FOR WATAUGA AND AMERICA
While some of the men, notably those under the influence of Polcher,
pressed the search for Jackson, others heeded Sevier’s request and
repaired to the court-house to conduct an inquiry into the tragedy.
There was none so simple-minded as not to realize that the death of
either Creek or Cherokee might precipitate a bloody war. With Spain in
league with the Creek Nation, it was only the pacific tendency of Old
Tassel that had restrained the Cherokees under his immediate control.
There were other thousands of Cherokees who only waited for a strong
incentive to send them into line with the Creeks.
The five lower towns on the western frontier of the Cherokee country,
including Creeks, Shawnees and white renegades as well as the original
Cherokee founders, lusted and clamoured for battle. John Watts and
Dragging Canoe, their leaders, only waited to augment their numbers
before striking. To start the riot of bloodshed and burning cabins it
only required some isolated act such as the unprovoked slaying of an
Indian near a white settlement. For two years the situation had been
shaping up. If ever Spain was to establish an empire by force in
America, no fairer opportunity could exist than the present.
Of course there was Old Thatch’s death to be investigated, but aside
from his tavern cronies there were few to lament his passing. His
demise could be considered leisurely; it carried no train of red axes.
The murder of the Indian was epochal. The settlers assembled in the
court-house viewed the situation objectively. Whether the dead be Creek
or Cherokee, his people would seek reprisal. Sevier’s vision carried
him beyond the Watauga. He saw the destiny of the new world about to
unfold. The vast western country was unexplored except as
half-civilized forest-rangers penetrated depths they could not
comprehend.
The door to this unknown region was closed, and Sevier knew it must
soon open and reveal a home-maker’s paradise. Bold men in Kentucky had
glimpsed the marvellous possibilities. Now was the crisis; an Indian’s
death might be the hinge on which the door would swing to admit either
imperial Spain or democratic America. Could it be kept shut a bit
longer, until Chucky Jack had summoned the faithful, then let it open
as widely as it would and Spain face her answer.
“Where’s this man Jackson?” asked a settler.
“Probably dodging the mob. He’ll appear when he knows he can have a
fair hearing,” said Sevier. Then to a man near the door, “Stetson, go
and find Polcher. He doesn’t seem to be here.”
As the messenger departed, Sevier began scribbling on the back of his
petition. The men believed he was setting down the known facts of the
double killing. Had they glanced over his shoulder they would have read:
Isaac Shelby, Geo. Rogers Clark and Benj. Logan will raise 5,000 men
in Ky.
Arthur Campbell will be good for 3,000 more in southwest Va.
Robertson can surely bring 1,000 from the Cumberland.
Elijah Clarke can raise at least 5,000 in northern Georgia.
We are good for 3,000.
Tot. 17,000 rifles—if we have time.
He studied the list thoughtfully and nodded approval. Give him a few
inches of time time before the storm broke, and he would stake his soul
on the American manhood of the seventeen thousand riflemen he had
listed. If Spain and her tools could be held off for a few months, then
the Western door would swing back to allow men in buckskin to file
through and take possession. He drummed on the table idly, then tore
off a strip of paper containing his notes and fed it to a candle. With
the exception of George Rogers Clark, all the men on the list had
fought with him, some under his command.
“Didn’t know your friend was so keen set ag’in Injuns, Jack,” spoke up
a grey-bearded man an honest if simple fellow.
“It’s his fightin’ ag’in’ the Shawnees,” declared a tavern lounger.
“Kirk Jackson has killed too many Indians in open warfare to have to
slay them by murder,” growled Sevier. “We won’t convict till we’ve
heard the evidence. We haven’t any proof yet that an Indian has been
killed. After that’s shown it will be time enough to name the slayer.”
“Polcher’s got the proof. He’ll be here in a second,” cried a voice.
