“I suppose I was about thirteen years old,” he said reminiscently, “when this famous combat was held. At that time my folks were living at a small place called Proctor’s Cave, on the Green River, in Kentucky, not far from the Mammoth Cave. As you probably know, Perry, that whole section is just riddled with caves, made by the gradual dissolving of the limestone rock through the action of underground rivers. Most of them, too, are full of stalactites. “Proctor’s Cave, right on the river, was quite a growing town, and though it was small, there was a right smart heap of children in proportion to its size. About thirty-five boys around my age went to the school there. I can remember the number because we were divided into two gangs. Ours had fifteen members and the other had twenty.” “I suppose you were ‘boss’ of your gang, Father?” “I was the ‘War-Chief,’” was the smiling response. “Our gang was called the ‘Indians’ and the others were the ‘Pioneers.’ You can see that it was natural for us always to be ready for a fight. Everything was taken in good part, though, until one day we caught one of the chaps in the other gang and scalped him.” “You didn’t really scalp him!” “No, not exactly. There were limits, Perry, even in my young days. But the victim thought it was genuine. That’s where the trouble came in.” “How was it, Father?” pleaded the boy, fairly wriggling with excitement. “As I remember,” the old merchant continued, musingly, “a week or so before, the ‘Pioneers’ had got hold of one of our gang and had given him the ‘third degree.’ They said that if he was an ‘Indian’ he ought to look like one. To make sure of it, they gave him a coat of war-paint with some stuff they got from a drug store, and the war-paint wouldn’t wash off. It wouldn’t even scrape off. It was nearly a month before it wore off. “Our turn came when this ‘Pioneer’ was delivered into our hands. We told him we were going to have our revenge, and I tell you, he was scared stiff! We brought the youngster to our own private ‘Indian’ cave, and there we discussed tortures, so that he could hear what was being said. Each one of us had some kind of torment more excruciating than the last.” “It sure must have been blood-curdling to the chap who was listening,” put in Perry, with an appreciative grin. “I haven’t a doubt of it,” his father agreed. “Finally, we came to a formal decision and informed the victim that he was to be scalped alive. You should have heard him yell! However, yelling didn’t do any good, for the cave was half a mile from town and a couple of hundred feet underground, and he would have had to hoot like a Mississippi River steamboat in order to be heard at all. So we went ahead and scalped him.” “How, Father?” queried the boy, eagerly.