"Take care of yourself!" he cried, his face livid.
"That is my business in life, thanks," returned the stranger, lightly, and so he found himself alone with the old man. Carefully uncocking his rifle, he swung down from the saddle and gripped hands with the other.
"Well, you seem to be in no great need of help," he chuckled, surveying the huge chest of the grey-haired man. "What's the matter, anyway? Did you have a fuss with his excellency?"
"Kind of that way," grinned the old man, to whom speech now seemed to come slowly. "Muddied me, the cussed law-shark! All alike, consarn 'em."
"Well, now he's gone, can you tell me where Colonel Dick Taylor lives?"
"Goin' there," grunted the other, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. His keen blue eyes searched the younger face shrewdly. "Young man, ye handled him right. You're a fine fellow. How are ye named?"
"Norton, John Norton," smiled the younger man. "I'm a captain in the Seventh Infantry, or was, and came up from New Orleans after resigning. So you're going to the Taylors, eh? Know young Zach? Do you live around here?"
"Uh-huh, I know him. Used to live here." The old man's face darkened as he glanced around. "Them cussed lawyers skun me out o' my land, consarn 'em! Live in Missoury now. Lots o' game there. Come back here to pay my debts—no man can't say I ain't honest. Them moccasins ain't Cherokee-made, are they?"
"What's your name?" asked Norton with frank interest. He clucked to his horse, and the steed followed them as they trudged along the road. The other only glanced down at the moccasins.
"Name's Boone," he grunted. "Them moccasins, now—they sartin look kind o' like——"