single shot--for he knew that
his threatening had more effect--until Mrs. Bledsoe reached a station. Her
life and his own were, on this occasion, saved by his prudence and presence
of mind; for both would have been lost had he yielded to the temptation to
fire.

This Spencer--for his gallantry and reckless daring, named "the Chevalier
Bayard of Cumberland Valley"--was famed for his encounters with the
Indians, by whom he had often been shot at, and wounded on more than one
occasion. His proportions and strength were those of a giant, and the
wonder-loving people were accustomed to tell marvelous stories concerning
him. It was said that, at one time, being unarmed when attacked by the
Indians, he reached into a tree, and, wrenching off a huge bough by main
force, drove back his assailants with it. He lived for some years alone in
Cumberland Valley--it is said, from 1776 to 1779--before a single white man
had taken up his abode there; his dwelling being a large hollow tree, the
roots of which still remain near Bledsoe's Lick. For one year--the
tradition is--a man by the name of Holiday shared his retreat; but the
hollow being not sufficiently spacious to accommodate two lodgers, they
were under the necessity of separating, and Holiday departed to seek a home
in the valley of the Kentucky River. But one difficulty arose; those
dwellers in the primeval forest had but one knife between them! What, was
to be done? for a knife was an article of indispensable necessity: it
belonged to Spencer, and it would have been madness in the owner of such an
article to part with it. He resolved to accompany Holiday part of the way
on his journey, and went as far as Big Barren River. When about to turn
back, Spencer's heart relented: he broke the blade of his knife in two,
gave half to his friend, and with a light heart returned to his hollow
tree. Not long after his gallant rescue of Mrs. Bledsoe, he was killed by a
party of Indians, on the road from Nashville to Knoxville. For nearly
twenty years he had been exposed to every variety of danger, and escaped
them all; but his hour came at last; and the dust of the hermit and
renowned warrior of Cumberland Valley now reposes on "Spencer's Hill," near
the Crab Orchard, on the road between Nashville and Knoxville.

Bereaved of her husband, sons, and brother-in-law by the murderous savages,
Mrs. Bledsoe was obliged alone to undertake, not only the charge of her
husband's estate, but the care o