About this time the outlaws and cut-throats that afterwards came under the leadership of John A. Murrell were haunting the highways of the southwestern part of Tennessee. Now and then stories of murders by Indians were heard with suspicion by the wise; there were white murderers as well as red ones, they thought. Even Davy had little desire to stay any longer than necessary in that vicinity; for the fact that he was now worth robbing might become known to the outlaws, who watched for victims with the keen vision and cruelty of the wolves that howled at night in the dark shadows of the pines. But the evening was before him, and a man who had worked and hunted for six months, as he had, might be expected to look for recreation. He wanted to hunt up some of the men whom he had known in the Creek War, and before long he had found enough of them to make a quorum in the bar-room, whose tallow candles threw a dull glow across the muddy street. If Davy had gone to bed after getting ready to start, his future would have been different, and his history might never have been of especial interest to the world. While Davy and his fellow-soldiers were busy talking over old times, others came in, among them three prominent candidates for nomination for the Legislature in that district, which included eleven counties. One of these was Doctor Butler, nephew by marriage to General Jackson. Some one said to Davy: “Crockett, here are three candidates for the Legislature. You ought to offer also, seeing that you know the ropes so well.” Davy was in doubt as to the man’s sincerity, but he may have had this thought in mind himself. He seems to have had no idea of trying to run, for he told the man that he lived forty miles from a settlement, and had no intention of electioneering. He went home the next morning, with his little boy, and took up his usual round of duties.