“Reckon, if Chucky Jack can’t fix things up for us, there ain’t no fixing to be done,” one man spoke up and said to Jackson.
“He’s a great man,” heartily retorted Jackson. “I talked with him this morning for the first time. My name is Kirk Jackson, just returned from the Ohio.”
“My name’s Stetson. My cabin is on t’other side of the court-house. Seen you with him this morning. You’ll eat with us today. Where’s your horse?”
“Broke a leg a few miles out. Had to shoot him,” the ranger sadly informed.
“Shoo! That’s tough. I’ve got several. Help yourself any time. I’ll tell the woman.”
“It’s a —— of a Government that leaves us folks to shift for ourselves,” spoke up another settler, catching Jackson’s eye.
“Seeing how you’ve always shifted for yourselves, I reckon you ain’t worse off than you’ve always been,” smiled Jackson. “And I reckon Jack Sevier’s enough help for one settlement to have. The Indians are awfully scared of him.”
“That’s ’cause they know he won’t wait to fight behind logs,” Stetson broke in eagerly and with great pride. “They know that every time they make a raid he’ll lead us straight into their country for a hundred miles or so and rip —— out of their villages. Nothing takes the fighting guts out of a Injun so much as to hear—while burning a few cabins—that Chucky Jack is back in their towns burning up all their corn. He’s thinking up things now.”
Jackson had halted his advance on the court-house because of the respectful aloofness of the settlers. But now came one who ignored the black frowns, an Indian. He was a Cherokee, and his path was to the court-house.
Suddenly a woman’s shrill voice called from a cabin: