Tonpit’s voice rang out again, this time impatiently, for he had heard his daughter’s voice and knew she must be safe. Motioning her to be silent, Sevier gave a soft whistle. A horse crashed through the undergrowth and Tonpit was imperiously demanding:
“Where are you, Elsie? I’ve been horribly frightened.”
“This way, father,” she softly answered. “And not so loud, dear. Those men will hear us.”
“There are two of them who won’t hear anything this side of the Last Trump,” he hoarsely assured, spurring his mount into the trail. On catching sight of Sevier, he levelled the pistol he was holding and snapped it.
“Father!” groaned the horrified girl. “It’s Mr. Sevier, father.”
Tonpit leaned forward over his horse’s neck and blinked at the borderer.
“Then what the devil is he doing here with that scum?” he fiercely demanded.
“He just saved me from Hester. Mr. Sevier is my friend,” she gently reminded.
“Friend? We shall see,” was the grim reply. “If he is our friend he will guide us to the trail that runs south.”
“You ride where?” asked Sevier, mounting his horse.