THE DEAD ARE DANGEROUS
With a low word for his daughter to follow him Tonpit backed his horse
clear from the crowd and spurred away. For sixty seconds the astounded
gathering remained motionless. Sevier stared incredulously at the
message, while his neighbours gazed stupidly at the dusty messenger.
All felt as if they had been abandoned in the wilderness without
shelter or means of self-defence. True, the over-mountain men had
always fought their own way and financed their own campaigns, yet in
the back of their minds was ever the thought that, should a crisis
come, the mother State must aid them.
That a crisis was imminent was evidenced by Chucky Jack’s open mention
of his petition for soldiers. Chucky Jack was worth many riflemen and
had whipped the Indians many times. All the more proof that the
settlements must be in desperate straits when he was impelled to
beseech help. And of a sudden they were disowned; there was no mother
State, no slumbering asset they could call to life.
Sevier had not talked much about the possibility of Creeks and
Cherokees uniting, but the petition, coupled with whispered rumours
seeping through the cabins, now brought morbid speculations. How many
Indians would come and when, were the questions more than one man and
woman asked themselves. Who would go to hold the line on the French
Broad so that the red raiders might not penetrate to the Watauga?
Jackson watched Tonpit ride hastily away, followed by Elsie, and he
fancied he beheld elation in the man’s hard visage and sorrow in the
girl’s gentle face. It was quite a coincidence, too, that Major Tonpit
should ride forth just in time to learn the momentous news—unless he
had been expecting it and came purposely to hear it. His prompt return
home gave colour to the suspicion.
The young Virginian shifted his attention to Chucky Jack. Sevier
perused the message for the second time, crumpled it into a ball as if
to hurl it from him, thought better of it and tucked it inside his
buckskin shirt and called to the assemblage:
“Women and men of the Watauga, North Carolina will have none of us.
We’re shoved through the door and told to shift for ourselves. To be
exact, we’re told to look to the central Government for protection.
And, as you know, the ink is scarcely dry on the petition I was about
to send to the Legislature, asking for courts and militia.
“Without consulting one of the twenty-five thousand settlers on this
side of the mountains, North Carolina chooses to pay her share of the
national debt by the simple process of ceding us to Congress. She
proposes to pay her debts with lands we won by rifle and ax. The act
was passed by the Legislature a month ago, and for thirty days, while
the messenger was bringing the news, we have been set off from North
Carolina.
“During those thirty days our plight has been as serious as it is now,
only, not knowing the truth, we worried but little. This fact should
teach us that we can care for ourselves during the next thirty days,
and so on, until there is no danger from the Indians along our border.
So I ask you to be of brave heart and to remember the Watauga people
always have had to hoe their own row. Please God we can keep on.
“A year or two ago this message would have worried me none. I could
send out the call, and my old friends would respond overnight, as fast
as horseflesh could fetch them. If an Indian war comes now, it will be
more serious than what we’ve experienced in the past but nothing that
our rifles can not blast away. I still can count on my friends and old
companions-in-arms. Of the newcomers who have come to us in such
numbers I am not so sure.”
And he paused to dart a lightning glance at Polcher and his cronies
pressed about the tavern door.
“The national Congress oughter help us,” piped up an old man.
“It would be glad to. But the national Government, while empowered to
levy armies, can not compel a single State to furnish a soldier,”
Sevier reminded. “The national Government can do only what the States
will permit it to do. Last year several hundred soldiers stormed the
very doors of Congress and demanded their over-due pay, and Congress
was unable to escape the mob’s demands. There will come a time when our
Congress will have the power to protect its citizens in this, or in any
other, land. But not now.”
“If not now, then by the Eternal, men of Watauga, there is one power
that can defend us!” cried Polcher from the tavern doorway. “And we
have only to ask to be freed from either Creek or Cherokee.”
“Aye! Aye! Spain looks after its own!” cried another of the tavern
coterie.
“So does the devil!” thundered Sevier, enraged at Polcher’s making the
Creek menace common property. “We’ll get nothing from Spain only as we
pay dearly for it. And remember, there can be no danger from the Creeks
except as Spain sets the mischief afoot. All who would be free and live
in security follow me to the court-house. Messengers must be sent out;
delegates must be elected and called here.”
“What’s yer plan?” hooted a tavern fellow.
“My plan is to form a Government of our own and to be admitted into the
Union as a separate State!” retorted Sevier in a ringing voice.
The decent element raised a hoarse cheer, and faces heretofore gloomy
became inspired. Polcher quickly warned:
“Vermont’s been trying to be admitted ever since 1776. We can’t stand
on air, neither one thing nor another. Spain will protect us and give
us justice. If she should fail, we could turn to and drive her into the
gulf!”
“The time to drive her into the gulf is before you slip on her yoke!”
shouted Sevier. “And, if we’re able to do that same thing, why seek her
protection? To the court-house!”
The women gathered in knots to discuss the startling news. The men
followed their old leader. Jackson remained outside the court-house,
watching the scene. His experience with Kentuckians on the Ohio had
taught him the feeble central Government was powerless to function in a
crisis like this—and this because the thirteen States retained the
mental attitude of the thirteen colonies.
Polcher’s advocacy of accepting the protection of Spain was not
painfully repugnant to Jackson, no more than it was to some others west
of the mountains, who believed themselves forsaken and left to shape
their own destiny. When it hurt, it hurt pride, not a national spirit.
He repudiated the idea because of an instinctive dislike to domination
by any foreign power. His sense of Americanism was not shocked as
Sevier’s was, for the union Polcher openly urged, and which John Tonpit
was suspected of secretly promoting, simply meant a political
affiliation and not the death of national ideals, the seeds of which
were scarcely sown.
Jackson, however, firmly opposed the project, for his forebears had
come to America to escape overlords. Then again common sense told him
the law of compensation would decree that Spain’s protégés must pay
Spain’s price.
Being in this frame of mind, he saw no reason why he should not play
his luck by accepting Tonpit’s courteous demeanour at full face-value
and profit by it to the extent of wooing his daughter. His last meeting
with Tonpit before going to the Ohio country convinced him his suit was
frowned upon. Now, with the father’s smile still soothing him, with a
vivid picture of Elsie’s shy, backward glance, he had small liking for
the court-house and its jumble of loud-voiced phillipics against Spain
and North Carolina. The situation was localized in his estimation. And
yet he hesitated, his loyalty to Sevier, whom he had known for only a
few hours, holding him back.
Polcher came from the tavern with Lon Hester, and Jackson thrust his
thumbs into his belt and strode toward them, thinking it timely to
conclude the morning’s one-sided argument. But Polcher said some
hurried words to the bully, who turned and hastened down the trail,
while the tavern-keeper himself affected to ignore the truculent ranger
and strolled toward the court-house. Jackson turned to follow him, only
to behold the people pouring from the building. There came staccato
commands, and a score of men flew to their horses and rode away.
The Virginian breathed in relief. It was not necessary for him to
choose between love and duty. Chucky Jack had rushed matters through
with his characteristic energy, and the messengers were off to arrange
for the election of delegates. The tavern-keeper, too, was no longer
visible, and with nothing to detain him Jackson took the trail to the
south, his heart as light as his moccasined feet.
What recked youth in love-time even if the fate of the Anglo-Saxon race
in America were at stake! Ever thus does youth help shape the course of
political evolution, help win a world without realizing the
achievement, and only ask in the midst of astounding events that the
heart of a simple maid be won.
The dalliance of the young man’s thoughts blinded him, and his feet
followed the rough path unguided by his eyes. Some premonition that she
was near was what finally awakened him from his smiling reverie. He
halted and threw back his head with a jerk. Tonpit’s commodious cabin
stood in from the trail, surrounded by clumps of cedar and bass-wood.
Within ten feet of the ranger stood Elsie.
Jackson reddened with confusion. He knew he had been smiling as he came
down the trail, and the restrained merriment tugging the corners of her
mouth proclaimed her a witness to his deportment. He felt as sheepish
as if she had detected him making faces at himself in a mirror.
“Elsie, I’ve come all the way from the Ohio to win the privilege of
calling you sweetheart,” he hurriedly greeted.
