“Your man, Mr. Jackson?” stammered the host.
“Great Jehovah!” cried Mr. Jackson, “I believe he's afraid to race. He had a horse that could show heels to my Nancy, did he? And he's gone, you say?”
A light seemed to dawn on the landlord's countenance.
“God bless ye, Mr. Jackson!” he cried, “ye don't mean that young daredevil that was with Sevier?”
“With Sevier?” says Jackson.
“Ay,” says the landlord; “he's been a-fightin with Sevier all summer, and I reckon he ain't afeard of nothin' any more than you. Wait—his name was Temple—Nick Temple, they called him.”
“Nick Temple!” I cried, starting forward.
“Where's he gone?” said Mr. Jackson. “He was going to bet me a six-forty he has at Nashboro that his horse could beat mine on the Greasy Cove track. Where's he gone?”
“Gone!” said the landlord, apologetically, “Nollichucky Jack and his boys left town an hour ago.”
“Is he a man of honor or isn't he?” said Mr. Jackson, fiercely.