It's mostly women 'at sends men a trottin' off 'bout nothin', sort o' crazy like." Beverley looked guilty and Oncle Jazon continued: "They's a poo'ty gal at Vincennes, an' I see the young man a steppin' into her house about fifteen times a day 'fore I lef' the place.

Mebbe she's tuck up wi' one o' them English officers.

Gals is slippery an' onsartin'." "Jazon!" cried Beverley, "stop that instantly, or I'll wring your old neck." His anger was real and he meant what he said.

He clenched his hands and glowered.
Oncle Jazon, who was still squatting by the little fire, tumbled over backwards, as if Beverley had kicked him; and there he lay on the ground with his slender legs quivering akimbo in the air, while he laughed in a strained treble that sounded like the whining of a screech-owl.
The old scamp did not know all the facts in Beverley's case, nor did he even suspect what had happened; but he was aware of the young man's tender feeling for Alice, and he did shrewdly conjecture that she was a factor in the problem.
The rude jest at her expense did not seem to his withered and toughened taste in the least out of the way.

Indeed it was a delectable bit of humor from Oncle Jazon's point of view.
"Don't get mad at the old man," said Kenton, plucking Beverley aside.
"He's yer friend from his heels to his old scalped crown.