THE PRICE OF A JUG OF WHISKY
Finding himself overlooked, Jackson reminded:
“I’m still here. If I’m in the way, I’ll get out. Of course I couldn’t
help hearing your talk with the Cherokee.”
“Don’t go,” Sevier replied. “I’m worried about the dead Creek. Tall
Runner says he was an Ani-Kusa, from the upper towns. He brought a
message from McGillivray. There was no writing on his body, or Tall
Runner would have found it and brought it here. That makes two
mysteries.”
“I don’t understand,” Jackson confessed. “Two mysteries?”
“Who was to receive McGillivray’s message? Who did receive the message?”
“Isn’t it possible McGillivray is trying to treat with you; that some
of the tavern crowd found it out and stole the message and killed the
Indian?” Jackson put the query with much animation, the theory growing
on him even as he spoke.
“No. McGillivray has spies at the State capital. He knew ahead what the
Legislature intended doing before the Cessions Act was passed. He knows
he couldn’t swing me into line with Spain. Believing that the Watauga
settlements are disowned and helpless, it’s the tavern crowd he’d
dicker with.”
“If Hubbard killed him, why didn’t he get the message?”
“I haven’t any doubt as to Hubbard’s killing him. He went in that
direction in time to meet the Creek. He left us with blood in his
thoughts, cursing all Indians and believing the Chickamaugas are taking
the war-path. He saw the Creek and shot him. He never bothered to
approach the body, much less to examine it. Either the Creek had
delivered the message or it was found on his body by some white man
before Tall Runner came along.”
“I saw Hester leave the tavern and go down the trail in that direction
right after the messenger brought the news of the Cessions Act,”
Jackson informed, his sense of duty overriding his disinclination to
say anything that might compromise Tonpit.
“Ah! Hester never quits the tavern unless it’s on important business.
But none of that gang would kill a messenger sent them by McGillivray.
It’s through him that Spanish gold comes to them. Do you know where
Hester went?”
Jackson was deeply embarrassed and felt himself slipping into deep
water.
“I don’t know, but I believe he visited John Tonpit. He was afoot and
didn’t plan to go far. A short time afterward I saw him coming up the
trail. I didn’t see him go to or come from Tonpit’s house.”
“My boy, why not tell it all?” gravely encouraged Sevier.
Jackson made his decision under the compelling gaze of the steady blue
eyes and briefly related his meeting Miss Elsie and his knowledge that
her father was closeted with a visitor.
“That would explain much!” rapped out Sevier. “McGillivray sent a
written message to Major Tonpit. The bearer managed to get it to the
tavern. Polcher forwarded it to Tonpit by Hester. If the Creek had
taken it direct to the major, he probably would now be alive. But the
system is to send all messages to the tavern, where they are relayed
without exciting suspicion. That Polcher is a deep one. He’s a natural
conspirator. He loves underhanded methods. He must be an able man to
hide his real self in the rôle of a tavern-keeper.
“Tonpit couldn’t do that. He’s insanely ambitious. He must always have
a dignified part to play. Useful at a certain point when his dignity
fits in, such as influencing some of our settlers to follow his lead,
but incapable of continual plotting. He’s just a fool figurehead. Yes,
I’m convinced Polcher is the more dangerous man of the two.”
Jackson hesitated and twisted nervously. His sympathies were entirely
with the settlement. Although he had known Sevier for a few hours only,
he was eager to serve him. Finally he blurted out:
“I expect to see Miss Elsie tonight. Naturally I don’t care to set her
father against me, but, if I learn anything that’s all right for me to
repeat, I’ll tell you.”
Leaning forward, Sevier swept his flaming gaze up and down the ranger’s
trim form in mingled anger and scorn.
“Young man,” he softly said, “you’re either an American or just a
two-legged critter. Can’t you see the time has come when it must be
decided once for all whether an English or a Spanish-speaking race is
to rule this country? What are your personal affairs compared with the
destiny of a world? As an American you’ll do nothing dishonourable. I
don’t expect you to wheedle secrets from Elsie, whom I’ve known and
loved dearly and who is as good an American as I am. But there’s no
reason why you shouldn’t go to John Tonpit and put the question to him
frankly: did he or did he not confer with Lon Hester this morning?”
“That means I lose the girl,” Jackson sadly reminded.
“Not if she is the girl I’ve always believed her to be. I tell you
she’s an American girl. She may not call it that, but she is. She would
despise you if you dodged your duty to secure her love. Remember,
you’ll get nothing worth while in this life except what you pay for by
work and suffering. God knows we who have won the Watauga and the
Kentucky lands have paid the full price. Tell the girl frankly you must
know more about her father’s doings from the lips of her father.”
“He’d simply rage and probably threaten to shoot me.”
“I need scarcely remind you that threats won’t scare a man who’s just
from the Shawnee country,” said Sevier with a smile.
“—— it! I’ll lose my chances of seeing the girl without learning
anything that would help you.”
