"Ay, Mac," he cried, "here's a sculp for ye."
"It's Davy's," exclaimed Polly Ann from the top of the bank; "Davy shot
that one."
"Hooray for Davy," cried a huge, strapping backwoodsman who stood beside
her, and the others laughingly took up the shout. "Hooray for Davy.
Bring him over, Cowan." The giant threw me on his shoulder as though I
had been a fox, leaped down, and took the stream in two strides. I
little thought how often he was to carry me in days to come, but I felt a
great awe at the strength of him, as I stared into his rough features and
his veined and weathered skin. He stood me down beside the Indian's
body, smiled as he whipped my hunting knife from my belt, and said, "Now,
Davy, take the sculp."
Nothing loath, I seized the Indian by the long scalp-lock, while my big
friend guided my hand, and amid laughter and cheers I cut off my first
trophy of war. Nor did I have any other feeling than fierce hatred of
the race which had killed my father.
Those who have known armies in their discipline will find it difficult to
understand the leadership of the border. Such leadership was granted
only to those whose force and individuality compelled men to obey them.
I had my first glimpse of it that day. This Colonel Clark to whom Tom
delivered Mr. Robertson's letter was perchance the youngest man in the
company that had rescued us, saving only a slim lad of seventeen whom I
noticed and envied, and whose name was James Ray.
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