Sevier rose and strolled to the door, his manner calm but his nerves
inclined to jump. Through the doorway he had glimpsed the face of Major
Hubbard, and he feared lest the Indian-hater should enter and boldly
announce his bloody coup. Standing so as to block the gaze of those
behind him, he caught Hubbard by the shoulder and whispered:
“The devil’s to pay! Your one dead Indian may bring death to many women
and children. Let no one know you did it. You’d better go away until
it’s over. I’m hoping I can stave it off—that they won’t find the body.”
Hubbard hesitated, then the feeble wail of a child from some cabin
struck to his heart, and with a shudder he slipped back into the
darkness just in time to avoid being seen by a group of men carrying
torches. As the men drew up to the door, Sevier saw they had brought
the silent form of Thatch on a stretcher of rifles.
Sevier stepped aside and the men filed in and deposited the body on the
floor before the table and took their seats. Polcher remained standing
until Sevier returned to the table, when he approached and placed the
Creek scalp before Sevier. The borderer bowed abstractedly and waited
for the tavern-keeper to retire.
“We will now open the inquiry into the death of Amos Thatch,” announced
Sevier. “Polcher, what do you know about it?”
Polcher stood up and testified: “I was in my room, with a coloured boy
tending the bar. I was figuring up my accounts when I heard my name
spoken softly and looked up to see poor Thatch’s face at the window. He
seemed to be badly frightened. I thought it was nerves, the need of a
drink. I picked up a jug and gave him a drink. The liquor seemed to
straighten him out, and he told me he was trying to escape the man
called Kirk Jackson. He said he had come upon Jackson down the trail
and that Jackson was ripping the hair off an Indian he had just shot—”
“Did he say he saw him shoot him?” broke in Sevier.
“I don’t think so. He talked fast and was much frightened. I remember
he said the shot attracted his attention. He was lying down, had been
asleep. He got up and saw Jackson scalping the Indian. I take it for
granted he didn’t see the shot, although he must have been very close.
Of course his story was more or less broken up. I’m only giving the
substance of it. He said he cried out and asked Jackson why he killed
the Indian and risked bringing on a war. Jackson sprang to his feet and
snapped his rifle at him, forgetting he hadn’t reloaded it.
“Poor Thatch then ran for his life with Jackson after him. He knew
Jackson would catch him if he didn’t hide. He managed to dart into a
hollow tree. Knowing Jackson would kill him to prevent his being a
witness against him, the old man kept in hiding till long after dark.
If he could make my place without being seen, he knew I would protect
him. His talk was wild because of his fear. He insisted he was
followed, that Jackson was right behind him. He wanted to crawl through
the window. Poor Old Thatch! If I’d only let him in through the window!
But I thought it was all nonsense.
“He’d been drinking too much the last few days, and only this morning I
refused to let him have some whisky. I told him to pass round to the
tap-room door and I’d see that no one harmed him. He started to do so
when some one jumped him from behind the currant-bushes. The old man
must have lost his head, for instead of running up to the window he
stood in his tracks as if paralyzed. Then he yelled out, and I knew
he’d got it.
“I climbed through the window and Jackson saw me and fired. I called to
the men, and they came on the run. We got lights and found where
Jackson hid behind the bushes. The tracks of his Shawnee moccasins are
very plain. You can see them for yourself. It was at that spot we found
the scalp I’ve given you. I think that’s all.”
“Very connectedly told,” murmured Sevier, rapidly making some notes.
“Did you see Jackson to recognize him?”
“I did. After I leaped through the window he started toward me, then
heard the men coming and thought better of it. I saw his face plainly.”
“That would seem to prove the killing of Thatch,” mused Sevier, rising
and advancing with a candle to the body.
He held the candle close and superficially examined the location of the
wound and measured the cut in the soiled hunting-shirt. Returning to
the table he asked—
“Are there any witnesses to the killing of the Indian?”
One of the tavern characters stood up and awkwardly bobbed his head.
“Job Twill,” greeted Sevier. “Tell what you know.”