“Tonpit will rage and bluster, and he’ll threaten and forbid your
seeing Elsie. But he won’t lie about Hester; there’s where he is weak
as a plotter. If he saw him, he’ll fume and demand what business it is
of yours. Then tell him you propose to marry his daughter. She’s of
age. If she loves you and is worth the winning, you’ll lose nothing.
The other way—trying to remain neutral—leads to dishonour and the
girl’s contempt. When do you see her?”
“Tonight—about ten o’clock.”
“I will be here waiting for you. I understand your feelings. It’s
natural you should feel a bit selfish. Love-making wouldn’t be worth
the experience if lovers weren’t selfish. But Miss Elsie would scorn a
man who slighted his duty. Our country comes first. If I can find out
what Tonpit intends to do, if only a hint of his next move, I can make
a close guess about what McGillivray wrote him. I know the Creek Nation
has been ready to strike for months and has been held back until the
Cherokees could be won over. Now that we’re ceded to the Union and
believed to be unprotected, the Cherokees favour the Creek alliance.
“Old Tassel is cunning beyond the average. He wants peace, but he’ll
fight to get back the French Broad lands. Tall Runner’s talk was merely
to show me that the Cherokees know our condition, a strong hint for us
to vacate the French Broad lands. If we’d withdraw from the Broad and
the Holston, Old Tassel would strongly oppose any alliance with the
Creeks. As it now stands, we’re facing the power of Spain, the enmity
of the Creeks and a very probable alliance between the Creeks and the
Cherokees, with the Seminoles thrown in for good measure. By heavens!
It’s high time we all began to be good Americans!”
“God knows I’m an American!” cried Jackson, catching the other’s
fervour. “I was training to be one when I first risked my hair among
the Shawnees and Wyandots. Yes, Sevier, I’ll give my all to block
Spain.”
“Good boy!” cried Sevier, and their hands met with a smack. “Now we’ll
go and eat.”
“Stetson asked me to come there. He’s offered to let me have a horse.”
“Stetson is of the salt of the earth, and Mrs. Stetson has a knack of
frying chicken that even makes my Kate jealous.”
The Virginian had no set purpose as, after the midday meal, he wandered
to the outskirts of the settlement. He wished to be alone with his
jumble of new thoughts. He had meant every word of his earnest
declaration to Sevier, but there still lingered in the back of his mind
the question, how much of his solemn statements had smacked of the
rhetorical, and how much was based on genuine, lofty sentiments? Sevier
was sure to set a listener’s pulses to dancing. He developed the full
strength of a man’s honesty. He had played Jackson up to himself as
being a hundred per cent. patriot.
Now, alone and with leisure to think it all over, Jackson feared he
might be only ninety-eight per cent. patriot and two per cent. selfish
lover. Yet he considered himself a good American. Hadn’t he fought for
the colonies? Now that only white wampum hung between America and the
mother-country, hadn’t he earned the right to order his life along the
lines of love, to cater to the two per cent. of his make-up and create
a home in the land he had helped to secure for Anglo-Saxons? Even
Sevier had said love was legitimately selfish to a certain degree. But
who was to determine the degree?
Chucky Jack at the age of seventeen years had married his Bonnie Kate.
He had had his love and could better afford to give more of his time
and strength to building up the new republic than a man who had fought
for years with no opportunity for wooing a maid. And were not there
many others, as fortunate as Chucky Jack, who could carry on the work?
“Wrong, wrong! All wrong!” groaned Jackson as he entered a little glade
and threw himself on the ground. “Jack Sevier would never have been
turned aside from his good work. Married or single, successfully wooing
or rejected, nothing could come between him and what he believed to be
his duty. He has vision. He sees things far ahead. He looks down the
years. He’s willing to sacrifice everything for results that can’t be
recognized until long after he’s dead.
“——! Why quibble with myself? He’s a bigger man than I can ever be.
Even now it isn’t my Americanism that stirs me so much as it is love
for Elsie. Lord, if only loving Elsie constituted Americanism, I’d be
the first patriot in all the land. Yet one can imitate Sevier. Maybe
the unselfishness will come later.”
Possibly Jackson underrated his nationalism. Certainly he had done all
that a man could during the years of incessant warfare. Undoubtedly he
averaged high above the status of many citizens. A proof of this was
his humble realization that Washington and others who carried the torch
of freedom were far above him in spiritual ideals. They were exalted to
the stars, while he groped along the ground. But, so long as he knew
this, there was every hope for his climbing high among the peaks of
democracy.
Of course the country was in rather a chaotic state, notwithstanding
the mighty labours of the giants. Congress was powerless to function in
important matters unless nine States gave consent. Sovereignty was
claimed by every State. While this condition existed, it is not to be
wondered that a simple ranger should find it difficult to comprehend
the exact essence of Americanism. The Articles of Confederation could
not be changed without the consent of every State. In short, Congress
could recommend but not enforce. It could borrow money but had no
authority to pay it back.
