She broke off at sight of the brown-eyed stranger, who had not moved. Duval touched his spurs and brought his horse beside hers. "Out of the way," he commanded sharply. "This lady wishes to pass." The leather-clad stranger smiled a little. "And so she shall, friend Duval," he drawled easily. "I told you once that you might take the mud." "Confound you, sir--would you dare shoot me?" broke in Duval furiously. "I dare you to do it, sir!" "Well, that's a dare easily settled!" laughed the other, but his eyes remained very steady. Pressing his steed with his knee, he moved aside and left the inner edge of the road clear. "The lady is not hindered. As for you, if you doubt either my ability or my will, why not test the matter?" Duval noted the crooked trigger-finger, muttered an impatient word, then turned and splashed through the muddy water. The girl went on, still gazing at the stranger. As he drew upon the dry road and waited, Duval turned. "Take care of yourself!" he cried, his face livid. "That is my business in life, thanks," returned the stranger, lightly, and so he found himself alone with the old man. Carefully uncocking his rifle, he swung down from the saddle and gripped hands with the other. "Well, you seem to be in no great need of help," he chuckled, surveying the huge chest of the grey-haired man. "What's the matter, anyway? Did you have a fuss with his excellency?" "Kind of that way," grinned the old man, to whom speech now seemed to come slowly. "Muddied me, the cussed law-shark! All alike, consarn 'em." "Well, now he's gone, can you tell me where Colonel Dick Taylor lives?" "Goin' there," grunted the other, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. His keen blue eyes searched the younger face shrewdly. "Young man, ye handled him right. You're a fine fellow. How are ye named?" "Norton, John Norton," smiled the younger man. "I'm a captain in the Seventh Infantry, or was, and came up from New Orleans after resigning. So you're going to the Taylors, eh? Know young Zach? Do you live around here?" "Uh-huh, I know him. Used to live here." The old man's face darkened as he glanced around. "Them cussed lawyers skun me out o' my land, consarn 'em! Live in Missoury now. Lots o' game there. Come back here to pay my debts--no man can't say I ain't honest. Them moccasins ain't Cherokee-made, are they?" "What's your name?" asked Norton with frank interest. He clucked to his horse, and the steed followed them as they trudged along the road. The other only glanced down at the moccasins. "Name's Boone," he grunted. "Them moccasins, now--they sartin look kind o' like----" "Boone?" Norton stopped abruptly, a puzzled wonder in his eyes. "You're not Colonel Boone, by any chance? Colonel Daniel Boone?" "That's me. About them mocc----"