She was as fair as he was dark, and her blue eyes glistened as he addressed her. Then she sighed, and an expression of sadness overclouded her small face. “I saw you for a second,” she faltered. “It seemed impossible it could be you. I knew you would have trouble when I saw them close the door. I left my horse and called Mr. Sevier. Kirk, I’m glad to see you—and I’m sorry you came.” John Sevier, or Chucky Jack, as he was commonly called after the Nolichucky River he lived on, stepped round the corner of the tavern before Jackson could reply to the girl’s contradictory statement and brusquely called out: “Come along, Miss Tonpit. And you, sir; this is no place for an honest man to linger in.” “I owe you thanks. I’ll try to thank you later,” said Jackson. “I find Miss Tonpit is an old acquaintance—an old friend—I’ll walk home with her.” The girl cast a swift glance at Sevier and faintly shook her head. Sevier tucked his arm through Jackson’s and quietly insisted: “You must come with me now; Miss Tonpit is perfectly safe—perfectly safe.” To Jackson’s amazement the girl flushed, then turned pale and ran to where her horse was tied to a tree. “—— it, man! Virginians don’t leave such matters to chance,” cried Jackson, tugging to release his arm. “The young lady should be escorted home. This seems to be a desperate community.” “I, too, am a Virginian,” Sevier calmly reminded, tightening his hold en the other’s arm. “And I know the community better than you do.” There was a peculiar hardness in his voice as he added, “Miss Tonpit is perfectly safe in any part of the Watauga settlements at any time of day or night, providing her identity is known.” Jackson stared savagely into Sevier’s face and hoarsely demanded— “Just what do you mean by that?” “Nothing to her hurt, God bless her!” was the ready response. “But this is no place to talk. If there was an ounce of courage to go with the ton of hate back in the tavern, we’d both be riddled with bullets before this. Step over to the court-house where we can talk.” “But, Miss Tonpit? She lives near here? I shall have a chance to see her again?” And Jackson held back and gazed after the girl, who was now cantering up the trail towards the foot-hills. “Every opportunity, I should say,” assured Sevier, leading the way into the court-house. “Now suppose you give an account of yourself. I’m sort of a justice of the peace here. We’re hungry for honest men, God knows. I believe you’ll fit in with the court-house crowd rather than with the tavern crowd.” “But Elsie? Miss Tonpit?” “Your story first,” Sevier insisted, seating himself at the table and motioning Jackson to a stool fashioned from a solid block of cedar. Jackson surrendered and rapidly narrated: