He fell into a bunk, but his sorrow haunted him even in his troubled sleep, and his moans awed us as we listened.  The next day he told us his story with more calmness.  It was horrible indeed, and might well have frightened a less courageous woman than Polly Ann.  Imploring her not to go, he became wild again, and brought tears to her eyes when he spoke of his own wife.  “They tomahawked her, ma’am, because she could not walk, and the baby beside her, and I standing by with my arms tied.”

As long as I live I shall never forget that scene, and how Tom pleaded with Polly Ann to stay behind, but she would not listen to him.

“You’re going, Tom?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered, turning away, “I gave ’em my word.”

“And your word to me?” said Polly Ann.

He did not answer.

We fixed on a Saturday to start, to give the horses time to rest, and in the hope that we might hear of some relief party going over the Gap.  On Thursday Tom made a trip to the store in the valley, and came back with a Deckard rifle he had bought for the stranger, whose name was Weldon.  There was no news from Kaintuckee, but the Carter’s Valley settlers seemed to think that matters were better there.  It was that same night, I believe, that two men arrived from Fort Chiswell.  One, whose name was Cutcheon, was a little man with a short forehead and a bad eye, and he wore a weather-beaten blue coat of military cut.  The second was a big, light-colored, fleshy man, and a loud talker.  He wore a hunting shirt and leggings.  They were both the worse for rum they had had on the road, the big man talking very loud and boastfully.

“Afeard to go to Kaintuckee!” said he.  “I’ve met a parcel o’ cowards on the road, turned back.  There ain’t nothin’ to be afeard of, eh, stranger?” he added, to Tom, who paid no manner of attention to him.  The small man scarce opened his mouth, but sat with his head bowed forward on his breast when he was not drinking.  We passed a dismal, crowded night in the room with such companions.  When they heard that we were to go over the mountains, nothing would satisfy the big man but to go with us.

“Come, stranger,” said he to Tom, “two good rifles such as we is ain’t to be throwed away.”

“Why do you want to go over?” asked Tom.  “Be ye a Tory?” he demanded suspiciously.

“Why do you go over?” retorted Riley, for that was his name.  “I reckon I’m no more of a Tory than you.”

“Whar did ye come from?” said Tom.

“Chiswell’s mines, taking out lead for the army o’ Congress.  But there ain’t excitement enough in it.”

“And you?” said Tom, turning to Cutcheon and eying his military coat.

“I got tired of their damned discipline,” the man answered surlily.  He was a deserter.

“Look you,” said Tom, sternly, “if you come, what I say is law.”