“Tom McChesney goes to-night to Kentucky with letters to the county lieutenant.  You are to go with him, and then I shall have no one to remind me when I am hungry, and bring me hominy.  I shall have no financier, no strategist for a tight place.”  He smiled a little, sadly, at my sorrowful look, and then drew me to him and patted my shoulder.  “It is no place for a young lad,—­an idle garrison.  I think,” he continued presently, “I think you have a future, David, if you do not lose your head.  Kentucky will grow and conquer, and in twenty years be a thriving community.  And presently you will go to Virginia, and study law, and come back again.  Do you hear?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“And I would tell you one thing,” said he, with force; “serve the people, as all true men should in a republic.  But do not rely upon their gratitude.  You will remember that?”

“Yes, Colonel.”

A long time he paused, looking on me with a significance I did not then understand.  And when he spoke again his voice showed no trace of emotion, save in the note of it.

“You have been a faithful friend, Davy, when I needed loyalty.  Perhaps the time may come again.  Promise me that you will not forget me if I am—­unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate, sir!” I exclaimed.

“Good-by, Davy,” he said, “and God bless you.  I have work to do.”

Still I hesitated.  He stared at me, but with kindness.

“What is it, Davy?” he asked.

“Please, sir,” I said, “if I might take my drum?”

At that he laughed.

“You may,” said he, “you may.  Perchance we may need it again.”

I went out from his presence, vaguely troubled, to find Tom.  And before the early sun had set we were gliding down the Wabash in a canoe, past places forever dedicated to our agonies, towards Kentucky and Polly Ann.

“Davy,” said Tom, “I reckon she’ll be standin’ under the ’simmon tree, waitin’ fer us with the little shaver in her arms.”

And so she was.

BOOK II

FLOTSAM AND JETSAM

CHAPTER I

IN THE CABIN

The Eden of one man may be the Inferno of his neighbor, and now I am to throw to the winds, like leaves of a worthless manuscript, some years of time, and introduce you to a new Kentucky,—­a Kentucky that was not for the pioneer.  One page of this manuscript might have told of a fearful winter, when the snow lay in great drifts in the bare woods, when Tom and I fashioned canoes or noggins out of the great roots, when a new and feminine bit of humanity cried in the bark cradle, and Polly Ann sewed deer leather.  Another page—­nay, a dozen—­could be filled with Indian horrors, ambuscades and massacres.  And also I might have told how there drifted into this land, hitherto unsoiled, the refuse cast off by the older colonies.  I must add quickly that we got more than our share of their best stock along with this.