She cast an apprehensive glance toward the house.
“I like you, Kirk. You know how much,” she wistfully began. “My father—”
“He seemed glad to see me,” he completed as she hesitated.
And he gained her side and took her hands in his.
“He is glad to see few men,” she warned. “He loves me, but to others
he’s cold.”
“Politics,” assured Jackson. “Big men always have political bees
swarming through their heads. I wouldn’t give a beaver’s pelt for all
the political power they can develop in this whole country. I’m a free
man, and you’re a free maid, and your politician is a slave. And you
must love me, dear.”
“And I’m a free maid, and I must,” she quoted, drawing him out of range
of the cabin.
“Elsie, not another step till I know,” he whispered. “I asked myself
every step from the falls of the Ohio, but now, you must—please!”
“Then I must if I must,” she murmured, dancing ahead toward a natural
arbour.
“Wait!” he cried. “I bring a belt from the Ohio to the dearest little
girl in the world. It shows a white road leading to a little cabin,
which shall be the happiest home in all the col—I mean the States.”
She seated herself on a log and he kneeled by her side. She remained
silent, her eyes averted to hide her glorious confusion.
“I’ve brought my talk,” he whispered. “What does the wonderful little
woman say to it? Does she pick up the belt, the white wampum, the one
road leading to the cabin?”
“I like your talk,” she confessed. “Oh, I like it more than you can
ever know, Kirk. But my father—he won’t let me pick your belt up.”
“I’m not asking your father to marry me,” he reminded.
“Don’t speak in that voice,” she whimpered, wilting against him. “Kirk,
dear! I’m miserable. Ever since coming over the mountains I’ve sensed
poison in the air.”
He patted her hair and waited for her to continue.
“It’s something I can’t understand. It’s something that keeps my father
up all night, walking his room. And yet, when I go to him, it’s to
always find him strangely exalted.”
“Politics,” he belittled. “What has that to do with our love?”
She lifted her head and revealed eyes round with fear and warned:
“But it does! It concerns our happiness deeply. Not that he has said
anything. Not that his love for me ever changes—”
“Good Lord! Love for you—change?” he gasped.
“I say it hasn’t, you silly. But after the messenger came and we were
riding home, he asked me if I would make a sacrifice for him. He didn’t
say what but gave me to understand it would be only for a short time.
Now I’ll make any sacrifice for my father, only—”
She persisted in her silence, and he gravely prompted—
“Go on, sweetheart.”
“Only I must know it will help him.”
“Tell me what he asked you to do and let me be the judge.”
“He’s asked nothing as yet. I think he plans to tell me tonight. He
said something about my understanding everything tonight. Since then
he’s been in his room, whistling and singing. Never in my life have I
heard him whistle or sing before. And, do you know, he has a beautiful
voice—and I never knew it before.”
“When a man can sing and whistle, he can’t be planning to ask much of a
sacrifice of his daughter.”
“Oh, I’m not fearing what he may ask. He’s been a good father to me. I
must be perfectly loyal to him in my heart. I only wish he didn’t have
men come to see him—that is, certain kind of men.”
She gave him an odd look, then, forgetting the house was hidden by the
trees, she gazed over his shoulder. He was quick to detect the glint of
alarm in her eyes and asked—
“Who’s with him now?”
“Nay, you must not ask me. That would mean I was spying on him.
Doubtless I’m very silly. I shall know all tonight. Tomorrow, if we
should meet alone, I’ll perhaps be able to tell you.”
“We certainly shall meet alone,” he promised. “But why wait till
tomorrow? Why not this afternoon or tonight? I sha’n’t sleep a wink if
I have to wait till tomorrow. Why not here?”
“Oh, I couldn’t, Kirk,” she protested. In the next breath she filled
him with ecstasy by declaring, “And yet I will if possible.
Tonight—come when the moon is clearing the forest, two hours before
midnight. He always goes to his room at that hour. I shall be here on
the hour and will wait for you, but you mustn’t wait for me. I shall
come promptly or not at all.”
“But if I come and you’re not here—” he began complaining.
“Hush, silly. I’ll leave a note on this very log. Don’t wait if I’m not
here. Don’t wait if the note is not here. It will simply mean I
couldn’t leave the house without disturbing him.”
“Why couldn’t I call at the house?”
“Oh, no! Not at the house,” she hurriedly cried. “Promise?”
“Very well. I’ll come as far as this arbour.”
“Now, don’t be ugly. Some time you can come to a house and know you’ll
always find me—”
“You darling!” he softly exulted.
She lifted her head from his shoulder and touched a finger to his lips.
A voice was calling her name.
“It’s father,” she warned, unwarrantably alarmed her lover thought.
He made to walk a bit with her, but she gently pushed him back into the
arbour. Then, giving him her lips, she ran to the house.
He should have walked the skies as he returned to the settlement, but
somehow complete happiness was held in abeyance until he could learn
what it was that Tonpit was to ask of his daughter. His peace of mind
could not return until he had seen her again and learned the truth. He
had worried none while with her, for joy had destroyed perspective and
dulled imagination. He had actually lived in the present, taking toll
of each delicious minute. Now he was recalling her father’s reputation
as a man of mystery.
Back east, before his last trip to the Shawnee country, he had heard
strange remarks concerning John Tonpit. Here in Jonesboro the talk was
resumed. He could remember when Tonpit was counted a poor man, but now
he seemed to be above want. The sordid fact angered him by persisting
in invading his speculations. John Sevier had the right of it in saying
Tonpit was engaged in a conspiracy—no doubt about that. But it was left
for the girl herself to hint that she might be involved in his wretched
schemes.
“—— his beastly ambitions!” growled Jackson, turning from the trail and
throwing himself under a clump of willows.
He lighted his pipe and smoked it empty before recovering any of his
natural optimism. After all, he told himself, a father could not be
unnatural with his only child. Tonpit’s mode of address, even when
talking to Elsie, was harsh. That characteristic induced one to attach
undue significance to his simplest statements. The girl had permitted
his solemn assertions to carry too much weight. She had confused the
austere vehicle of his spoken thoughts with the simple meaning of his
words.
“He’s a queer one,” Jackson admitted as he stowed his pipe preparatory
to resuming his walk back to the settlement. “I can imagine the poor
child being thrown into a panic by his cold voice announcing it’s going
to rain tomorrow.”
He chuckled a bit at this caricature of the maid’s awe, then fell back
under the willows as the long shadow of a man fell across the sunlight
within a few feet of him. Walking noiselessly, the stealthy figure of
Lon Hester swung by.
For a moment Jackson was tempted to accost him and conclude the little
argument started in the tavern. But his impulse vanished because of
wonderment at the bully’s presence at this end of the settlement. The
tavern was his proper habitat. Again he saw Polcher whispering in the
bully’s ear and saw the latter set out afoot with the purposeful step
of one going on an important errand. Linked up to this recollection was
the girl’s statement that her father had a visitor whom she was
unwilling to name.
“But it couldn’t have been the tavern brawler,” muttered Jackson,
rising and softly following Hester. “Still, Polcher was giving the lout
some orders and sent him somewhere. And Sevier says Polcher is a deep
one. Polcher showed he was for the Spanish alliance after the messenger
came. He and Tonpit have the same fancy, it seems. But Tonpit was there
and heard as much as Polcher did. What could happen that needed a
message and a messenger? Sevier says all messages are brought to the
tavern.
“Almost appears as if the affair was ripe for a sudden blow somewhere,
for something decisive to happen—and Tonpit was singing and whistling.
Good Lord! What with being thrown off by North Carolina and not yet
accepted by the Union, it certainly isn’t any time for the settlers to
take on fresh troubles. Reckon I’ve been selfish. I’ll see Chucky Jack
and tell him what little I know.”
Making a detour so as to escape the notice of the tavern loungers,
Jackson approached the court-house from the east side of the
settlement. The town was ominously calm. Small groups of men were
quietly talking, and all carried their rifles. As they talked, they
looked much at the court-house, where through the windows Sevier could
be seen pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind him, his head
bowed. He was one man who carried the entire load of the settlement’s
troubles. He was idolized by the men, and there was none who would
think of intruding in this his great hour of anxiety.
