"Well, what was He doin' when that Indian scalped my grandpa?"
The mother threw a startled look at the bold little questioner and answered reverently:
"Keeping watch in Heaven, my Boy. The hairs of your head are numbered and not one falls without his knowledge. We had to pay the price of blood for this beautiful country. Nothing is ever worth having that doesn't cost precious lives."
Again the cabin was still. An owl's deep cry boomed from the woods and a solitary wolf answered in the distance. The Boy's brow was wrinkled for a moment and then he suddenly looked up to his father's rugged face:
"And what became of Dan'l Boone?"
"Oh, he lit on his feet all right. He always did. He moved on with Stuart, built him another camp in the deepest woods he could find and hunted there all winter—jest think, Boy, all winter—every day—thar wuz a man that wuz a man shore nuff!"
"Yes, sirree!" the listener agreed.
The mother lifted her head and thoughtfully watched the sparkling eyes.
"And do you want to know why Daniel Boone was great, my son?" she quietly asked.
"Yes, why?" was the quick response.