“McChesney,” said he, “we’ll have no bickerings in court among soldiers.  The land is yours, and to-morrow my attorney shall give you a deed of it.  Your hand, McChesney.”

The stubbornness vanished from Tom’s face, and there came instead a dazed expression as he thrust a great, hard hand into the Major’s.

“’Twan’t the land, sir,” he stammered; “these varmints of settlers is gittin’ thick as flies in July.  ’Twas Polly Ann.  I reckon I’m obleeged to ye, Major.”

“There, there,” said the Major, “I thank the Lord I came to Kentucky to see for myself.  Damn the land.  I have plenty more,—­and little else.”  He turned quizzically to Colonel Clark, revealing a line of strong, white teeth.  “Suppose we drink a health to your drummer boy,” said he, lifting up his gourd.

CHAPTER IV

I CROSS THE MOUNTAINS ONCE MORE

“’Tis what ye’ve a right to, Davy,” said Polly Ann, and she handed me a little buckskin bag on which she had been sewing.  I opened it with trembling fingers, and poured out, chinking on the table, such a motley collection of coins as was never seen,—­Spanish milled dollars, English sovereigns and crowns and shillings, paper issues of the Confederacy, and I know not what else.  Tom looked on with a grin, while little Tom and Peggy reached out their hands in delight, their mother vigorously blocking their intentions.

“Ye’ve earned it yerself,” said Polly Ann, forestalling my protest; “’tis what ye got by the mill, and I’ve laid it by bit by bit for yer eddication.”

“And what do you get?” I cried, striving by feigned anger to keep the tears back from my eyes.  “Have you no family to support?”

“Faith,” she answered, “we have the mill that ye gave us, and the farm, and Tom’s rifle.  I reckon we’ll fare better than ye think, tho’ we’ll miss ye sore about the place.”

I picked out two sovereigns from the heap, dropped them in the bag, and thrust it into my hunting shirt.

“There,” said I, my voice having no great steadiness, “not a penny more.  I’ll keep the bag for your sake, Polly Ann, and I’ll take the mare for Tom’s.”

She had had a song on her lips ever since our coming back from Danville, seven days agone, a song on her lips and banter on her tongue, as she made me a new hunting shirt and breeches for the journey across the mountains.  And now with a sudden movement she burst into tears and flung her arms about my neck.

“Oh, Davy, ’tis no time to be stubborn,” she sobbed, “and eddication is a costly thing.  Ever sence I found ye on the trace, years ago, I’ve thought of ye one day as a great man.  And when ye come back to us so big and l’arned, I’d wish to be saying with pride that I helped ye.”

“And who else, Polly Ann?” I faltered, my heart racked with the parting.  “You found me a homeless waif, and you gave me a home and a father and mother.”