“I reckon Hump won’t come crowin’ round heah any more co’t days, Mr. Jackson,” said our host.

But Mr. Jackson swept the room with his eyes and then glared at the landlord so that he gave back.

“Where’s my man?” he demanded.

“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.

“Lord, sir, I only seen him once, but I’d stake my oath on it.

“Do you mean to say Mr. Temple has been here—­Nicholas Temple?” I said.

The bewildered landlord turned towards me helplessly.

“Who the devil are you, sir?” cried Mr. Jackson.

“Tell me what this Mr. Temple was like,” said I.

The landlord’s face lighted up.

“Faith, a thoroughbred hoss,” says he; “sech nostrils, and sech a gray eye with the devil in it fer go—­yellow ha’r, and ez tall ez Mr. Jackson heah.”

“And you say he’s gone off again with Sevier?”

“They rud into town” (he lowered his voice, for the room was filling), “snapped their fingers at Tipton and his warrant, and rud out ag’in.  My God, but that was like Nollichucky Jack.  Say, stranger, when your Mr. Temple smiled—­”

“He is the man!” I cried; “tell me where to find him.”

Mr. Jackson, who had been divided between astonishment and impatience and anger, burst out again.

“What the devil do you mean by interfering with my business, sir?”

“Because it is my business too,” I answered, quite as testily; “my claim on Mr. Temple is greater than yours.”

“By Jehovah!” cried Jackson, “come outside, sir, come outside!”

The landlord backed away, and the men in the tavern began to press around us expectantly.

“Gallop into him, Andy!” cried one.

“Don’t let him git near no fences, stranger,” said another.

Mr. Jackson turned on this man with such truculence that he edged away to the rear of the room.

“Step out, sir,” said Mr. Jackson, starting for the door before I could reply.  I followed perforce, not without misgivings, the crowd pushing eagerly after.  Before we reached the dusty street Jackson began pulling off his coat.  In a trice the shouting onlookers had made a ring, and we stood facing each other, he in his shirt-sleeves.