“Davy,” said he, “there is another great man here who would like to see you,” and led me away wondering.  I went with him toward the gate, burning all over with pride at this attention, and beside a torch there a broad-shouldered figure was standing, at sight of whom I had a start of remembrance.

“Do you know who that is, Davy?” said Colonel Clark.

“It’s Mr. Daniel Boone,” said I.

“By thunder,” said Clark, “I believe the boy is a wizard,” while Mr. Boone’s broad mouth was creased into a smile, and there was a trace of astonishment, too, in his kindly eye.

“Mr. Boone came to my father’s cabin on the Yadkin once,” I said; “he taught me to skin a deer.”

“Ay, that I did,” exclaimed Mr. Boone, “and I said ye’d make a woodsman sometime.”

Mr. Boone, it seemed, had come over from Boonesboro to consult with Colonel Clark on certain matters, and had but just arrived.  But so modest was he that he would not let it be known that he was in the station, for fear of interrupting the pleasure.  He was much the same as I had known him, only grown older and his reputation now increased to vastness.  He and Clark sat on a door log talking for a long time on Kentucky matters, the strength of the forts, the prospect of new settlers that autumn, of the British policy, and finally of a journey which Colonel Clark was soon to make back to Virginia across the mountains.  They seemed not to mind my presence.  At length Colonel Clark turned to me with that quiet, jocose way he had when relaxed.

“Davy,” said he, “we’ll see how much of a general you are.  What would you do if a scoundrel named Hamilton far away at Detroit was bribing all the redskins he could find north of the Ohio to come down and scalp your men?”

“I’d go for Hamilton,” I answered.

“By God!” exclaimed Clark, striking Mr. Boone on the knee, “that’s what I’d do.”

CHAPTER XI

FRAGMENTARY

Mr. Boone’s visit lasted but a day.  I was a great deal with Colonel Clark in the few weeks that followed before his departure for Virginia.  He held himself a little aloof (as a leader should) from the captains in the station, without seeming to offend them.  But he had a fancy for James Ray and for me, and he often took me into the woods with him by day, and talked with me of an evening.

“I’m going away to Virginia, Davy,” he said; “will you not go with me?  We’ll see Williamsburg, and come back in the spring, and I’ll have you a little rifle made.”

My look must have been wistful.

“I can’t leave Polly Ann and Tom,” I answered.

“Well,” he said, “I like that.  Faith to your friends is a big equipment for life.”

“But why are you going?” I asked.

“Because I love Kentucky best of all things in the world,” he answered, smiling.

“And what are you going to do?” I insisted.