“What, colonel! Going down the river?”
The man in the hunting shirt smiled in his good-natured way, and shook the planter’s hand cordially.
“Glad to see you, Mr. Burr,” said he. “Yes, going down the river. A little expedition, you see.”
“Gentlemen,” said the planter, addressing those who accompanied him, “shake hands with Colonel Crockett, the finest rifle shot, the greatest stump speaker and the most complete bear hunter in Tennessee.”
“Colonel Crockett,” said Walter to Ned as the backwoodsman laughingly shook hands with Mr. Burr’s friends. “Can it be the celebrated Davy Crockett of whom we’ve always heard so much?”
“I’ll bet it is,” said Ned, his eyes on the colonel. “I’ve seen pictures of him more than once; and they looked just as he does now.”
“How is it, Crockett,” asked Mr. Burr, “that I find you in your old back settlement togs, your rifle and hunting knife with you, headed south? Surely you are not going to Texas?”
Crockett nodded.
“Mr. Burr,” said he, “I surely am. Down there’s a new country to be fought for and freed. And down there I am going to give what help I can.”
“But,” protested Burr, “are you going to give up your career in Tennessee? You, as a member of Congress, have work to do.”