“Reckon, if Chucky Jack can’t fix things up for us, there ain’t no
fixing to be done,” one man spoke up and said to Jackson.
“He’s a great man,” heartily retorted Jackson. “I talked with him this
morning for the first time. My name is Kirk Jackson, just returned from
the Ohio.”
“My name’s Stetson. My cabin is on t’other side of the court-house.
Seen you with him this morning. You’ll eat with us today. Where’s your
horse?”
“Broke a leg a few miles out. Had to shoot him,” the ranger sadly
informed.
“Shoo! That’s tough. I’ve got several. Help yourself any time. I’ll
tell the woman.”
“It’s a —— of a Government that leaves us folks to shift for
ourselves,” spoke up another settler, catching Jackson’s eye.
“Seeing how you’ve always shifted for yourselves, I reckon you ain’t
worse off than you’ve always been,” smiled Jackson. “And I reckon Jack
Sevier’s enough help for one settlement to have. The Indians are
awfully scared of him.”
“That’s ’cause they know he won’t wait to fight behind logs,” Stetson
broke in eagerly and with great pride. “They know that every time they
make a raid he’ll lead us straight into their country for a hundred
miles or so and rip —— out of their villages. Nothing takes the
fighting guts out of a Injun so much as to hear—while burning a few
cabins—that Chucky Jack is back in their towns burning up all their
corn. He’s thinking up things now.”
Jackson had halted his advance on the court-house because of the
respectful aloofness of the settlers. But now came one who ignored the
black frowns, an Indian. He was a Cherokee, and his path was to the
court-house.
Suddenly a woman’s shrill voice called from a cabin:
“The murderin’ spy! He’s come to see how we took the bad news!”
“There’s more of his kidney back in the woods!” shouted a man.
The Indian continued his advance. The various groups of men thinned out
and formed a half-circle behind him so as to block his threat. The
Indian halted and, still gazing at the court-house, threw back his head
and sounded the wolf-howl, _wa-ya_. With muttered imprecations a score
of rifles were brought to bear on him, while several men ran back to
the forest to scout for a hidden foe. But the signal was intended only
for Sevier, who now appeared at the window. A glance took in the
situation, the erect form of the red man and the half-circle of
menacing rifles. Leaning from the window, Sevier shouted:
“Put down those guns! I’ll answer for the Cherokee!” Then to the
savage, “The Tall Runner is welcome.”
Without a glance behind him, the Indian made for the door. Sevier
sighted Jackson and beckoned for him to enter.
Sevier was alone in the long room. He motioned for Jackson to remain in
the background and, addressing the Indian, said:
“Tall Runner, of the Aniwaya people, is welcome. What talk does the
warrior of the Wolf clan bring to me?”
The man of the Wolf, the most powerful clan of the Cherokee Nation,
permitted his gaze to kindle with admiration as he looked on Sevier.
After a brief silence he began:
“I bring a talk from Old Tassel. He tells me to say to Tsan-usdi
(Little John) that he is an old man. He says he is standing on slippery
ground. He says his elder brother’s people are building houses in sight
of Cherokee towns and that his young warriors grow nervous. He says the
white people living south of the French Broad have no right there, and
he asks his elder brother to take them away.”
Sevier waited for a minute, then replied:
“This is the talk I send back to Old Tassel. I will meet the Cherokee
chiefs in a grand council and fix a place beyond which no settler shall
go south of the French Broad and the Holston. Tell Old Tassel that, if
he stands on slippery ground, it is because the Indians have wet the
ground with the blood of white people, killed while travelling the
Kentucky road and while hoeing their fields along the Watauga.
“As for the settlers who have made homes south of the French Broad,
they can not now be removed, but, if the chiefs of the Nation will come
to a council, we will agree they shall go no farther. The Cherokees
know Tsan-usdi wants peace. But there can be no lasting peace so long
as the Cherokee Nation listens to the evil whisperings of the Creeks
and loads its guns with Spanish powder. Tell Old Tassel it was North
Carolina that sent the settlers south of the French Broad, not Little
John.”
