"Does he think so?" asked old Matt, rather anxiously.
"He does; and I came prepared to assist you, if need be."
"Thank'e, Mr. Mellowtone. Time was when I didn't want no help agin any ten of these yere redskins; but the rheumatiz has spiled me, and my arm shakes so I can't shoot much now," added old Matt, mournfully.
"Kit said he would come here immediately."
"Kit is a good neighbor, and is allus on hand when he's wanted, and there's any Injuns to shoot."
At that moment the door was darkened by the appearance of Kit Cruncher, who bowed his head, and entered without ceremony.
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH PHIL LOSES AN OLD AND VALUED FRIEND.
Kit Cruncher was about six feet and a half high, and it was necessary that he should bow his head when he entered even the humble log cabin of Matt Rockwood. He wore a cap made of skins, so tall that it seemed to add another foot to his height. It was ornamented with the long, bushy tail of a fox, which dangled on one side like the tassels from the cap of a hussar. His beard, gray and massive, was more than a foot long, and gave him a patriarchal aspect. His pants were stuffed in the legs of his long boots, and he wore a kind of hunting frock, which reached nearly to his knees. He was lean and lank, but, annealed in the hardships of backwoods life, he was wiry and sinewy. He was about fifty years old, though his gray hair and beard alone appeared to betray his age. He was from the south; a fine specimen of the real Kentucky hunter—"half horse and half alligator."