Twill began:
“Me’n two other fellers was down on the trail an’ seen this Jackson
crawlin’ toward the three black oaks. We watched, ’lowin’ he was goin’
to bag a deer. Then we see a Injun stick his head out of some bushes,
an’ this yere Jackson cuss fired. Almost the same time we seen poor
Thatch come through the bushes an’ go into the bushes after Jackson.
Afore we could git to thinkin’ straight, Old Thatch busted back into
sight, runnin’ his old legs off, with Jackson poundin’ after him.
That’s all we seen.”
“Who were the two men with you?”
“Lon Hester ’n Bert Price. They’re out huntin’ for the murderer now.”
“I see. You were in the tavern this morning when Jackson had trouble
with Hester?”
“I was there when he picked a row with Hester,” growled the witness.
“They laid aside their weapons?”
“Yes, ’cause Polcher wouldn’t have any killin’. Hester threw his knife
on the bar, an’ Jackson hung his ax an’ pistol on his rifle. That is,
he hung his belt holdin’ ’em on the rifle.”
“Can you describe the pistol?”
“Long one, with the bar’el all scarred up, like it had been banged
round a lot.”
“Good for you, Twill. You’ve got a sharp eye. What about the ax?”
“Ahem!” broke in Polcher, trying to catch the witness’ eye but unable
to do so because Twill stood in front of him. “I think—”
“I think you’ll be lying beside Mr. Thatch if you interrupt these
proceedings with another word!” roared Sevier, covering the
tavern-keeper with his pistol. Then to the startled witness, “Go on,
Twill.”
“Th’ ax wa’n’t a common trade ax. It was made for real work, extry
strong an’ the handle showed hard wear,” faltered the witness, feeling
Polcher’s gaze boring into the back of his head but not daring to look
back.
“Excellent!” heartily approved Sevier. “Give me a thousand men with
your eyes and memory and I’d ask help of neither State nor Congress.
But we must get along faster. Now describe the knife.”
“There wa’n’t no knife,” the witness promptly answered.
A faint growl of rage from Polcher and a wide smile from Sevier warned
the witness his patron was displeased with his evidence. Half turning
his head and entirely missing the cue Polcher’s savage gaze was seeking
to convey to him, he persisted:
“Don’t ye remember, Polcher, when he hung his belt on the rifle, it
held only a ax an’ pistol an’ that there wa’n’t no loop for a knife?
One of the boys spoke about it after he went out that it was queer he
didn’t carry no knife. An’ Price said he might ’a’ killed lots of
Injuns but without a knife he couldn’t ’a’ took any—”
Too late he saw the trap he had been led into, and with a terrified
stare at the ominous-eyed tavern-keeper he halted and bit his lips,
then glared helplessly at Sevier.
“Without a knife he couldn’t take any scalps,” completed Sevier. “In
spots, Twill, you’re an honest witness. You speak the truth when you
forget. Kirk Jackson carried no knife when he came to Jonesboro. What
is more, he always fought honourably and did not scalp. Polcher made a
mistake in thinking he recognized him. Amos Thatch was killed with a
knife, a broad-bladed knife, not a hunting-knife. Jackson never killed
him. Now, Twill. No, no; look at me. Now, sir, you dare tell Nolichucky
Jack Sevier that you and Hester and Price saw Jackson shoot an Indian?
Be careful. I’ve hung horse-thieves in Jonesboro. I’ll hang you for a
liar before morning if you don’t tell the truth.”
Twill turned a ghastly white and licked his lips frantically. In the
blazing eyes of Sevier he saw the noose if he were caught bearing false
witness. He knew Polcher’s cruel gaze was warning him his days were
numbered unless he persisted in his story. But Sevier had meted border
justice to several of Twill’s cronies.
“I—I may have been mistook,” he faltered, gulping out the words with
difficulty and knowing he must leave the Watauga country before morning
if he valued his life. “It was a right smart distance off. Mebbe it
wa’n’t Jackson. I’d—I’d been drinkin’ hard.”
“Maybe you didn’t see anything. Just dreamed it?” suggested Sevier.
With a low groan Twill made complete surrender before the compelling
gaze and desperately cried out:
“I reckon so. Jest dreamed it. An’ I want to git out of here.”
Sevier nodded toward the door. As Twill made for it, Polcher sprang to
his feet as if to follow him. Sevier raised the pistol and warned:
“Not another step, Polcher.” Then humorously, “I’ll have no tampering
with the witness.”
Polcher returned to his seat and quietly promised—
“The red war-club will be lifted up for this, Sevier.”
“_Hayi! Yu!_” sneered Sevier, using the introduction of the sacred
formula for going to war. “I know your heart well. You wait and long to
hear the red war-whoop, but your soul shall become blue. So shall it
be.” Then to the others, “It’s time now, my friends, to visit the spot
where this Indian is said to have been killed.”
“Said to have been killed?” choked Polcher. “And the poor devil’s scalp
is before you on that table.”
Sevier picked it up and examined it curiously and invited:
“Stetson, you know scalps and Indians. Come up here.”
The settler advanced and bowed his broad shoulders over the table and
held the scalp up to the candle and examined it closely. Then in
surprise:
“This ain’t no fresh scalp. It was took from a Injun who’d been dead
for hours. Huh! Looks like it was took off by a blind man. No
border-man would scalp like that. Besides, the Injun was so long dead
no blood come. What kind of a game is this, anyway?” And he turned and
glared angrily at the tavern-keeper.
“So much for Stetson. And he knows what he is talking about,” said
Sevier. “Now we’ll take torches and go down the trail to where the
Indian was killed. The three oaks make the spot easy to find.”
“I can lead you there in the dark,” Stetson assured.
“But we’ll carry lighted torches, and Polcher will go with us,” Sevier
significantly ruled.
And the mixed-blood knew the words contained a threat.
“I’ll be glad to go,” stoutly declared the tavern-keeper. “I want this
thing cleared up as much as any one does. All I know about it is what
I’ve told. Thatch’s story prepared me to see Jackson when the old man
was killed. Perhaps I made a mistake, but, if I did, it was an honest
one. The knife part doesn’t prove Jackson innocent, for he could have
picked up a knife anywhere.”
“True,” agreed Sevier softly, “but I’m surprised he should pick up a
butcher-knife. And Twill’s story—”
“I’m not responsible for that,” hotly broke in Polcher, ignoring the
reference to the mortal weapon. “He heard me tell the boys what I’d
been told and had seen. He up and told me his story. I supposed it was
the truth. It looks now as if he wanted to appear important.”
Nor did Polcher believe his scheme had failed. If Jackson escaped his
net, there still remained the big, vital objective—the precipitation of
war between the reds and whites. The plot to implicate Jackson had been
at the most a by-play to satisfy Polcher’s hate for Sevier. He would
have struck him by striking his friend. But, so far as the real purpose
was concerned, it mattered not whether Jackson or Thatch was believed
guilty of the killing.
All Polcher asked was for the news to spread that a Creek had been
murdered. He had originally planned to assassinate a Cherokee, but the
Creek fitted in just as pleasingly. Therefore it was with genuine
alacrity that he caught up a torch and took a place beside Sevier at
the end of the little procession.
Stetson took the lead. Polcher walked in silence beside the borderer
for a minute and then gravely asked—
“What’s to become of us, John, now that the mother State has cast us
off?”
“We’re not entirely orphaned,” Sevier retorted. “We can rap on the door
of the central Government, and, as a separate State, say, ‘Here is your
child.’”
“But will the Government take us in? Can it protect us?”
“If it can’t protect us, it doesn’t make any difference whether it
takes us in or doesn’t. We can keep on shifting for ourselves as we’ve
always done.”
“I sometimes think you misunderstand me and my motives,” Polcher
regretted.
“Never!” emphatically assured Sevier with a broad smile.
“All I want to do is my duty by the settlers on this side of the
mountains,” Polcher warmly declared.
“Our first duty is to see that the settlers in this valley and those on
the Holston and French Broad are not wiped out by that red ax you said
was coming.”
“I spoke foolishly,” sighed Polcher. “I only meant that the killing of
this Indian would make trouble. You and I are one in wanting to save
the settlements. Why not accept aid where we can find it?”
“From over the water? Already we’ve stood more from Spain than we ever
endured from the mother country. If we didn’t want a separate
existence, why did we go through a war that’s left us bankrupt?”
“We could accept help till we’re strong enough to strike out for
ourselves,” insisted Polcher.
“The man who’d sell us to Spain would next be selling us to the devil,”
Sevier sharply retorted. “As for strength, we’re strong enough now to
send a red ax to every Indian nation in the South—and another to
Charles III.”
Polcher knew this was said for rhetorical effect and did not represent
Sevier’s true belief. But he took the words seriously and argued:
“I can’t see that. Other men, bigger than me, can’t see it, either.”
“Meaning Tonpit.”
“You named him; not me. There are men over the mountains, who stand
very high, who believe it would be our salvation from the Western
Indians if we had Spain at our back.”
“Spain at our back today means Spain at our throats tomorrow.”
“Bosh! Then there are the Northern Indians. When you get a war-belt
from Cherokee and Creek, you’ll get others from the Ohio tribes. Just
now the friendship of Piomingo, the Chickasaw chief, for Robertson
holds that tribe back. But what if Robertson dies or Piomingo dies?
What will hold the tribe back then? And, as the Chickasaws go, so go
the Choctaws, seven thousand in round numbers.”
“We haven’t come to that trail yet.”
“But it’s only a step ahead. How can the Western settlements get
anywhere or do anything under the present Government? We’re shut off
from the seaboard. Spain controls every mile of the Mississippi. Our
tobacco rots on the ground. We’re hemmed in. If we accepted Spain’s
friendly offer, we could ship our tobacco down the Mississippi and sell
it in New Orleans for ten dollars a hundred. Today a man’s lucky to
sell any of his crop for two dollars a hundred. And so it is with
everything else. We’ve everything to win and nothing to lose.”
“Polcher, you’re a dangerous man, the most dangerous man on the border.
Your trade-talk will catch some settlers who are honest at heart but
who only think of selling their tobacco. You have other lines of talk
to win over the man who refuses to make a move that will divide or
weaken the thirteen States.
“Now listen; I know you. I see your hand in the death of Old Thatch. I
understand how gladly you’d hear that the Cherokees have gone to water
as a nation. I can picture your joy when you hear Creek and Cherokee
have taken the red path together. Now this will surely happen: I shall
kill you if I can prove you’re working to throw the Western settlements
into the lap of Spain. I know you’re doing it, and, when I can prove it
to the satisfaction of a dozen men like Stetson, you’ll swing.”
“You talk big about killing folks,” snarled Polcher. “Any more threats?”
“Only this: you spoke of Piomingo’s friendship for Jim Robertson. The
minute I hear Piomingo is dead I start out on your trail. And don’t
figure on your Cherokee blood providing you a hiding-place in that
nation. I’d dig you out even if you were hid in the white peace town of
Echota. I have spoken.”
“Here we are!” called out Stetson. “Light extry torches.”
This was speedily done, and, as the three black oaks and the clump of
poplars sprang into the light, the men took up their search for the
dead Indian. Polcher was most zealous in the task, and Sevier kept
close by him. But, although the men scattered and hunted carefully, and
although the glare of the torches attracted those men who had been
seeking Jackson, no trace of the murdered Creek could be found.
“It’s mighty queer,” mused Stetson, rubbing his head in perplexity. “If
the Injun was killed, he wasn’t et up or burned up. But where’s the
body?”