The Indian remained silent for several minutes, then with a cunning
gleam in his eyes continued:
“I will carry your talk to Old Tassel. Who sends the talk? Tsan-usdi or
North Carolina? Or does Tsan-usdi speak for North Carolina?”
Sevier’s gaze hardened. He knew Old Tassel had learned of North
Carolina’s act of cession. This would imply advance knowledge on the
part of the chief. The messenger was sent with a colourless talk, his
real errand being to learn how the settlers were reacting to the
Cessions Act.
In a voice of thunder he warned:
“Brother of the Wolf, I am going to speak to you. Be wise and remember
my words. Tell Old Tassel the talk comes from Little John and his three
thousand riflemen. Tell him to forget that the settlements are no
longer a part of North Carolina. Tell him he is to remember that the
settlers never have had help from North Carolina and have always
depended upon their own guns. Tell him our rifles shoot as straight and
that our horses run as swiftly as they did a few moons ago. I will send
for Old Tassel when I have my council talk ready.”
Tall Runner was somewhat abashed but did not offer to depart. He
remained silent and motionless, staring furtively at the one white man
the Cherokee Nation feared above all other men. For three centuries the
Cherokees had made wars and treaties with the English, the Spanish, the
French, the Americans, with Creeks, Catawbas, Shawnees and Iroquois,
but in all their campaigns they had never shown so much respect, or
fear, for any one individual as they had for John Sevier.
Sevier knew Tall Runner had something on his mind, something he had not
intended to speak but was now tempted to divulge. Sternly, yet not
unkindly, Sevier prompted:
“My brother of the Wolf has seen something on his way here, or has
heard something. He thought at first to bury it deep in his head. Now
his medicine commands him to tell it. The ears of Tsan-usdi are open;
his heart is open. Does the Tall Runner speak?”
The Indian stood with eyes cast down as if irresolute; finally he
lifted his head, succumbing to the personal magnetism of Sevier, a
subtle influence that never failed to work on both friend and foe, and
said:
“It is not in the talk I brought from our peace town of Echota. It is
something I saw on the Great War-Path very near here. A dead man of the
Ani-Kusa.”
Sevier’s hands gripped the edge of the table.
“A warrior from the upper Creek towns,” he repeated.
“He was a messenger,” was the laconic correction.
The borderer fully appreciated the grave results sure to follow the
slaying of a messenger from McGillivray, Emperor of the Creek Nation.
One faint hope remained, that the Creek had fallen by the hand of a
Cherokee.
As if reading his thoughts, Tall Runner significantly added:
“The dead warrior was not scalped. He was shot by a white man hiding in
ambush. I found where the white man kneeled and waited. I followed his
trail back to the settlement. I found where his trail left the
settlement and made for the woods.”
There was no doubt in the minds of either Sevier or Jackson as to the
identity of the assassin. Major Hubbard, his heart rankling with
fanatical hatred for all red men, had left the village for the forest,
taking the direction the Cherokee would cover on returning home.
“When was the Creek killed?” quietly asked Sevier.
“The blood had dried.”
“Five hours ago,” muttered Sevier. Then aloud, “How do you know the
Creek brought a message for me?”
“Who else would he bring a talk to?” shrewdly countered Tall Runner.
“He carried no arms. He was a messenger. His moccasins were worn
through because of haste. He had not stopped at any of our villages to
get new moccasins. His talk was for the white men. Little John is their
chief.”
“And by this time the news of his death is spreading,” Sevier gloomily
mused.
“I threw boughs on the body. It may not be seen if Tsan-usdi goes and
covers it with earth. If others find it, the word will travel as far as
a red ax or a war-belt can travel.” Which was equivalent to saying that
McGillivray would surely learn of the killing and seize upon it as
pretext for declaring war upon the settlements.
Sevier walked to the window and back. When he halted before the
Cherokee, his countenance was placid, and his voice was gentle as he
directed:
“Go to Old Tassel and tell him my talk. That I will meet him and his
head men and give them a talk; that I wish only for peace and will hold
back the whites from going farther on Cherokee lands unless an Indian
war makes me use all my riflemen in defending our cabins.”
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