"That point might be debated," replied the man, in a whimsical tone,
"and after a long dispute neither I nor my partners here could say which
was right and which was wrong. But while we may not be Texans, yet we
will be right away."

His eyes twinkled as he spoke, and Ned suddenly felt a strong liking for
him. He was not young and, despite his buckskin dress and careless
grammar, there was something of the man of the world about him. But he
seemed to have a certain boyishness of spirit that appealed strongly to
Ned.

"I s'pose," he continued, "that a baptism will make us genuine Texans,
an' it 'pears likely to me that we'll get that most lastin' of all
baptisms, a baptism of fire. But me an' Betsy here stand ready for it."

He patted lovingly the stock of his long rifle as he spoke the word
"Betsy." It was the same word "Betsy" that gave Ned his sudden
knowledge.

"I'm thinking that you are Davy Crockett," he said.

The man's face was illumined with an inimitable smile.

"Correct," he said. "No more and no less. Andy Jackson kept me from
going back to Washington, an' so me an' these twelve good friends of
mine, Tennesseans like myself, have come here to help free Texas."

He reached out his hand and Ned grasped it. The boy felt a thrill. The
name of Davy Crockett was a great one in the southwest, and here he was,