Pandemonium reigned. Hats were flung in the air, rifles fired, shouts
and curses rose and blended into one terrifying note. Gradually, in the
midst of this mad uproar, the crowd became aware that another man was
standing upon the stump from which Nicholas Temple had leaped. "Cozby!"
some one yelled, "Cozby!" The cry was taken up. "Huzzay for Cozby!
He'll lead us into Caroliny." He was the huge, swarthy man I had seen
riding hard with Nick that morning. A sculptor might have chosen his
face and frame for a type of the iron-handed leader of pioneers. Will
was supreme in the great features,--inflexible, indomitable will. His
hunting shirt was open across his great chest, his black hair fell to his
shoulders, and he stood with a compelling hand raised for silence. And
when he spoke, slowly, resonantly, men fell back before his words.

"I admire Mr. Temple's courage, and above all his loyalty to our beloved
General," said Major Cozby. "But Mr. Temple is young, and the heated
counsels of youth must not prevail. My friends, in order to save Jack
Sevier we must be moderate."

His voice, strong as it was, was lost. "To hell with moderation!" they
shouted. "Down with North Carolina! We'll fight her!"

He got silence again by the magnetic strength he had in him.

"Very good," he said, "but get your General first. If we lead you across
the mountains now, his blood will be upon your heads. No man is a better
friend to Jack Sevier than I. Leave his rescue to me, and I will get him
for you." He paused, and they were stilled perforce. "I will get him
for you," he repeated slowly, "or North Carolina will pay for the burial
of James Cozby."