"

"I do not," said the drover.

"Ha! ha! well, that's quare, mighty quare. I thought thar warn't a man
this side the blue ridge but what knows me and old _kit_ here, (his
rifle.) Well, seeing you are a stranger, I'll just take that old
sarpent's top-knot off, and have a talk with ye."

With this introductory of matters, the hunter in the wolf-skins scalped
the wolf, and tucking the scalp in his belt, motioned the drover to
follow. He led the way in deep silence some half a mile to a small
stream, down which they proceeded for some distance, until they came to
a low and rudely-constructed cabin. Here the hunter requested the drover
to take a seat on a log, in front of the cabin, while he entered through
a small aperture in his hut, and brought forth a pipe, tobacco, and some
dried meat. These dainties being discussed, old Nimrod the mean time
kept chuckling to himself, and mumbling over the idea that there should
be a white man or _Ingin_ this side the blue ridge that didn't know
_him_.

"Ha! ha! well, well, I swar, it is curious, stranger, that you don't
know me, _me_ that kin show more _Ingin_ skelps than any white man that
ever trod these war paths; _me_, who kin shoot more wolves and fetch in
more of the varmints' skelps in one night than any white man or _Ingin_
that ever trod this wilderness. But I'm gittin' old, very old,
forgotten, and here comes a white man clean and straight from the
settlements and he don't know me; I swar I've lived to be clean ashamed
o' myself." And with this soliloquy, half to himself and partly
addressed to the drover, the old hunter seemed almost fit to cry, at his
imaginary insignificance and dotage.

"But, friend," said the drover, "as you have not yet informed me by what
name I may call you--"

"_Call_ me, stranger? why I _am_"--and here his eyes glared as he threw
himself into a heroic attitude--"Chris Green, _old_ Chris Green, the
_wolf slayer!_ But, God bless ye, stranger, p'r'aps you're from t'other
side the ridge, and don't know old Chris's history."

"That I frankly admit," replied the drover.

"Well, God bless ye, I love my fellow white men, yes, I do, though I
live yer by myself, and clothe myself with the varmints' skins, go but
seldom to the settlements, and live on what old kit thar provides me.

"Well, stranger, my history's a mighty mournful one, but as yer unlucky
like myself and plenty of business to 'tend to 'fore night, I'll make my
troubles short to ye.