“It is lonely, Dave,” responded Sam Barringford. “But you’ll git used to it after a spell. Some men don’t like nuthin better, and can’t stay in town nohow, after living here awhile.”
“Why should we and the French fight for this vast territory, Sam? I’m sure there is more than enough ground to go around.”
“It’s an amazement, lad, that’s a fact. We might all have a couple of hundred acres and still land to spare. But man’s a selfish critter and the more he gits the more he wants—and nations ain’t no better nor the folks as makes ’em.”
“Do you think we’ll meet any Indians?”
“Ye mean enemies? I trust not. Of course we’ll stop at one or two of their villages. I calkerlate to strike Nancoke day after ter-morrow—if we can ford the river that’s ahead,” concluded the old hunter.
They had been out two days and to Dave it appeared that they were making slow progress. More than half the time they had to dismount and lead their horses. Each carried his gun over his shoulder and kept his eyes open for enemies, four-footed, two-footed, or otherwise, the otherwise, as Dave explained, being mainly snakes, for hardly a day passed that they did not see one or more reptiles.
Toward sunset they came to the river, hardly more than a mountain torrent, full of rocks and shifting sands. It was quite shallow in spots, but the current was strong and Barringford advised his companion to be careful in crossing.
“The sand sometimes makes the rocks shift,” he explained. “And if yer hoss goes down and breaks a leg, thar won’t be nuthing to do but to knock him in the head,—and we can’t afford to lose none of the animals.”
“I’ll be as careful as possible,” said Dave. “Are you going ahead?”
The old hunter said that he was, and soon he entered the water with his horse. He was leading a pack animal, and the boy followed the two, also with a pack animal behind him.