There was a brief silence, followed by a hoarse murmur from a thick-set man at the edge of the crowd, who shouldered his way to the centre of it. "We set out to hunt a fight, and my pluck is to clean up. We ain't finished 'em yet." The man had a deep, coarse voice that was a piece with his roughness. "I reckon this band ain't a-goin' to harry the station any more, McGary," cried Cowan. "By Job, what did we come out for? Who'll take the trail with me?" There were some who answered him, and straightway they began to quarrel among themselves, filling the woods with a babel of voices. While I stood listening to these disputes with a boy's awe of a man's quarrel, what was my astonishment to feel a hand on my shoulder. It was Colonel Clark's, and he was not paying the least attention to the dispute. "Davy," said he, "you look as if you could make a fire." "Yes, sir," I answered, gasping. "Well," said he, "make one." I lighted a piece of punk with the flint, and, wrapping it up in some dry brush, soon had a blaze started. Looking up, I caught his eye on me again. "Mrs. McChesney," said Colonel Clark to Polly Ann, "you look as if you could make johnny-cake. Have you any meal?" "That I have," cried Polly Ann, "though it's fair mouldy. Davy, run and fetch it." I ran to the pack on the sorrel mare. When I returned Mr. Clark said:-- "That seems a handy boy, Mrs. McChesney." "Handy!" cried Polly Ann, "I reckon he's more than handy. Didn't he save my life twice on our way out here?" "And how was that?" said the Colonel. "Run and fetch some water, Davy," said Polly Ann, and straightway launched forth into a vivid description of my exploits, as she mixed the meal. Nay, she went so far as to tell how she came by me. The young Colonel listened gravely, though with a gleam now and then in his blue eyes. Leaning on his long rifle, he paid no manner of attention to the angry voices near by,--which conduct to me was little short of the marvellous. "Now, Davy," said he, at length, "the rest of your history." "There is little of it, sir," I answered. "I was born in the Yadkin country, lived alone with my father, who was a Scotchman. He hated a man named Cameron, took me to Charlestown, and left me with some kin of his who had a place called Temple Bow, and went off to fight Cameron and the Cherokees." There I gulped. "He was killed at Cherokee Ford, and--and I ran away from Temple Bow, and found Polly Ann." This time I caught something of surprise on the Colonel's face. "By thunder, Davy," said he, "but you have a clean gift for brief narrative. Where did you learn it?" "My father was a gentleman once, and taught me to speak and read," I answered, as I brought a flat piece of limestone for Polly Ann's baking. "And what would you like best to be when you grow up, Davy?" he asked. "Six feet," said I, so promptly that he laughed. "Faith," said Polly Ann, looking at me comically, "he may be many things, but I'll warrant he'll never be that."