It could coin money but had no authority to purchase bullion. It could
make war and could not raise a soldier. With the States thus jealously
retaining the power of initiative, it was logical that a man should
identify himself by proclaiming his State citizenship. To merely say “I
am an American” was to speak anonymously.
But as Jackson mulled it over with chastened mind the obscure places in
his soul caught vagrant rays of light, and he marvelled at the birth of
new comprehensions. At first they were nebulous and vague in details.
As he concentrated, they took on substance until his soul-gaze swept
over a mighty panorama, as if a stupendous flash of divine fire were
lighting the future and revealing what might be if the dreams of the
dreamers came true.
“Just one State!” he whispered, closing his eyes to retain the picture.
“By heavens, that’s it! Washington has seen it! Sevier sees it! No, no!
It can’t be all that!”
This last, as the picture persisted in widening, sweeping over unknown
rivers, leaping towering mountain ranges not yet seen by white men, and
promised to include all between the rising and setting suns.
“A man would get drunk thinking on it,” he muttered, rubbing his eyes
as if wakening from deep sleep.
“Been takin’ a snooze?” greeted a voice.
Jackson glanced up and beheld Old Thatch, owlishly contemplating him
and weaving slightly from side to side in a manner that was reminiscent
of tavern whisky.
Jackson sat up and scowled blackly at the old man.
“You’re the fellow who objected to my kicking that cur this morning.
Clear out before I forget you’re a drunken old fool.”
Thatch smiled forgivingly and chuckled softly. His bleared eyes were
thoroughly amiable as he dropped to the ground and grunted in comfort
at feeling himself securely anchored.
“Lawd, but ye did sure give Lon his needin’s,” he mumbled. “Reckon
Polcher now wishes ye’d finished the job. Such doin’s! Such doin’s!”
Laying aside his animosity, Jackson surveyed him curiously.
“But Polcher and Hester are great friends,” he protested.
“Mebbe yas, mebbe no. He! He!” snickered Thatch, wagging his white head
knowingly. “Ye see, ye don’t know what I know.” And he rumbled with
laughter.
“Oh, I reckon I know all you know,” taunted Jackson.
“No, siree!” hotly denied Thatch. “Ye couldn’t. ’Cause why? ’Cause I
was the only one in the tap-room when they rowed it. I was sleepin’ in
the corner when their jawin’ woke me up. Lawdy, but there ain’t nothin’
but bloody belts atween them two!”
“Oh, they’re always quarrelling,” said Jackson with a fine show of
indifference. “What else can one expect from a drunken bully and a
low-down tavern-keeper.”
“Sonny, ye spoke the truth in a fashion. That Polcher treated me like
dirt, yes, siree! Like common dirt! An’ all I asked for was a gallon.
Yes, siree! Ye’ve hit the bull’s-eye in the centre. He is low-down. I’m
Maryland stock. He ain’t nothin’ but a onery North Car’lina sand-hiller
of a quarter-breed. He didn’t even dast to cross the mountings till
better men had gone ahead an’ made a clearin’.”
Then with ludicrous solemnity:
“But ye’re wrong ’bout their always jawin’. They never struck fire till
today. They had a clash this mornin’ afore ye come, Polcher ’lowin’
that Lon was too free-spoken, but it wa’n’t much. But what I seen just
now had murder writ all over it. They was in Polcher’s little room, an’
the coloured boy was asleep ahind the bar. Lawdy, but I could tell
things if I wanted to!” And the old reprobate hugged his knees and
enjoyed his own confidences.
“Bah! Hester is always trying to stir up a fight only to find he hasn’t
enough guts to go through with it,” sneered Jackson, yawning
elaborately and making to rise.
“Don’t go!” begged Thatch. “I’m hankerin’ for comp’ny. It wa’n’t Hester
what started the trouble this time. It was Polcher. I was asleep at the
first of it, but I reckon’ I didn’t miss much. An’ ye can lay to it, it
was somethin’ of a eye-opener to me! Never’n my life seen Polcher like
that afore. Nothin’ of the tavern-keeper ’bout him. No, siree! When
they come through the door of his room, he was jest out’n-out ugly. He
was askin’ Hester to tell what come of some job he’d sent him out on,
an’ Hester opined the major wouldn’t thank him for peddlin’ his ’fairs
round tap-rooms.
“Whewee! Jest a streak of lightnin’, an’ Polcher had him by the throat
an’ a knife at his weazen! He! He! Lonny knows now how I felt when he
was chuckin’ me this mornin’. Ye never see a cock-o’-the-walk eat dirt
an’ crawl like he did. Polcher made him say he was jest a yaller dawg.
Made him swear he’d know his master another time. Then he took off his
hat an’ slapped his face with it till the feather got busted. An’,
although Lon’s throat was free of Polcher’s hand when his face was
bein’ slapped, he stood mighty still an’ lam’-like an’ took it.”
“And Hester told what he was asked? Tut, tut! I don’t believe it,”
scoffed Jackson.
“Sonny, I’m older then them mountings, but I ain’t no liar. No, siree!
