“You’re a good boy, sonny,” he said.  “Do you reckon you could hit me if you shot?”

“Yes,” I said.  But I knew I could scarcely hold the gun out straight without a rest.

“And do you reckon I could hit you fust?” he asked.  At that I laughed, and he laughed.

“What’s your name?”

I told him.

“Who do you love best in all the world?” said he.

It was a queer question.  But I told him Polly Ann Ripley.

“Oh!” said he, after a pause.  “And what’s she like?”

“She’s beautiful,” I said; “she’s been very kind to me.  She took me home with her from the settlements when I had no place to go.  She’s good.”

“And a sharp tongue, I reckon,” said he.

“When people need it,” I answered.

“Oh!” said he.  And presently, “She’s very merry, I’ll warrant.”

“She used to be, but that’s gone by,” I said.

“Gone by!” said he, his voice falling, “is she sick?”

“No,” said I, “she’s not sick, she’s sad.”

“Sad?” said he.  It was then I noticed that he had a cut across his temple, red and barely healed.  “Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little mite to eat?”

This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some corn-pone and a leg of turkey.  For that was the rule of the border.  He took them in great bites, but slowly, and he picked the bones clean.

“I had breakfast yesterday morning,” said he, “about forty mile from here.”

“And nothing since?” said I, in astonishment.

“Fresh air and water and exercise,” said he, and sat down on the grass.  He was silent for a long while, and so was I. For a notion had struck me, though I hardly dared to give it voice.

“Are you going away?” I asked at last.

He laughed.

“Why?” said he.

“If you were going to Kaintuckee—­” I began, and faltered.  For he stared at me very hard.

“Kaintuckee!” he said.  “There’s a country!  But it’s full of blood and Injun varmints now.  Would you leave Polly Ann and go to Kaintuckee?”

“Are you going?” I said.

“I reckon I am,” he said, “as soon as I kin.”

“Will you take me?” I asked, breathless.  “I—­I won’t be in your way, and I can walk—­and—­shoot game.”

At that he bent back his head and laughed, which made me redden with anger.  Then he turned and looked at me more soberly.

“You’re a queer little piece,” said he.  “Why do you want to go thar?”

“I want to find Tom McChesney for Polly Ann,” I said.

He turned away his face.

“A good-for-nothing scamp,” said he.

“I have long thought so,” I said.

He laughed again.  It was a laugh that made me want to join him, had I not been irritated.

“And he’s a scamp, you say.  And why?”

“Else he would be coming back to Polly Ann.”