“If!” snarled Polcher in great disgust. “Didn’t you see his scalp?”
“I’ve seen lots of Injun hair,” Stetson quietly replied. “I’m beginning
to think that partic’lar hair is older’n even I thought it was. One
thing’s sartain: there ain’t no dead Injun in this neck of the woods.”
“Of course the murderer hid the body,” cried Polcher, now prepared to
play his trump card, and his gaze shifted for a second to the pile of
brush, under which, as Thatch had told him, the Indian was concealed.
“Not if he chased Thatch, as the old man claimed,” said one of the
searchers.
“He had plenty of time while Thatch was hiding in the hollow tree,”
Polcher returned. “Ah! I wonder if this hides anything!”
And he ran to the pile of brush and cast a triumphant glance at Sevier.
“Now perhaps it does,” agreed Sevier. “It’s so exposed one wouldn’t
think to look in it. The murderer probably thought of that.”
And he vied with Polcher in tearing the mound to pieces. They came to
the forest floor without finding any trace of a corpse.
Polcher bit his lips to hide his rage. He knew that some one had
forestalled him; he wondered if it could be Sevier. He began to feel
uneasy at Sevier’s way of always keeping at his side. Chucky Jack’s
threat to hang him if he caught him in overt treachery suddenly became
very real, and he mechanically felt of his throat.
Sevier would not abandon the quest, however, and insisted:
“We must make sure. Let us all spread out in a wide circle and
gradually work in to this spot. Let no hollow tree, pile of rocks or
loose brush be overlooked. If an Indian has been killed, a most serious
crime has been committed and we may find ourselves at war before we are
prepared.”
“My woman’ll be crazy if I don’t git back,” growled Stetson. “Job Twill
as much as said he didn’t know anything about it. Where’s Bert Rice and
Lon Hester?”
The two names were shouted repeatedly, but neither of the men appeared.
Stetson continued:
“They’re the only two other witnesses known, and I figger they don’t
know any more than Twill did. I’m satisfied no Injun’s been killed.”
“But Old Thatch was killed,” cried Polcher, taking a step back.
“There’s no make believe about that.”
“That’s another bar’el of cats,” grunted Stetson. “I’m going home.”
“Yes, Thatch was killed. But if no Indian was slain his story must have
been a case of too much liquor,” murmured Sevier. “That brings us back
to the question; who killed him?”
Polcher was alarmed. Not only was his whole scheme tumbling about his
ears, but he felt death in the night air and even fancied he detected
Sevier examining the dark boughs overhead as if in search of a gallows
cross-beam. He cursed his lust for personal vengeance. If he only had
accused Thatch of the crime! Or Hester! Where were his wits that he had
not utilized the trick for disposing of Hester? Hester was becoming a
nuisance, and it was only a question of time when he must be removed.
Used as an ignorant tool, the fellow had assumed such airs as to
threaten embarrassment to the plans of his Majesty, Charles III.
But more poignant than any regrets was the accumulating fear of the
unseen counterplot. He knew Thatch had stumbled upon a dead Indian. And
some one had concealed the body. He began to doubt his own perspicacity
and to imagine other secret plots were unfolding to hem him in. For the
first time in his life he knew what it was to tremble on the edge of a
panic. With a sidelong glance he saw Sevier was watching him curiously.
With a mighty effort he recovered his self-control and demanded:
“Let no one go back until we’ve formed the circle as suggested by
Sevier. Somewhere near here is the dead body of an Indian. One more
effort before we cry quits.”
He seized a torch and led the way deep into the forest, calling out for
the men to scatter and make the circle complete. The men hesitated,
but, as Sevier took up a position within a rod of the tavern-keeper,
they grumbled and did as told, even Stetson changing his mind and
participating in this, the last effort.
“All ready over here,” bellowed Stetson.
The signal was repeated until it had run round the circle, and the men
began to slowly advance toward the common centre. Ostensibly Sevier
searched most carefully, but always with a sidelong glance to see that
Polcher’s torch was on his immediate right. As the men worked inward
they came nearer together, but it was not until they were but a few
rods from the three oaks that Sevier gave a low exclamation of anger.
The man next to him was not Polcher but one of his tools.
Seizing him by the shoulder Sevier fiercely demanded—
“Where’s your master?”
Frightened, the man did not speak for a moment; then he faltered:
“I don’t know. He gave me his torch to hold while he looked under some
brush.”
“Every one scatter and look for Polcher!” roared Chucky Jack. “I charge
him with killing Thatch. The job was done with a butcher-knife, like
what he carries under his apron. Stetson, take three men and follow me
on the jump. You others beat the woods toward the settlement and come
to the tavern.”
“What’s on your mind?” asked Stetson as he raced beside Sevier up the
trail.
“I think he’ll make for the court-house. To get that scalp!”
“He’s lighting out?”
“He’ll be hiding among the Cherokees by morning.”
Nothing more was said until they reached the court-house. Then, as they
entered and by the stub of the candle beheld the horn of ink spilled on
the table and inky finger-prints on the worthless petition and top of
the table, Sevier quietly announced:
“He’s been here and gone.”
“And he took the scalp!” cried Stetson.
Sevier smiled and drew it from his hunting-shirt, saying—
“It was too valuable to leave behind.”
One of the settlers now thrust his head in at the door and informed:
“Polcher’s hoss is gone. The mulatter says he come an’ got a pile of
money from a hiding-place under the bar. He’s lit out jest as ye
thought.”
Others now came up, and from the doorway Sevier addressed them, saying:
“My friends, it’s all over. Polcher’s gone, showing that he killed
Thatch. There’s nothing more you can do except to choose a guard to
keep the trash out of the tavern. The men on guard are to find and keep
for me all papers in the tavern. The rest of you go home to your
families. Stetson, you stay here for a bit.”
After the men had departed, Sevier thrust the scalp through a crack in
the floor and poked it with the point of his knife until it entirely
disappeared. Then to Stetson he directed:
“Send a messenger to Kate, telling her from me that I sha’n’t be home
until I come. She’ll understand. Send other messengers in my name
warning the border to be ready to ride to me wherever I may be. See
that Thatch is decently buried. If young Jackson turns up, tell him
he’d better wait here till I get back. He was mixed up in a way he
never dreamed of. I sent him to Polcher’s. Can’t tell you now; no time.
But he acted under my orders. They jumped him; I wasn’t there, and he
took to cover. Tell the boys he’s thoroughly innocent. I couldn’t tell
them tonight without showing Polcher I knew his game. I had to let him
have rope; now he’s got enough to swing on.”
“You’re going away, John?”
“I start inside of ten minutes, as soon as I can get my horse. If alive
I’ll be back when the delegates arrive to settle our new form of
government. If I’m not back, you will ask Judge David Campbell to take
the lead. Now go, and don’t forget the messenger to Kate.”
“You’re sure—quite sure you can’t take me along, John?” begged Stetson.
“Not this time, old friend. I ride far, and I must ride hard, and I
must ride alone.”
“Then God be with you!”
“May He be with Watauga—with America!” softly added Sevier.
He wrote a few words and handed them to Stetson saying:
“A few lines to Judge Campbell if I’m not here. Now, good night.”
Their hands met, and Stetson reluctantly departed.
Sevier caught up his weapons from behind the table and hastened to his
horse corraled back of the court-house. As he threw on the saddle he
told the intelligent animal:
“Tonpit and Polcher are ahead of us, old boy. We’ve got to kill Polcher
and head Tonpit off. Neither must reach Little Talassee. If we can
steal Miss Elsie, then Tonpit’s errand is spoiled. McGillivray won’t
trust him till he has the girl as a hostage.”
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