“Knew I must hit pretty close to where I was shootin’,” he muttered as he made up the bank.
I shoved the canoe from shore and called after him: “If you will wait until I get my horse we might travel together.”
He waved his hand in farewell and informed me: “I’ve got some business west o’ here. It’s out o’ your path if you’re makin’ for the Greenbriar.”
“But a bit of gossip. I’m just back from Fort Pitt,” I said.
He halted and leaned on his rifle and stared at me with lack-luster eyes, and in a monotonous voice said:
“Ed Sharpe, Dick Stanton, Eph Drake an’ Bill Harrel are scoutin’ the head o’ Powell’s Valley. Wanted me to go but the signs wa’n’t promisin’ ’nough. Logan says he’ll take ten sculps for one. He still thinks Michael Cresap led the killin’ at Baker’s—an’ Cresap was at Red Stone when it happened. Cresap wants to be mighty keerful he don’t fall into Logan’s hands alive.
“Half the folks on the South Fork o’ the Clinch can’t raise five shoots o’ powder. Folks on Rye Cove been movin’ over to the Holston, leavin’ their cattle behind. Mebbe I’ll scout over that way by ’n’ by.
“Augusta boys ain’t goin’ to have any man in their militia company that stands under six feet in his moccasins. Folks between the heads o’ Bluestone an’ Clinch so skeered they prob’ly won’t stay to lay by their corn. Injuns signs up Sandy Creek has made some o’ Moccasin an’ Copper Creek folks come off. I ’low that’s ’bout all.”
“Any signs of the Cherokees coming in?”
“Some says they will. T’others says they won’t. Sort o’ depends on whether they can keep Ike Crabtree from killin’ of ’em off.”