ney. It was no hardship
to a lad brought up in woodcraft. Fear of the Indians, like a dog
shivering with the cold, was a deadened pain on the border.

Strangely enough it was I who chanced upon the Nollichucky Trace, which
follows the meanderings of that river northward through the great Smoky
Mountains. It was made long ago by the Southern Indians as they threaded
their way to the Hunting Lands of Kaintuckee, and shared now by Indian
traders. The path was redolent with odors, and bright with mountain
shrubs and flowers,--the pink laurel bush, the shining rhododendron, and
the grape and plum and wild crab. The clear notes of the mountain birds
were in our ears by day, and the music of the water falling over the
ledges, mingled with that of the leaves rustling in the wind, lulled us
to sleep at night. High above us, as we descended, the gap, from naked
crag to timber-covered ridge, was spanned by the eagle's flight. And
virgin valleys, where future generations were to be born, spread out and
narrowed again,--valleys with a deep carpet of cane and grass, where the
deer and elk and bear fed unmolested.

It was perchance the next evening that my eyes fell upon a sight which is
one of the wonders of my boyish memories. The trail slipped to the edge
of a precipice, and at our feet the valley widened. Planted amidst giant
trees, on a shining green lawn that ran down to the racing Nollichucky
was the strangest house it has ever been my lot to see--of no shape, of
huge size, and built of logs, one wing hitched to another by "dog alleys"
(as we called them); and from its wide stone chimneys the pearly smoke
rose upward in the still air through the poplar branches. Beyond it a
setting sun gilded the corn-fields, and horses and cattle dotted the
pastures. We stood for a while staring at this oasis in the wilderness,
and to my boyish fancy it was a fitting introduction to a delectable
land.

"Glory be to heaven!" exclaimed Polly Ann.

"It's Nollichucky Jack's house," said Tom.

"And who may he be?" said she.

"Who may he be!" cried Tom; "Captain John Sevier, king of the border, and
I reckon the best man to sweep out redskins in the Watauga settlements."

"Do you know him?" said she.

"I was chose as one of his scouts when we fired the Cherokee hill towns
last summer," said Tom, with pride. "Thar was blood and thunder for ye!
We went down the Great War-path which lies below us, and when we was
through there wasn't a corn-shu