“A wife,” said Tom, standing on one foot.
Captain Sevier fixed his dark blue eyes on Polly Ann with approbation, and he bowed to her very gracefully.
“Where are you going, Ma'am, may I ask?” he said.
“To Kaintuckee,” said Polly Ann.
“To Kaintuckee!” cried Captain Sevier, turning to Tom. “Egad, then, you've no right to a wife,—and to such a wife,” and he glanced again at Polly Ann. “Why, McChesney, you never struck me as a rash man. Have you lost your senses, to take a woman into Kentucky this year?”
“So the forts be still in trouble?” said Tom.
“Trouble?” cried Mr. Sevier, with a quick fling of his whip at an unruly hound, “Harrodstown, Boonesboro, Logan's Fort at St. Asaph's,—they don't dare stick their noses outside the stockades. The Indians have swarmed into Kentucky like red ants, I tell you. Ten days ago, when I was in the Holston settlements, Major Ben Logan came in. His fort had been shut up since May, they were out of powder and lead, and somebody had to come. How did he come? As the wolf lopes, nay, as the crow flies over crag and ford, Cumberland, Clinch, and all, forty miles a day for five days, and never saw a trace—for the war parties were watching the Wilderness Road.” And he swung again towards Polly Ann. “You'll not go to Kaintuckee, ma'am; you'll stay here with us until the redskins are beaten off there. He may go if he likes.”
“I reckon we didn't come this far to give out, Captain Sevier,” said she.
“You don't look to be the kind to give out, Mrs. McChesney,” said he. “And yet it may not be a matter of giving out,” he added more soberly. This mixture of heartiness and gravity seemed to sit well on him. “Surely you have been enterprising, Tom. Where in the name of the Continental Congress did you get the lad?”
“I married him along with Polly Ann,” said Tom. “That was the bargain, and I reckon he was worth it.”