They don’t breed no liars in ol’ Maryland. I was wide awake an’ seen it
an’ heard it jest as I’ve told. Lon knuckled under an’ said he’d took
the word to the major.”
“Erhuh? What next?”
“Wal, that was the p’int that Polcher seen me in the corner an’ quit
Lon to drag me to the middle of the floor, an’ it was the time I ’lowed
it was best for me to act sleepy. Lon went back with him to the small
room, an’ it was when they come out that I asked for a gallon,
promisin’ to pay, an’ that Polcher treated me so p’izen mean.”
A piercing whistle penetrated the glade with the incisiveness of a
war-arrow. Jackson swung about to locate the source. The effect on
Thatch was quite remarkable. For one thing the whistle seemed to drive
the whisky fumes from his brain and leave him sobered and horribly
frightened. Scarcely able to speak, he dragged himself to Jackson and
huskily whispered:
“Go, go! Keep shet on what I’ve said. It’s Polcher’s whistle. He’s
lookin’ for me. If he sees me with ye, he’ll opine I’ve been blabbin’.
He’ll cut my throat, jest as sure as he promised to cut Hester’s. Oh,
Gawd! He’s comin’!”
Jackson took him by the shoulder and shook him violently and murmured:
“Stop it, you fool. Pretend to be asleep. Polcher won’t see me.” And,
picking up his rifle, he glided into the bushes.
The whistle sounded again, shrilling on the ear most unpleasantly.
Jackson manœuvred with the stealth he had acquired in stalking the
Shawnees and soon located the tavern-keeper. From behind a tree he saw
Polcher, still wearing his soiled apron, slowly advancing toward him,
his eyes shifting from side to side and with nothing of a landlord’s
urbanity showing in his face. Jackson remained motionless, determined
if discovered to see that Polcher did not find the old man. Polcher
advanced several feet, then pursed his lips and repeated his signal.
Thatch’s voice querulously called out:
“What’n sin ye want now? Can’t a man git a little sleep?”
Turning aside, Polcher strode through the undergrowth and into the
glade. Jackson slipped along after him until he saw him stop and stand
before Thatch.
“What are you doing here?” gently asked Polcher, studying the old man
keenly.
“Tryin’ to forgit ye wouldn’t let me have a leetle rye,” sullenly
answered Thatch.
“The stranger, the one called Jackson, walked this way. Have you seen
him?”
Old Thatch stupidly blinked his eyes and shook his head.
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. Want me to find him?”
“No. Tell me what you thought of Hester’s talk back in the tavern.”
This was put in an ingratiating voice, but Jackson noted the hand under
the apron was clasping the hilt of a knife, and he insured Thatch
against an impolitic answer by drawing a bead on the boniface.
But Thatch, sober, possessed an animal’s instinct and smelled the trap.
“That Lon Hester’s a derned fool. Wish some one would comb him,” he
growled. “See how he choked me this mornin’? By Gawdfrey! Take it a few
years back an’ he wouldn’t be wearin’ no rooster’s feathers round this
yere settlement. Almost wish we’d let the stranger muss him up. Reckon
the new feller could do it, at that.”
“I mean, about what he said to me,” quietly corrected Polcher, drawing
a step nearer, both hands under his apron now.
“Lawd, he didn’t go for to give ye any lip, did he?” cried Thatch. “If
he did, ye was a fool to take it. Lem’me tell ye something Polcher,
that mebbe ye don’t know. Lon Hester’s fightin’ nerve is mighty poor
quality. He’s low-down. If ever he gives ye any lip, jest ye comb him.
Why, if I was a bit younger, I’d mount him in a second. Makes me feel
wolfish round the head an’ shoulders to see that feller carry on so an’
make his betters step aside. Now, ’cause ye keep a tavern, he ’lows he
can bully ye. But if ye’ll jest swing a bottle ag’in his chuckle-head
he’ll be as meek as a rabbit.”
He ran out of breath and paused. Polcher frowned slightly, withdrew one
hand and rubbed his chin doubtfully. Jackson hugely admired the old
man’s dissimulation and lowered his rifle.
“I thought you heard him giving me some lip when you woke up,” mused
Polcher. “I intended to ask you about it, but you was gone before I
remembered. I want you to promise me you’ll say nothing about it. If
the other fellows knew he’d made cheap talk to me, it might set them
all doing the same thing. And I have it hard enough as it is.”
Old Thatch avoided this trap also and replied:
“But I never heard nothin’. But I do still opine ye didn’t treat me
very friendly when I only asked for a gallon. I know where a Injun has
some furs hid, an’ I’d have fetched ’em to ye tonight. Ye might ’a’
took that chance on a old customer.”
Polcher laughed with his lips, making no sound, and slowly withdrew his
right hand from the apron and folded his arms.
“See here, Thatch,” he softly began, “that gallon is yours and several
more if you fetch me the furs—but leave the Injun.”
“Leave the Injun?”
“Exactly. Leave him so he’ll stay just where you leave him.”
“Ye mean for me to kill him?” hoarsely asked Thatch.
