Each of these rough men had dressed to his own fancy.  Many wore fine boots of calf skin with red tops, drawn over their trousers, and high heels and blue and red shirts and broad brimmed straw hats.  A long haired man, in buckskin leggings and moccasins, with a knife at his belt and too much whisky beneath it, amused a crowd by a loud proclamation of his own reckless and redoubtable character and a louder appeal for a chance to put it in action.  It was a droll bit of bragging and merely intended, as the chronicler informs us, to raise a laugh.

“Here I be half man an’ half alligator,” he shouted.  “Oh, I’m one o’ yer tough kind, live forever an’ then turn into a hickory post.  I’ve just crept out o’ the ma’shes of ol’ Kentuck.  I’m only a yearlin’, but cuss me if I don’t think I can whip anybody in this part o’ the country.  I’m the chap that towed the Broadhorn up Salt River where the snags was so thick a fish couldn’t swim without rubbin’ his scales off.  Cock a doodle doo!  I’m the infant that refused his milk before his eyes was open an’ called for a bottle o’ rum.  Talk about grinnin’ the bark off a tree—­that ain’t nothin’.  One look o’ mine would raise a blister on a bull’s heel.  Cock a doodle doo! (slapping his thighs).  Gol darn it!  Ain’t there some one that dast come up an’ collar me?  It would just please my vitals if there was some man here who could split me into shoe pegs.  I deserve it if ever a man did.  I’ll have to go home an’ have another settlement with ol’ Bill Sims.  He’s purty well gouged up, an’ ain’t but one ear, but he’s willin’ to do his best.  That’s somethin’.  It kind o’ stays yer appetite, an’ I suppose that’s all a man like me can expect in this world o’ sorrow.”

At this point a tall, raw-boned woman in “a brindle dress” (to quote the phrase of Samson), wearing a large gilt pin just below her collar, with an orthographic design which spelled the name Minnie, approached the hero and boldly boxed his ears.

“Licked at last,” he shouted as he picked up his hat, dislodged by the violence he had suffered, and retired from the scene with a good-natured laugh.

Sarah was a bit dismayed by the behavior of these rough forerunners of civilization.

“Don’t worry,” said Samson, as they were driving away on the Lake Road next morning.  “The lake and river boatmen are the roughest fellers in the West, and they’re not half as bad as they look an’ talk.  Their deviltry is all on the outside.  They tell me that there isn’t one o’ those boys who wouldn’t give his life to help a woman, an’ I guess it’s so.”

They had the lake view and its cool breeze on their way to Silver Creek, Dunkirk and Erie, and a rough way it was in those days.

Enough has been written of this long and wearisome journey, but the worst of it was ahead of them—­much the worst of it—­in the swamp flats of Ohio and Indiana.  In one of the former a wagon wheel broke down, and that day Sarah began to shake with ague and burn with fever.  Samson built a rude camp by the roadside, put Sarah into bed under its cover and started for the nearest village on Colonel’s back.