hear of some relief party going over the Gap. On
Thursday Tom made a trip to the store in the valley, and came back with
a Deckard rifle he had bought for the stranger, whose name was Weldon.
There was no news from Kaintuckee, but the Carter's Valley settlers
seemed to think that matters were better there. It was that same night,
I believe, that two men arrived from Fort Chiswell. One, whose name was
Cutcheon, was a little man with a short forehead and a bad eye, and he
wore a weather-beaten blue coat of military cut. The second was a big,
light-colored, fleshy man, and a loud talker. He wore a hunting shirt
and leggings. They were both the worse for rum they had had on the road,
the big man talking very loud and boastfully.

"Afeard to go to Kaintuckee!" said he. "I've met a parcel o' cowards
on the road, turned back. There ain't nothin' to be afeard of, eh,
stranger?" he added, to Tom, who paid no manner of attention to him. The
small man scarce opened his mouth, but sat with his head bowed forward
on his breast when he was not drinking. We passed a dismal, crowded
night in the room with such companions. When they heard that we were to
go over the mountains, nothing would satisfy the big man but to go with
us.

"Come, stranger," said he to Tom, "two good rifles such as we is ain't
to be throwed away."

"Why do you want to go over?" asked Tom. "Be ye a Tory?" he demanded
suspiciously.

"Why do you go over?" retorted Riley, for that was his name. "I reckon
I'm no more of a Tory than you."

"Whar did ye come from?" said Tom.

"Chiswell's mines, taking out lead for the army o' Congress. But there
ain't excitement enough in it."

"And you?" said Tom, turning to Cutcheon and eying his military coat.

"I got tired of their damned discipline," the man answered surlily. He
was a deserter.

"Look you," said Tom, sternly, "if you come, what I say is law."

Such was the sacrifice we were put to by our need of company. But in
those days a man was a man, and scarce enough on the Wilderness Trail
in that year of '77. So we started away from Carter's Valley on a bright
Saturday morning, the grass glistening after a week's rain, the road
sodden, and the smell of the summer earth heavy. Tom and Weldon walked
ahead, driving the two horses, followed by Cutcheon, his head dropped
between his shoulders. The big man, Riley, regaled Polly Ann.

"My pluck is," said he, "my pluck is to give a redskin no chance. Shoot
'em down lik