Everything proceeded without any stirring events, except those noted, until the boat drew in at the mouth of the White River and Crockett encountered an old friend and fellow keeper of the border, Captain William Cumby.
“Dave,” said Cumby, as he shook the backwoodsman’s hand, “I haven’t seen you in years; and I’m ’tarnal glad of the chance to do it now, old boy.”
They conversed for some little time and Crockett introduced his young friends.
“All going to Texas, eh?” said Cumby, after he had favored each of the lads with a hand-shake which was like the grip of a vise. “Well, if it’s entertainment you’re looking for, you’ll find it in plenty, youngsters. A friend of mine just came up from there and he tells me things are biling to such a degree that they’ve got considerable trouble keeping the lid on the pot half the time.”
A small, elderly man with a parchment face and many deep wrinkles was tying a pair of horses to a fence some little distance away. Captain Cumby called to him.
“Here, Dolph,” said he. “I want you to shake hands with Davy Crockett.”
Dolph looked interested.
“Not the Davy Crockett?” said he.
“That very same gentleman,” answered Captain Cumby.
Dolph approached and gripped Crockett’s hand.