“And now,” he added, “since you are Mr. Temple’s cousin and friend and an old acquaintance of mine to boot, I will tell you where I think he is.”

“Where is that?” I asked eagerly.

“I’ll stake a cowbell that Sevier will stop at the Widow Brown’s,” he replied.  “I’ll put you on the road.  But mind you, you are to tell Mr. Temple that he is to come back here and race me at Greasy Cove.”

“I’ll warrant him to come,” said I.

Whereupon we left the inn together, more amicably than before.  Mr. Jackson had a thoroughbred horse near by that was a pleasure to see, and my admiration of his mount seemed to set me as firmly in Mr. Jackson’s esteem again as that gentleman himself sat in the saddle.  He was as good as his word, rode out with me some distance on the road, and reminded me at the last that Nick was to race him.

CHAPTER VI

THE WIDOW BROWN’S

It was not to my credit that I should have lost the trail, after Mr. Jackson put me straight.  But the night was dark, the country unknown to me, and heavily wooded and mountainous.  In addition to these things my mind ran like fire.  My thoughts sometimes flew back to the wondrous summer evening when I trod the Nollichucky trace with Tom and Polly Ann, when I first looked down upon the log palace of that prince of the border, John Sevier.  Well I remembered him, broad-shouldered, handsome, gay, a courtier in buckskin.  Small wonder he was idolized by the Watauga settlers, that he had been their leader in the struggle of Franklin for liberty.  And small wonder that Nick Temple should be in his following.

Nick!  My mind was in a torment concerning him.  What of his mother?  Should I speak of having seen her?  I went blindly through the woods for hours after the night fell, my horse stumbling and weary, until at length I came to a lonely clearing on the mountain side, and a fierce pack of dogs dashed barking at my horse’s heels.  There was a dark cabin ahead, indistinct in the starlight, and there I knocked until a gruff voice answered me and a tousled man came to the door.  Yes, I had missed the trail.  He shook his head when I asked for the Widow Brown’s, and bade me share his bed for the night.  No, I would go on, I was used to the backwoods.  Thereupon he thawed a little, kicked the dogs, and pointed to where the mountain dipped against the star-studded sky.  There was a trail there which led direct to the Widow Brown’s, if I could follow it.  So I left him.

Once the fear had settled deeply of missing Nick at the Widow Brown’s, I put my mind on my journey, and thanks to my early training I was able to keep the trail.  It doubled around the spurs, forded stony brooks in diagonals, and often in the darkness of the mountain forest I had to feel for the blazes on the trees.  There was no making time.  I gained the notch with the small hours of the morning, started on with the descent, crisscrossing, following a stream here and a stream there, until at length the song of the higher waters ceased and I knew that I was in the valley.  Suddenly there was no crown-cover over my head.  I had gained the road once more, and I followed it hopefully, avoiding the stumps and the deep wagon ruts where the ground was spongy.