“Well, I’m quarter-blood, but I don’t like Injuns,” murmured Polcher.
“But that would bring a war-party ag’in us,” the old man protested.
“What’s that to you, you old coward? You wouldn’t have to do any
fighting. You’re afraid,” growled Polcher.
“’Fraid of a Injun! Huh! Like ——!” wrathfully retorted Thatch.
“Now listen to me. If you blab a word, you’ll never blab another. I’ve
changed my mind about the furs. I don’t want them. Bring a scalp and
get your jug.”
“I ain’t got a tender stomach when it comes to Injuns. But this cuss is
a friendly one. Lives near here. It would be like killin’ a neighbour.
I—I can’t do it,” cried Thatch, his old face now running sweat.
“Then I’ve made a mistake and talked to the wrong man. It’s your hair
or the Injun’s before midnight.”
“It means war on the Watauga cabins,” whined Thatch.
“That’s nothing to you. A single word of this to any one and I’ll first
prove you’re a drunken old liar, and then I’ll cut your throat. Now,
I’m going back and fill that jug.”
With this gruesome warning Polcher made for the settlement. Jackson
kept concealed, curious to see what Thatch would do. He knew the old
man would have no great compunctions about killing an Indian. It was
the after-effects he dreaded, the prospects of his white hair flying
from a Cherokee belt.
Polcher’s purpose was clear; he wished to precipitate trouble between
the Cherokees and the Watauga men. A mighty danger hung over the
settlements; it would only require a Cherokee slain by a white man to
bring the danger crashing down. Once committed to a campaign of
vengeance, the Cherokee Nation would gladly accept the war-belt offered
by McGillivray and his Creeks, and Charles III, of Spain, would decide
he held winning cards.
Thatch remained motionless until Polcher was out of sight and hearing;
then with a muttered curse he picked up his rifle and shuffled toward
the ancient Indian trail which led to the south. Jackson followed to
prevent the murder. The prospective victim must live near by, according
to Thatch’s words. He would be one of Old Tassel’s warriors, friendly
to the whites and willing to dwell on the edge of their civilization.
Mumbling under his breath, Thatch followed the trail only a short
distance before leaving it for the forest. Jackson was now at his
heels, wondering if he were fully decided to commit the crime.
The old man stopped close to the trail and sat down on a log and rested
his rifle on some dead brush and stared intently at his feet. Jackson
watched his face and saw his great weakness gradually conquer. Thatch
was picturing the endless procession of jugs one scalp would buy. By
degrees his aged eyes grew bright with resolution, and the lips under
the beard ceased trembling.
“What’s a Injun more or less?” he grunted, stooping for his rifle and
slipping and plunging both arms deep into the brush.
He began mouthing profanity but suddenly desisted and stared as if
death-struck. Jackson was greatly puzzled at this extraordinary
behaviour. From a decision to do murder he had inexplicably dropped
into the depths of terror. The watery eyes were round and fixed; the
arms, still buried nearly to the shoulders, were rigid and straining.
Then, very slowly, the arms were withdrawn, while the eyes, as if
pulled by a magnet, slowly turned downward.
Jackson nearly betrayed himself when three hands instead of only two
emerged from the brush.
“He’s stumbled on to the dead Creek—McGillivray’s messenger!” gasped
Jackson under his breath.
Incredulously the old man glared at the dead hand his living hands had
found under the brush. For nearly a minute he remained with his gaze
fixed; then a cunning expression crept over his base face, and he
turned his head in all directions to make sure he was unobserved.
Satisfied he was alone with the dead brave, he grunted and growled like
an animal worrying its prey and drew his knife and reaching deep into
the brush, worked with feverish haste.
It lacked an hour of ten o’clock when Jackson finished trailing Thatch
to his lonely cabin. After completing his horrid business, Thatch had
proceeded to an isolated Indian hut and hung about near the clearing
waiting for an opportunity to steal the furs. Polcher had told him the
furs were not necessary, but possibly the old man planned to palm off
the scalp as having belonged to the owner of the pelts and thus doubly
insure his supply of strong drink. But the Indian owner had remained
near his cabin door, and as the shadows gathered the old man sought his
cabin.
Jackson had planned to follow Thatch until he went for his whisky, but
as time pressed he abandoned his purpose and hurried back to find
Sevier. He was much chagrined to find no candle burning in the
court-house. If he was to keep his appointment with Elsie, he could not
waste any time looking for his friend. He hesitated for a moment, then
set off for the Tonpit cabin.
He stood at the edge of the clearing just as the moon climbed above the
forest crown. The cabin was dark, and a hush hung over the place. He
proceeded to the arbour and softly called her name. Even as he paused
for her to answer, he was convinced she would not come. Not only did
the clearing and the cabin exhale the atmosphere of something
abandoned, but the queer fancy obsessed him that life had never dwelt
there; that his meeting with the girl in the morning hours was a dream.
He had promised her he would not seek her at the house, and he had
assured Sevier he would seek her father there. The silence was
oppressive and grew upon him and his first feeling, which was of
sadness, gave place for alarm.
