An Indian had stepped from the end of a cabin and had revived a smouldering torch by swinging it violently round his head. Sevier remained motionless, his travel-stained forest dress blending with the shadows and logs. But the Creek had no eyes for intruders. Besides the torch he carried a shallow wooden platter of steaming food. Intent on his business he walked to the window of the cabin and, after thrusting his torch into a socket, shoved the platter through a narrow aperture beneath the window, grunting unintelligibly all the time.
For the first time Sevier discovered the cabin was used as a place of detention, for there were iron bars across the window. The face of a white man pressed against the bars and the prisoner said something to the Creek.
Sevier sucked in his breath and then gasped:
“Kirk Jackson! So that’s the reason for Stetson’s nag being down here. Kirk Jackson, and he’s a prisoner!”
The Indian removed the torch and walked round the end of the cabin. Sevier glided forward. Jackson had retired from the window. The borderer glanced over his shoulder to make sure no more torches were approaching and, confident no one could discover him unless by physical contact, he seized the iron bars and shook them gently, and called Jackson by name.
There was a moment of intense silence, then a cautious voice whispered—
“Who is it?”
“Sevier. Chucky Jack.”
“Good Lord! What luck!” Jackson fervently murmured, and his face came close to the bars and his hand was thrust to grasp that of the borderer. “The door is fastened on the outside. No danger here of any one setting a prisoner free. Throw up the bar—”
He choked the rest off with a groan of dismay and Sevier began to face about just as a familiar voice exulted: