It was not the thousand dangers and hardships of the journey across the Wilderness Trail that frightened Polly Ann.  Not she.  Nor would she listen to Tom when he implored her to let him return alone, to come back for her when the redskins had got over the first furies of their hatred.  As for me, the thought of going with them into that promised land was like wine.  Wondering what the place was like, I could not sleep of nights.

“Ain’t you afeerd to go, Davy?” said Tom to me.

“You promised Polly Ann to take me,” said I, indignantly.

“Davy,” said he, “you ain’t over handsome.  ’Twouldn’t improve yere looks to be bald.  They hev a way of takin’ yere ha’r.  Better stay behind with Gran’pa Ripley till I kin fetch ye both.”

“Tom,” said Polly Ann, “you kin just go back alone if you don’t take Davy.”

So one of the Winn boys agreed to come over to stay with old Mr. Ripley until quieter times.

The preparations for the wedding went on apace that week.  I had not thought that the Grape Vine settlement held so many people.  And they came from other settlements, too, for news spread quickly in that country, despite the distances.  Tom McChesney was plainly a favorite with the men who had marched with Rutherford.  All the week they came, loaded with offerings, turkeys and venison and pork and bear meat—­greatest delicacy of all—­until the cool spring was filled for the feast.  From thirty miles down the Broad, a gaunt Baptist preacher on a fat white pony arrived the night before.  He had been sent for to tie the knot.

Polly Ann’s wedding-day dawned bright and fair, and long before the sun glistened on the corn tassels we were up and clearing out the big room.  The fiddlers came first—­a merry lot.  And then the guests from afar began to arrive.  Some of them had travelled half the night.  The bridegroom’s friends were assembling at the McChesney place.  At last, when the sun was over the stream, rose such Indian war-whoops and shots from the ridge trail as made me think the redskins were upon us.  The shouts and hurrahs grew louder and louder, the quickening thud of horses’ hoofs was heard in the woods, and there burst into sight of the assembly by the truck patch two wild figures on crazed horses charging down the path towards the house.  We scattered to right and left.  On they came, leaping logs and brush and ditches, until one of them pulled up, yelling madly, at the very door, the foam-flecked sides of his horse moving with quick heaves.

It was Chauncey Dike, and he had won the race for the bottle of “Black Betty,”—­Chauncey Dike, his long, black hair shining with bear’s oil.  Amid the cheers of the bride’s friends he leaped from his saddle, mounted a stump and, flapping his arms, crowed in victory.  Before he had done the vanguard of the groom’s friends were upon us, pell-mell, all in the finest of backwoods regalia,—­new hunting shirts, trimmed with bits of color, and all armed to the teeth—­scalping knife, tomahawk, and all.  Nor had Chauncey Dike forgotten the scalp of the brave who leaped at him out of the briers at Neowee.