Groping his way to the log, he brushed it with his fingers and was
rewarded by finding a scrap of paper. This should have brought him
happiness and should have dispelled his morbid imaginings, for it
proved she had been there a short time since and, therefore, must even
now be in the cabin. The effect on his melancholy was quite the
contrary; it savoured more of some memento of old, dead days, like the
finding of a keepsake in the débris of ancient things.
“Idiot!” he snarled at himself. “One would think I was bewitched. Elsie
has been here and left a word for me. Now to see what she has to say.”
He hastened out into the thin moonlight and essayed to read the paper
but was baffled. It was maddening to know he must wait until he reached
a cabin light before he could know her message. It was a small,
irregular piece of paper, suggesting it had been torn hurriedly from a
larger piece. This in itself, betokening great haste or need of
secrecy, was disquieting. He turned, eager to reach a light, then
remembered his word to Sevier. Thrusting the paper into his
hunting-shirt, he strode through the clumps of shrubbery and made for
the cabin.
Elsie had said her father retired to his room at this hour but not to
sleep. He walked the floor much of the night, but no light shone in the
cabin. To make sure, Jackson made a circuit of the house before
approaching the door. Then as he raised his hand to rap his first
premonition of emptiness came back to him. He pounded lustily and
gained no heed. The cabin was dead. He seized the latch-string only to
drop it. He knew he could gain an entrance easily. Tonpit would not
bother to lock the house.
If Sevier were correct in his surmises, the thieves in the settlement
would respect the place as belonging to a friend of McGillivray. Honest
men would not intrude. But what would it profit for him to enter? He
had no light, and he doubted if a crumb of fire would be burning in the
fireplace now it was July. His fumbling hands would find many reminders
of the girl, and he needed no more than his heart now held.
Turning away, he regained the trail and hastened back to the
settlement. As he approached each cabin, he pulled forth the paper,
hoping to find a lighted window outside of which he could pause and
read his message. The settlers, however, retired early in the Watauga
region, and each cabin was a squat, dark mass. But ahead there did
gleam a light, a tiny beacon, and he knew Sevier was awaiting his
return to the court-house.
He ran swiftly and noiselessly and without pausing to announce himself
pushed open the door and jumped across the threshold. Sevier was seated
at the table, his right elbow resting on it, his hand gripping a long
pistol, the muzzle of which covered the door.
“You, Jackson!” he softly exclaimed, dropping the pistol. “You come as
if the devil was after you.”
“There’s no one in the Tonpit house. She left a message for me, and I
haven’t had a chance to read it,” panted Jackson, snatching up a candle
and holding it close to the paper. Sevier watched his face closely and
saw the dark features change from a frown of perplexity to a scowl of
understanding.
“Read!” choked Jackson, restoring the candle to the table and dropping
the note.
Sevier bowed over it and read—
Little Talassee.
“——!” gasped Jackson, wiping his wet face. “Little Talassee! Where
McGillivray, Emperor of the Creeks, lives!”
The writing was a mere scrawl, as if the girl had but a moment.
“It was a surprise to her,” murmured Sevier. “She wasn’t prepared for
it. They started immediately after her father gave the word. Of course
he went with her. He isn’t entirely an idiot.”
“But why? Why?” was Jackson’s agonized query.
Sevier rose and paced to the window and back, his brows wrinkled in
perplexity. But when he halted at the table again, the furrows on his
forehead were ironed out. Placing a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, he said:
“I think I have it. The Creek messenger brought a talk for Tonpit, a
writing from McGillivray. Both McGillivray and Tonpit knew what the
Legislature intended to do. Tonpit was here to be on the ground. His
reward was to be great if he influenced the bulk of the settlers to
submit peacefully to Spain’s rule. But McGillivray, in putting
everything at stake, feared Tonpit would not stand firm. So, I believe,
his message was to demand a hostage, a guarantee that Tonpit would see
the matter through to the end. He demanded the girl as the hostage. Her
father consented.”
“Good God! Impossible! His own daughter!” choked Jackson.
“Wait a bit. Alexander McGillivray is very much the gentleman. In case
of an Indian war, the girl is safer with him than she is in Jonesboro.
He won’t harm her. She remains his guest while her father carries out
his end of the bargain. The messenger sent the writing to Tonpit
through one of the tavern crowd—”
“Hester!”
“But, instead of turning and making tracks for home once the message
was delivered, the Creek waited. He came stealthily and even avoided
the Cherokee towns. Why should he invite discovery by hanging around on
the edge of Jonesboro? Because he was waiting to guide Tonpit and the
girl back to the Coosa River. I’ve been down and looked the ground
over. He was killed while sitting in a clump of bushes. His slayer’s
trail entered the woods from this settlement and then returned here. I
followed it both ways until it was lost in the beaten path. Hubbard did
it, all right.”
Jackson then rapidly told of his meeting with Thatch, the quarrel
between Hester and Polcher and the latter’s bargain for a Cherokee
scalp and Thatch’s substitution of the Creek’s hair.
