It was not consistent with Spencer’s chivalrous character to attempt to save himself by leaving his companion to the mercy of the foe.  Bidding her retreat as fast as possible, and encouraging her to keep her seat firmly, he protected her by following more slowly in her rear, with his trusty rifle in his hand.  When the Indians in pursuit came too near, he would raise his weapon, as if to fire; and, as he was known to be an excellent marksman, the savages were not willing to encounter him, but hastened to the shelter of trees, while he continued his retreat.  In this manner he kept them at bay for some miles, not firing a single shot—­for he knew that his threatening had more effect—­until Mrs. Bledsoe reached a station.  Her life and his own were, on this occasion, saved by his prudence and presence of mind; for both would have been lost had he yielded to the temptation to fire.

This Spencer—­for his gallantry and reckless daring, named “the Chevalier Bayard of Cumberland Valley”—­was famed for his encounters with the Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on more than one occasion.  His proportions and strength were those of a giant, and the wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvelous stories concerning him.  It was said that, at one time, being unarmed when attacked by the Indians, he reached into a tree, and, wrenching off a huge bough by main force, drove back his assailants with it.  He lived for some years alone in Cumberland Valley—­it is said, from 1776 to 1779—­before a single white man had taken up his abode there; his dwelling being a large hollow tree, the roots of which still remain near Bledsoe’s Lick.  For one year—­the tradition is—­a man by the name of Holiday shared his retreat; but the hollow being not sufficiently spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they were under the necessity of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home in the valley of the Kentucky River.  But one difficulty arose; those dwellers in the primeval forest had but one knife between them!  What, was to be done? for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity:  it belonged to Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an article to part with it.  He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way on his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River.  When about to turn back, Spencer’s heart relented:  he broke the blade of his knife in two, gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow tree.  Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed by a party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville.  For nearly twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and escaped them all; but his hour came at last; and the dust of the hermit and renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on “Spencer’s Hill,” near the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and Knoxville.