“I saw you for a second,” she faltered. “It seemed impossible it could be you. I knew you would have trouble when I saw them close the door. I left my horse and called Mr. Sevier. Kirk, I’m glad to see you—and I’m sorry you came.”
John Sevier, or Chucky Jack, as he was commonly called after the Nolichucky River he lived on, stepped round the corner of the tavern before Jackson could reply to the girl’s contradictory statement and brusquely called out:
“Come along, Miss Tonpit. And you, sir; this is no place for an honest man to linger in.”
“I owe you thanks. I’ll try to thank you later,” said Jackson. “I find Miss Tonpit is an old acquaintance—an old friend—I’ll walk home with her.”
The girl cast a swift glance at Sevier and faintly shook her head. Sevier tucked his arm through Jackson’s and quietly insisted:
“You must come with me now; Miss Tonpit is perfectly safe—perfectly safe.”
To Jackson’s amazement the girl flushed, then turned pale and ran to where her horse was tied to a tree.
“—— it, man! Virginians don’t leave such matters to chance,” cried Jackson, tugging to release his arm. “The young lady should be escorted home. This seems to be a desperate community.”
“I, too, am a Virginian,” Sevier calmly reminded, tightening his hold en the other’s arm. “And I know the community better than you do.” There was a peculiar hardness in his voice as he added, “Miss Tonpit is perfectly safe in any part of the Watauga settlements at any time of day or night, providing her identity is known.”
Jackson stared savagely into Sevier’s face and hoarsely demanded—