The Crossing [32]
watershed to the east as far as the O'Hara farm, to sound that big Irishman about the trail. For he had once gone to Kentucky, to come back with his scalp and little besides. O'Hara, with his brogue, gave me such a terrifying notion of the horrors of the Wilderness Trail that I threw up all thought of following it alone, and so I resolved to wait until I heard of some settlers going over it. But none went from the Grape Vine settlement that spring.
War was a-waging in Kentucky. The great Indian nations were making a frantic effort to drive from their hunting grounds the little bands of settlers there, and these were in sore straits.
So I waited, and gave Polly Ann no hint of my intention.
Sometimes she herself would slip away across the notch to see Mrs. McChesney and the children. She never took me with her on these journeys, but nearly always when she came back at nightfall her eyes would be red, and I knew the two women had been weeping together. There came a certain hot Sunday in July when she went on this errand, and Grandpa Ripley having gone to spend the day at old man Winn's, I was left alone. I remember I sat on the squared log of the door-step, wondering whether, if I were to make my way to Salisbury, I could fall in with a party going across the mountains into Kentucky. And wondering, likewise, what Polly Ann would do without me. I was cleaning the long rifle,--a labor I loved, --when suddenly I looked up, startled to see a man standing in front of me. How he got there I know not. I stared at him. He was a young man, very spare and very burned, with bright red hair and blue eyes that had a kind of laughter in them, and yet were sober. His buckskin hunting shirt was old and stained and frayed by the briers, and his leggins and moccasins were wet from fording the stream. He leaned his chin on the muzzle of his gun.
``Folks live here, sonny?'' said he.
I nodded.
``Whar be they?''
``Out,'' said I.
``Comin' back?'' he asked.
``To-night,'' said I, and began to rub the lock.
``Be they good folks?'' said he.
``Yes,'' I answered.
``Wal,'' said he, making a move to pass me, ``I reckon I'll slip in and take what I've a mind to, and move on.''
Now I liked the man's looks very much, but I did not know what he would do. So I got in his way and clutched the gun. It was loaded, but not primed, and I emptied a little powder from the flask in the pan. At that he grinned.
``You're a good boy, sonny,'' he said. ``Do you reckon you could hit me if you shot?''
``Yes,'' I said. But I knew I could scarcely hold the gun out straight without a rest.
``And do you reckon I could hit you fust?'' he asked. At that I laughed, and he laughed.
``What's your name?''
I told him.
``Who do you love best in all the world?'' said he.
It was a queer question. But I told him Polly Ann Ripley.
``Oh!'' said he, after a pause. ``And what's SHE like?''
``She's beautiful,'' I said; ``she's been very kind to me. She took me home with her from the settlements when I had no place to go. She's good.''
``And a sharp tongue, I reckon,'' said he.
``When people need it,'' I answered.
``Oh!'' said he. And presently, ``She's very merry, I'll warrant.''
``She used to be, but that's gone by,'' I said.
``Gone by!'' said he, his voice falling, ``is she sick?''
``No,'' said I, ``she's not sick, she's sad.''
``Sad?'' said he. It was then I noticed that he had a cut across his temple, red and barely healed. ``Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little mite to eat?''
This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some corn-pone and a leg of turkey. For that was the rule of the border. He took them in great bites, but slowly, and he picked the bones clean.
``I had breakfast yesterday morning,'' said he, ``about forty mile from here.''
``And nothing since?'' said I, in astonishment.
``Fresh air and water and exercise,'' said he, and sat down on the grass. He was silent for a long while, and so was I. For a notion had struck me, though
War was a-waging in Kentucky. The great Indian nations were making a frantic effort to drive from their hunting grounds the little bands of settlers there, and these were in sore straits.
So I waited, and gave Polly Ann no hint of my intention.
Sometimes she herself would slip away across the notch to see Mrs. McChesney and the children. She never took me with her on these journeys, but nearly always when she came back at nightfall her eyes would be red, and I knew the two women had been weeping together. There came a certain hot Sunday in July when she went on this errand, and Grandpa Ripley having gone to spend the day at old man Winn's, I was left alone. I remember I sat on the squared log of the door-step, wondering whether, if I were to make my way to Salisbury, I could fall in with a party going across the mountains into Kentucky. And wondering, likewise, what Polly Ann would do without me. I was cleaning the long rifle,--a labor I loved, --when suddenly I looked up, startled to see a man standing in front of me. How he got there I know not. I stared at him. He was a young man, very spare and very burned, with bright red hair and blue eyes that had a kind of laughter in them, and yet were sober. His buckskin hunting shirt was old and stained and frayed by the briers, and his leggins and moccasins were wet from fording the stream. He leaned his chin on the muzzle of his gun.
``Folks live here, sonny?'' said he.
I nodded.
``Whar be they?''
``Out,'' said I.
``Comin' back?'' he asked.
``To-night,'' said I, and began to rub the lock.
``Be they good folks?'' said he.
``Yes,'' I answered.
``Wal,'' said he, making a move to pass me, ``I reckon I'll slip in and take what I've a mind to, and move on.''
Now I liked the man's looks very much, but I did not know what he would do. So I got in his way and clutched the gun. It was loaded, but not primed, and I emptied a little powder from the flask in the pan. At that he grinned.
``You're a good boy, sonny,'' he said. ``Do you reckon you could hit me if you shot?''
``Yes,'' I said. But I knew I could scarcely hold the gun out straight without a rest.
``And do you reckon I could hit you fust?'' he asked. At that I laughed, and he laughed.
``What's your name?''
I told him.
``Who do you love best in all the world?'' said he.
It was a queer question. But I told him Polly Ann Ripley.
``Oh!'' said he, after a pause. ``And what's SHE like?''
``She's beautiful,'' I said; ``she's been very kind to me. She took me home with her from the settlements when I had no place to go. She's good.''
``And a sharp tongue, I reckon,'' said he.
``When people need it,'' I answered.
``Oh!'' said he. And presently, ``She's very merry, I'll warrant.''
``She used to be, but that's gone by,'' I said.
``Gone by!'' said he, his voice falling, ``is she sick?''
``No,'' said I, ``she's not sick, she's sad.''
``Sad?'' said he. It was then I noticed that he had a cut across his temple, red and barely healed. ``Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give me a little mite to eat?''
This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some corn-pone and a leg of turkey. For that was the rule of the border. He took them in great bites, but slowly, and he picked the bones clean.
``I had breakfast yesterday morning,'' said he, ``about forty mile from here.''
``And nothing since?'' said I, in astonishment.
``Fresh air and water and exercise,'' said he, and sat down on the grass. He was silent for a long while, and so was I. For a notion had struck me, though