“And who may he be?” said she.
“Who may he be!” cried Tom; “Captain John Sevier, king of the border, and I reckon the best man to sweep out redskins in the Watauga settlements.”
“Do you know him?” said she.
“I was chose as one of his scouts when we fired the Cherokee hill towns last summer,” said Tom, with pride. “Thar was blood and thunder for ye! We went down the Great War-path which lies below us, and when we was through there wasn't a corn-shuck or a wigwam or a war post left. We didn't harm the squaws nor the children, but there warn't no prisoners took. When Nollichucky Jack strikes I reckon it's more like a thunderbolt nor anything else.”
“Do you think he's at home, Tom?” I asked, fearful that I should not see this celebrated person.
“We'll soon l'arn,” said he, as we descended. “I heerd he was agoin' to punish them Chickamauga robbers by Nick-a-jack.”
Just then we heard a prodigious barking, and a dozen hounds came charging down the path at our horses' legs, the roan shying into the truck patch. A man's voice, deep, clear, compelling, was heard calling:—
“Vi! Flora! Ripper!”
I saw him coming from the porch of the house, a tall slim figure in a hunting shirt—that fitted to perfection—and cavalry boots. His face, his carriage, his quick movement and stride filled my notion of a hero, and my instinct told me he was a gentleman born.
“Why, bless my soul, it's Tom McChesney!” he cried, ten paces away, while Tom grinned with pleasure at the recognition. “But what have you here?”