shining.  Where was he that night?”

Cary drew a circle in the dust with the handle of his whip.  “You were at Lynch’s with Mr. Rand the next afternoon.  And immediately after that you returned to the West?”

Adam nodded.  The acorn was yet poised upon his finger, but his keen blue eyes were for the other’s face and form, bent over the drawing in the dusty road.  “Ay, West I went,” he said cheerfully.  “I’m just a born wanderer!  I can’t any more stay in one town than a bird can stay on one bush.”

“A born wanderer,” said Cary pleasantly, “is almost always a born good fellow.  How long this time will be your stay in Albemarle?”

“Why, that’s as may be,” answered Adam, with vagueness.  “I’m mighty fond of this country in the fall of the year, and I’ve a hankering for an old-time Christmas at home—­But, my faith; wanderers never know when the fit will take them!  It may be to-morrow, and it may be next year.”

“You and Mr. Rand are old friends?”

“You may say that,” exclaimed the hunter.  “There’s a connection somewhere between the Gaudylocks and the Rands, and I knew Gideon better than most men.  As for Lewis, I reckon there was a time when I was almost his only friend.  I’ve stood between him and many a beating, and ’twas I that taught him to shoot.  A fine place he’s making out of Roselands!”

“Yes,” agreed Cary, with a quick sigh; “a beautiful place.  The West is in a ferment just now, is it not?  One hears much talk of dissatisfaction.”

“Why, all that sort of thing is told me when I come home,” said Adam.  “The Indians call such idle speech talk of singing birds.  My faith, I think all the singing birds in the Mississippi Territory have flown East!  In the West we don’t listen to them.  That’s a fine mare you’re riding, sir!  You should see the wild horses start up from the prairie grass.”

“That would be worth seeing.  Have you ever, in your wanderings, come across Aaron Burr?”

Adam regarded the other side of the acorn.  “Aaron Burr!  Why, I wouldn’t say that I mayn’t have seen him somewhere.  A man who traps and trades, and hunts and fishes, up and down a thousand miles of the Mississippi River is bound to come across a mort of men.  But ’twould be by accident.  He’s a gentleman and a talker, and he was the Vice-President.  I reckon he runs with the Governor and the General and the gentleman-planter and the New Orleans ladies.”  Adam laughed genially.  “I know a red lip or two in New Orleans myself, but they’re not ladies! and I drink with the soldiers, but not with the General.  What’s your interest, sir, in Aaron Burr?”