up the remains of the pot-pies, to bake corn bread and
prepare mush. The men scattered through the clearing. Some chopped down
bushes which might mask a foe's stealthy advance, others cleared out logs
which might serve as breastworks for the raiders.

Labor did not appeal to the four killers, and their part was done when
they slipped into the forest, each taking a different course, and scouted
for signs and bagged some game. As my business demanded an early departure
I was not expected to participate in any of these precautions.

I saw that my horse had his feed and water and led him back to the cabin,
and gave my weapons their daily overhauling. Mrs. Davis paused in her
labors long enough to remind me of her message to Patricia Dale. I
reassured her so earnestly that she turned from her corn-bread baking in a
flat pan before the open fire and stared at me rather intently. There was
no dodging her keen eyes.

"See here," she exclaimed; "you've met Patsy already, I 'low."

I hesitated between the truth and a lie, and then nodded my head. She
brushed a limp strand of hair from her face, and in so doing left a
smut-streak across her nose, and half-closed her eyes while a smile tugged
at the corners of her mouth.

"I can't say yet whether you're lucky, or just the opposite," she demurely
remarked.

A loud call from the forest relieved my answering this insinuating remark,
and I stepped outdoors to find the men leaving their work and the women
leaving their cooking. "White man coming!" bawled a young man.

"Ain't any of the scouts," said Davis. "Better gather the children in.
White man sure enough, but it may be one of the renegade breed. Surveyors
from the Kanawha say Tavenor Ross is out with the reds ag'in."

There was no haste or confusion in preparing for this possible attack led
by a white man. The children scuttled to their mothers; the men slowly
fell back to fort and cabins. The fact that four Indian-haters were
carefully scouting the woods satisfied us that no enemy could get very
close without being fired upon. The white man called again. This time he
was answered from two directions.

"It's all right," shouted Davis. "Ike Crabtree answered him. So did Lige
Runner. Crabtree never would 'a' yipped till sure there wa'n't no Injun
waiting to be shot down. Prob'ly some one from the Holston."

"Hooray!" howled a seventeen-year-old lad, who painted his face in
addition to wearing Indian leggings. "It's Jesse H