Sevier heard him through in silence until he described the taking of
the scalp. Then the borderer exclaimed aloud and cried—
“That’s more important than the disappearance of the girl!”
“John Sevier—”
“No, no. Calm yourself! Miss Elsie will be safe in McGillivray’s town.
But, if it’s known a peaceful Cherokee has been murdered, we’ll have
Old Tassel’s three thousand savages joining with Watts without waiting
for any help from the Creeks. That will be the chance McGillivray has
been waiting for—and the Lord help the Watauga, the Holston and the
French Broad and poor John Robertson down on the Cumberland!”
“But no Cherokee will be missing, let alone be dead. It’s a Creek that
furnishes the scalp,” reminded Jackson.
“And we can’t afford to have the Creek’s murder known any better than
we could a Cherokee’s,” cried Sevier. “McGillivray would never forgive
the slaying of his messenger. The office is almost sacred. —— Hubbard
for getting us into such a mess! Oh, why didn’t I examine the
brush-pile when down there! I found it easy enough but thought it could
wait till I had more time. Time? Every second fights against us!”
“If Major Hubbard hadn’t killed the Creek, then Thatch would have wiped
out a Cherokee. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.”
“Not so. You would have stopped Thatch. But we’re wasting time. Make
for the tavern. If Thatch isn’t in Polcher’s room in the back end
toward the garden, he hasn’t arrived. You must hold him up and take the
scalp from him.”
“And you?”
“I’m off to do what I should have done before—bury the Creek where none
will find him. Report to me here. Remember what is at stake!”
“I’m an American,” growled Jackson, snatching up his rifle and gliding
from the room.
The tap-room of the tavern contained half a dozen patrons, who sat
along the walls in silence, as if waiting. A mulatto boy presided over
the bar. There were none of the usual loungers outside the door, and
the door was closed. By these signs Jackson knew Polcher had dismissed
all but a trusty few so as to leave a clear path for Old Thatch.
Pausing only long enough to make sure Hester was not in the tap-room,
the ranger skirted the zone of light and gained the garden at the rear.
There was a light in the room, but Jackson could not make out any
occupants. From his position a man on either side of the room would be
out of range. To make sure Thatch was not already there, he dropped
behind some currant bushes and commenced crawling to one side. His
manœuvre was halted by the sudden appearance of Polcher’s figure
blocking the window.
Then came the devilish whistle that carried the edge of a lance, and
Jackson was startled and chagrined to hear a feeble reply back of him.
Steps shuffled nearer, and the young Virginian knew he had lost his
chance of intercepting Thatch. However, the game was not lost. The old
man would deliver his ghastly trophy, and the next play would be to
vault through the window and take it away from the tavern-keeper.
“Can’t see a derned thing facin’ the light,” croaked the complaining
voice of Thatch.
“_Ssst!_ You fool!” hissed Polcher, placing the candle on the floor so
that it fed up against his ferocious face but no longer blinded the
gaze of his tool. “Come close. I’ve cleared the babblers from the
tap-room, but it’s best even they should not see you. I have the jug
here, filled. Have you the price?”
“I’ve fetched the price,” shivered Thatch, and he passed within three
feet of Jackson in making for the window.
“Good! Good!” softly applauded Polcher. “I knew you had the right stuff
in you.”
“I—I couldn’t git no furs!” huskily confessed Thatch.
“You brought the other?” anxiously demanded Polcher.
“It’s here in my shirt.”
“Then —— the furs and hand over.”
“Here she be, but I’m mighty onnerved. Kindly pass out the jug afore I
drop. I feel like the devil’s been taggin’ every one of my steps. Ugh!”
“Just a minute,” mumbled Polcher, ducking from Jackson’s view in
bending close to the light.
“I tell ye I need some licker now,” insisted Thatch. “I feel dretful
sick. I can see all sorts of critters right beside me.”
“Hush, you fool!” gritted Polcher, raising his head. “Here, I’ll hold
it. Drink!” There came a protracted gurgling, followed by a deep sigh
of content.
“Reckon now I’m game to face all the devils atween the Watauga an’ the
Cumberland,” declared Thatch. “Gim’me my jug.”
“Not so fast,” muttered Polcher. “Stand close to the window. I’m going
to lift the light long enough to see you ain’t covered with blood. That
would give the whole game away.”
“There ain’t a speck on me,” proudly assured Thatch, leaning against
the sill.
Polcher lifted the candle for a moment and briefly examined the head
and shoulders of the old man, then dropped to the floor again.
“Ye’re a —— of a long time payin’ over that jug,” grumbled Thatch. “I
want to be gittin’ back to my cabin. Goin’ to make a night of it.
Reg’lar old blue devil comes out an’ grins at me—lives in the
fireplace. Keeps yappin’ for me to make the fire hotter’n hotter. That
is, he does when I have ’nough whisky.”
Polcher reappeared above the sill and seized Thatch by the arm and
hoarsely accused:
“What the devil does this mean? This ain’t a prime, fresh scalp. It’s
more’n a dozen hours old.”
