Tom paused and the Boy cried eagerly: "Did they get there?" "Git whar?" the father asked dreamily. "Get back to their own camp?" "Straight ez a bee-line I tell ye. But the camp had been busted and robbed and the other men wuz gone." "Gone where?" Tom shook his shaggy head. "Nobody never knowed ter this day--reckon the Injuns scalped 'em----" He paused again and a dreamy look overspread his rugged face. "Like they scalped your own grandpa that day." "Did they scalp my grandpa?" the Boy asked in an awed whisper. "That they did. Your Uncle Mordecai an' me was workin' with him in the new ground, cleanin' it fur corn when all of a sudden the Injuns riz right up outen the ground. Your grandpa drapped dead the fust shot, an' Mordecai flew ter the cabin fer the rifle. A big Redskin jumped over a log an' scalped my own daddy before my eyes! He grabbed me an' started pullin' me ter the woods, an' then, Sonny, somethin' happened----" Tom looked at the long rifle in its buck's horn rest and smiled: "Old 'Speakeasy' up thar stretched her long neck through a chink in the logs an' said somethin' ter Mr. Redskin. She didn't raise her voice much louder'n a whisper. She jist kinder sighed: "_Kerpeow!_" "I kin hear hit echoin' through them woods yit. That Injun drapped my hands before I heerd the gun, an' she hadn't more'n sung out afore he wuz lyin' in a heap at my feet. The ball had gone clean through him----" Tom paused again and looked for a long time in silence into the glowing coals. The little cabin was very still. The Boy lifted his face to his mother's curiously: "Ma, you said God counted the beat of a sparrow's wing?" "Yes." "Well, what was He doin' when that Indian scalped my grandpa?" The mother threw a startled look at the bold little questioner and answered reverently: "Keeping watch in Heaven, my Boy. The hairs of your head are numbered and not one falls without his knowledge. We had to pay the price of blood for this beautiful country. Nothing is ever worth having that doesn't cost precious lives." Again the cabin was still. An owl's deep cry boomed from the woods and a solitary wolf answered in the distance. The Boy's brow was wrinkled for a moment and then he suddenly looked up to his father's rugged face: "And what became of Dan'l Boone?" "Oh, he lit on his feet all right. He always did. He moved on with Stuart, built him another camp in the deepest woods he could find and hunted there all winter--jest think, Boy, all winter--every day--thar wuz a man that wuz a man shore nuff!" "Yes, sirree!" the listener agreed. The mother lifted her head and thoughtfully watched the sparkling eyes. "And do you want to know why Daniel Boone was great, my son?" she quietly asked. "Yes, why?" was the quick response. "Because he used his mind and his hands, while the other men around him just used their hands. He learned to read and write when he was a little boy. He mixed brains with his powder and shot."