From this point Davy went on towards Fulton with the preacher, as far as Greenville. As they rode along, the old parson spoke so warmly of the bountiful works of Providence that his faith was imparted to his companion. “We were alone in the wilderness,” wrote Davy, “but all things told me that God was there. The thought renewed my strength and courage. I had left my country; felt somewhat like an outcast; but now I was conscious that there was One still watching over me. My soul leaped with joy at the thought: I never felt so grateful in all my life; I never before loved God so sincerely. I felt that I still had a friend.” There are some that will sneer at Davy’s confession of his faith and love, forgetting that the wandering outcast, even the worst of men, looks out sometimes from the darkest depths to the long-remembered sweetness of a mother’s smile. “How sharp the point of this remembrance is!” The careless or the hardened shrink from tender memories, but sometimes, in the moment of evil impulse or of passion’s sway, their hands by these are stayed from wickedness. In such a heart as Davy Crockett’s there will always burn the reverential fires that keep the soul alight. At Fulton Davy took passage on a steamboat for Natchitoches, in Louisiana. As the boat puffed its way down the writhing channel of the Red River, he noticed a small cluster of passengers intent upon something that seemed to be very amusing. “I drew nigh to the cluster,” he says, “and, seated on a chest, was a tall, lank sea-sarpent-looking blackleg, who was interesting the passengers by his skill at thimble-rig [the shell game]; at the same time he was picking up their shillings just as fast as a hungry gobbler would a pint of corn.” Noticing Davy’s interest in his actions, the gambler finally urged him to make a bet; whereupon Davy, knowing the trick, named the thimble under which the pea was resting, but insisted upon lifting it himself. The pea was there, and the gambler was obliged to treat the crowd about him. After the laugh was over, “poor Thimblerig,” as Davy calls him, had to forego his game, and soon came and started a conversation with the man who had outwitted him. He seemed to be a good-natured, intelligent sort of fellow, “with a keen eye to the main chance.” “He belonged to that numerous class,” says Davy, “that you can trust as far as you can sling a bull by the tail, and no farther. All the time he was talking to me he was seated on a chest, playing mechanically with his pea and thimbles, as if he was afraid he would lose his sleight-of-hand.” At Natchitoches, the gambler, deploring his past and the hopelessness of his leading an honest life, was told by Davy that if he could not really lead the life of an honest man, the next best thing was to die like a brave one. “Most men are remembered as they died,” said Davy “and not as they lived.” “You are right; but how is this to be done?”