“What ye tryin’ to make out now, Polcher,” choked Thatch, striving in
vain to keep his terror from showing.
Polcher maintained his grip on the old man’s arm while he ducked his
head for another study of the scalp. Then with a smothered oath he
hissed—
“Creek hair! You—”
“Don’t! Don’t!” pleaded Thatch, his voice squealing. And he sought to
tear his arm loose.
Polcher held him firmly and stared with lack-luster eyes into the
frightened face for nearly a minute. His gaze seemed to exert a
hypnotic influence on the wretch, for the struggling ceased, and the
pleading stopped.
“Now tell me where you got a Creek scalp,” gently commanded Polcher.
Mumblingly and often inaudible to the eavesdropper behind the currant
bushes, Thatch blurted out his story of having found a warrior buried
under some brush. The man had been dead only a few hours, and he
supposed it was a Cherokee.
“It was atween the three black oaks an’ a clump of poplars,” he
explained. “An’ I couldn’t see why his sculp wasn’t jest as good as if
I’d done for him.”
“It’s just as good,” slowly replied Polcher. “It’s much better. And the
Watauga will pay the price when McGillivray hears of it. His messenger
killed by the settlers! By the Almighty, but won’t he rage! And I know
who killed him and scalped him, and we’ll prove it.”
“Polcher! Ye don’t go for to throw me, do ye?” whispered Thatch.
Polcher laughed.
“None of my friends did this.”
Thatch began to understand and faltered.
“Chucky Jack?”
“Think I’m a fool? No one so high as that.”
“Promise me it ain’t me,” groaned Thatch, his fears returning.
“No one so low as you, old friend.”
“—— an’ brimstone! Spit it out, Polcher. Ye make me think of that big
blue devil in my fireplace! What’s the idee?”
“I have six witnesses in the tap-room who’ll swear that from a distance
they saw you try to stop the murderer from killing the Creek; that,
after he had killed and scalped his victim, he chased you into the
woods to prevent you from blabbing.”
“Good!” ejaculated Thatch, his form straightening.
“They’ll swear that they came and told me and that we were about to go
out and search for you and the murderer, when you came running here,
chased by the scoundrel.”
“Hold on!” spluttered Thatch. “What’s that ’bout him tryin’ to ketch
me? Of course he didn’t ketch me, did he?”
“Yes!” softly cried Polcher, darting his body half out the window to
secure room for knife-play.
It was over before Jackson dreamed of what the finale was to be. With a
low groan the old man fell to the ground, and the tavern-keeper’s
figure was drawn inside the window like some monstrous spider retiring
to its lair.
With a wild shout of rage Jackson leaped to his feet and discharged his
rifle into the room a fraction of a second after Polcher had dropped
below the sill. The report had hardly jarred the night calm before the
landlord was raising his head to glimpse the ranger’s distorted visage
almost at the window. Darting to the door opening into the tap-room,
Polcher threw it back and screamed:
“Help! Help! Surround the building! Jackson, the ranger, just killed
Old Thatch in the garden! Jackson killed an Indian. Thatch saw him and
he followed the old man here to stop his telling me! Back of the
building and head him off if he takes to the woods!”
Nonplussed, incapable of intelligent thinking for a moment, Jackson
stood with empty gun while Polcher shouted his terrible accusations.
Then came the rush of swift feet, and the young Virginian knew
Polcher’s creatures had been kept in waiting for just such work. He
knew Thatch would have been killed in any event and the alarm given
that Kirk Jackson had done for him.
Retreating from the garden, he worked his way toward the court-house,
only to observe lights springing up in the nearest cabins, the inmates
being alarmed by the rifle-shot and the loud cries of Polcher and his
men. Jackson dodged one of the tavern posse and escaped discovery by a
hair-breadth. The court-house was dark, Sevier had not returned. To
wait for him and withstand the temper of Polcher’s creatures was out of
the question. At the midday meal Stetson had repeated his offer of a
horse, urging him to select an animal from the log corral any time.
Five minutes after escaping the garden he was well down the trail back
of the court-house and leading a horse from the pen.
Another five minutes and Sevier came face to face with a group of
citizens in front of the court-house. Some of them carried torches.
Among them were several of Polcher’s men; some were honest men.
“What’s all this confusion about?” demanded Sevier. “One would think
there was an Indian raid on.”
“Yer friend, Kirk Jackson, has killed a friendly Injun!” roared a
tavern man.
“Prove that, and we shall have to hang Mr. Jackson,” Sevier promptly
replied. “But, if any one tries any promiscuous hanging, he’ll dangle
from an oak limb just as sure as I’m called Nolichucky Jack. Burn that
fact into your brains. We belong to no State now. Until we’ve arranged
some form of government, I’m the law. Let a hair of Jackson’s head be
harmed before his guilt is proven and I’ll hang the offender. And the
first man to tread air will be Polcher, the tavern-keeper. Now we’ll
hear the evidence.”
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