had learned in the Indian country
he threw Chauncey Dike (no mean adversary) so hard that the backwoods
dandy lay for a moment in sleep. Contrary to the custom of many, Tom was
not in the habit of crowing on such occasions, nor did he even smile as
he helped Chauncey to his feet. But Polly Ann knew, and I knew, that he
was thinking of what Chauncey had said to her.

So the long summer afternoon wore away into twilight, and the sun fell
behind the blue ridges we were to cross. Pine knots were lighted in the
big room, the fiddlers set to again, and then came jigs and three and
four handed reels that made the puncheons rattle,--chicken-flutter and
cut-the-buckle,--and Polly Ann was the leader now, the young men flinging
the girls from fireplace to window in the reels, and back again; and
when, panting and perspiring, the lass was too tired to stand longer, she
dropped into the hospitable lap of the nearest buck who was perched on
the bench along the wall awaiting his chance. For so it went in the
backwoods in those days, and long after, and no harm in it that ever I
could see.

Well, suddenly, as if by concert, the music stopped, and a shout of
laughter rang under the beams as Polly Ann flew out of the door with the
girls after her, as swift of foot as she. They dragged her, a struggling
captive, to the bride-chamber which made the other end of the house, and
when they emerged, blushing and giggling and subdued, the fun began with
Tom McChesney. He gave the young men a pretty fight indeed, and long
before they had him conquered the elder guests had made their escape
through door and window.

All night the reels and jigs went on, and the feasting and drinking too.
In the fine rain that came at dawn to hide the crests, the company rode
wearily homeward through the notches.

CHAPTER VIII

THE NOLLICHUCKY TRACE

Some to endure, and many to quail,
Some to conquer, and many to fail,
Toiling over the Wilderness Trail.

As long as I live I shall never forget the morning we started on our
journey across the Blue Wall. Before the sun chased away the filmy veil
of mist from the brooks in the valley, the McChesneys, father, mother,
and children, were gathered to see us depart. And as they helped us to
tighten the packsaddles Tom himself had made from chosen tree-forks, they
did not cease lamenting that we were going to certain death. Our scrawny
horses splashed across the stream, and we turned