“But did you no’ meet the Indians?” asked my father.

“I seed one fishing on a log once,” said our visitor, laughing, “but he fell into the water.  I reckon he was drowned.”

My father nodded comprehendingly,—­even admiringly.

“And again!” said he.

“Wal,” said Mr. Boone, “we fell in with a war party of Shawnees going back to their lands north of the great river.  The critters took away all we had.  It was hard,” he added reflectively; “I had staked my fortune on the venter, and we’d got enough skins to make us rich.  But, neighbor, there is land enough for you and me, as black and rich as Canaan.”

“‘The Lord is my shepherd,’” said my father, lapsing into verse. “’The Lord is my shepherd.  I shall not want.  He leadeth me into green pastures, and beside still waters.’”

For a time they were silent, each wrapped in his own thought, while the crickets chirped and the frogs sang.  From the distant forest came the mournful hoot of an owl.

“And you are going back?” asked my father, presently.

“Aye, that I am.  There are many families on the Yadkin below going, too.  And you, neighbor, you might come with us.  Davy is the boy that would thrive in that country.”

My father did not answer.  It was late indeed when we lay down to rest, and the night I spent between waking and dreaming of the wonderland beyond the mountains, hoping against hope that my father would go.  The sun was just flooding the slopes when our guest arose to leave, and my father bade him God-speed with a heartiness that was rare to him.  But, to my bitter regret, neither spoke of my father’s going.  Being a man of understanding, Mr. Boone knew it were little use to press.  He patted me on the head.

“You’re a wise lad, Davy,” said he.  “I hope we shall meet again.”

He mounted his roan and rode away down the slope, waving his hand to us.  And it was with a heavy heart that I went to feed our white mare, whinnying for food in the lean-to.

CHAPTER II

WARS AND RUMORS OF WARS

And so our life went on the same, but yet not the same.  For I had the Land of Promise to dream of, and as I went about my tasks I conjured up in my mind pictures of its beauty.  You will forgive a backwoods boy,—­self-centred, for lack of wider interest, and with a little imagination.  Bear hunting with my father, and an occasional trip on the white mare twelve miles to the Cross-Roads for salt and other necessaries, were the only diversions to break the routine of my days.  But at the Cross-Roads, too, they were talking of Kaintuckee.  For so the Land was called, the Dark and Bloody Ground.

The next year came a war on the Frontier, waged by Lord Dunmore, Governor of Virginia.  Of this likewise I heard at the Cross-Roads, though few from our part seemed to have gone to it.  And I heard there, for rumors spread over mountains, that men blazing in the new land were in danger, and that my hero, Boone, was gone out to save them.  But in the autumn came tidings of a great battle far to the north, and of the Indians suing for peace.