James was much disappointed next morning, when he rode into Pittsburg, at the mean appearance of the village, having heard so much of the conflicts around Duquesne. He found most of the houses built of logs, some of round logs, others two-story and the logs hewn, one brick house and a few stone, some good frame houses, and a church built of hewn timber, but plenty of public-houses.
CHAPTER XVIII.
WILLIAM WHITMAN.
James was proceeding leisurely along the street bordering on the river, called Front Street, when, as he approached a log tavern where a great number of teams were standing, his horse was suddenly caught by the bridle, and upon looking up, he was confronted by one of the finest-looking men he thought he had ever met, and who, extending his hand, exclaimed,—
“Is this James Renfew?”
James replied in the affirmative, as he clasped the offered hand of the stranger, and returned his hearty grasp.
“I am William Whitman, and I knew old Frank the instant I set eyes on him. How are you, old playmate?” patting Frank’s neck. “He’s just my age; twenty-five years old last April, the tenth. Frank and I are one year’s children. How smooth he looks; young as a colt. You’ll have a good time here, old fellow, this winter, plenty to eat and nothing to do.”
“Ah! there’s father’s old rifle,” laying his hand on the weapon, that lay across the forward part of the saddle. “Oh! what a good father he was to us, and brought us all up in the right way. I know in reason he is better off, and that we must all die, but the old rifle brings everything back,—all the old days when he used to teach me to shoot under the old chestnut. Father did not know how old that tree was. How long have you lived with my brother?”
“Four years.”
“And you have lived right among them all that time, and was there when my father died?”
“Yes, sir; your father taught me to work with tools, and to shoot, and trap, and could not rest till he brought me and Peter, Bertie and Maria, to pray to God, and then he died.”