ON THE WHITE PATH
Watts glared in speechless rage, then sank back helpless. Polcher slyly
drew a pistol, only to find his arm seized by the frightened _shaman_
and the weapon twisted from his hand. The warriors gritted their teeth
but offered no violence. It was the law. Human blood must never be
spilled in a white town. It was also the law among the Creeks and, if
old memories were to be trusted, among the Senecas of the Long House.
Superstition cowed those who would have scant regard for some other
tribal laws.
Sevier was still flushed with victory when Watts drew himself erect and
smiled coldly on the borderer and in a mocking voice said:
“So be it. Woe to the Cherokee who breaks the law!” And he paused to
dart a warning glance at the enraged tavern-keeper. “But listen, Little
John; the law says you shall receive no hurt so long as you stay here.
So long as you stay here.”
Sevier winced. Time was all precious. He must overtake the Tonpits and
turn them back. The man’s mad ambitions unfitted him for cool-headed
scheming, and it might result that his zeal would embarrass the cause
of Spain. Yet, such as he was, he was essential in binding McGillivray
to the Cherokees and to the white malcontents back in the Watauga
country. Could he and the Emperor of the Creeks be kept apart?
McGillivray’s formidable plans might easily go amiss, or at least be
delayed until the border riflemen could prepare for the war.
Sevier appreciated Tonpit’s erratic nature and yet did not
underestimate him. He came from a proud family. He was austere in
personality but could surely gather a following among the recent
arrivals over the mountains. Old-timers would stick by Sevier and
blindly follow his lead. Many of the newcomers and the lawless
element—the last as a unit—would huzza for Tonpit. The Indians only
asked for two hostile factions among the settlers. Aided by the Creeks,
they would side with Tonpit.
So Sevier had reason for dismay as he considered the trap he was in.
Just so long as he remained within the limits of the town, all trails
would be white and he would be treated courteously. Not even Polcher,
now he had been taught his lesson, would raise a hand against him. But
let him step over the line, and he became legitimate game for any ax.
Chief Watts gauged his thoughts correctly and motioned for Polcher to
withdraw. After the tavern-keeper had departed, the chief with mock
gravity said—
“My new brother, who has come to live with us, understands where he can
walk and where he must not walk?”
“He understands,” was the cheerful reply. “As he is weary, he will be
glad to rest here until the next Green Corn Dance wipes out the crime
he never committed.”
“When new fire is given to take the place of the old, he will be free
to go unharmed,” admitted Watts, well satisfied, to hold Sevier a
prisoner until the corn was ready for harvesting, or about the middle
of August. Watts believed the die would be cast inside of thirty days
and that, without Sevier to stiffen their morale, the settlers would be
conquered.
Watts was the last of the warriors to leave. At the door he called out
a command, and a man handed him in Sevier’s rifle and a belt.
Presenting these to the borderer, the chief gravely said:
“These are yours. No one shall say the Cherokees are thieves even if
the whites have stolen their land.”
“I shall feel easier for having them so long as Polcher is in the
village.”
“You need have no fear of Polcher. He will not think of harming a hair
of your head. He showed anger while here, but that is because he has
lived long among whites and forgets the law. Now he knows; he will not
reach for his knife again—in Great Hiwassee.”
“If I choose to try to escape, can I have my horse?”
“Your horse is at the edge of the village with the others. Take him any
time. It is your horse. If you care to take the risk, you shall set out
in as good condition as you were in when my young men brought you here.”
“I will remember it in your favour when next I have you under my
rifle,” said Sevier, his eyes sparkling as he examined his rifle and
pistol and found they had not been tampered with. “You stay here?”
“I have work to do in my lower towns,” was the enigmatic reply,
illuminated somewhat by the peculiar smile accompanying the words.
“Preparing for war while I wait for the corn to be harvested. On coming
here I saw a war-eagle flying away. What was it a sign of? Your defeat?”
Watts looked sober. More progressive in his ideas than the bulk of his
people, yet he could not discard many of the superstitions. Secretly he
was alarmed that Polcher had killed an eagle out of season, yet that
was a fault that did not necessarily spell disaster. To make light of
the disquieting suggestion he indifferently said:
“We have _shamans_ to read signs. It is enough for you to know that all
crimes die out and are forgotten when old fires die and are replaced by
the new. You have your choice, Little John. Stay and live, or step over
the line and have an ax stuck in your head. _Ku!_”
“I have heard you,” was the quiet reply.
Free to come and go, Sevier quit the council-house and wandered about
the village. Feeling hungry, he entered a cabin and found the little
girl playing with the mirror. He was promptly provided with beans and
venison. The father of the child eyed him stealthily. The child boldly
ran to him and climbed on his knee. Sevier knew these were his friends
insofar as they could be such without betraying their people.
“Has a white man and a white woman passed through this village since
the little one lost her tooth?” he asked as he ate.
The man turned away, but the woman shook her head, and Chucky Jack knew
she answered truthfully. He was disappointed, yet remembered it was
very possible he had passed ahead of them. Tonpit would be held back by
the girl. It was also possible they had passed the village without
entering it. And he persisted—
“Have you heard of a white man and woman travelling to the Coosa?”
Again the man pretended not to have heard the query, and once more the
woman silently answered in the negative. He was puzzled. He knew the
Tonpits could pass without hindrance once it was known they were bound
for McGillivray’s town. And, did they pass, the news would be flashed
from village to village with incredible swiftness.
“It must be that I’ve got ahead of them; that Polcher got far ahead of
them,” he decided as he finished his meal. “Tonpit would have to stop
and give the girl a chance to rest. Even at that it’s queer no word is
brought ahead of their coming.”
He went outside, wondering if by any chance Tonpit had changed his
plans and struck for Governor Miro’s headquarters at Pensacola. The
girl’s hurried scrawl told her lover they were bound for Little
Talassee. This substantiated his theory that McGillivray had demanded
her as a hostage to bind Tonpit to his bargain. This line of conjecture
brought Kirk Jackson to mind, and he speculated on the young man’s
whereabouts. How long would he hide from the settlers, thinking a mob
was after him to give him short shift?
“Just long enough to feel sure he could find me in the court-house,”
was the borderer’s decision on this point. “On learning I’ve gone and
that he’s safe in the settlement, he’ll wait just long enough to get a
horse and come pounding after the girl. Wish I’d left a note for him to
stay there, although that would have no effect on a young man in love.”
Realizing the folly of further speculation, he brought his mind to bear
on his immediate surroundings and strolled out to see his horse. The
faithful animal ran to him to be petted. To leap on his back and speed
down the trail would take but a minute. He had his arms and had eaten.
While making much of the horse, he cast his glance about. The woods
were quiet, scarcely a breath stirring the foliage. The itching to be
off almost tempted him, then he turned away and walked but a few rods
toward the cabins when Watts came from behind a bush.
“No, John,” he said before the other could speak; “I decided not to
risk it. For a bit I believed it could be done; then I saw _tsiskwaya_,
the little sparrow, fly upward, afraid of something on the ground.”
“_Tsiskwaya_ saw a snake,” suggested Watts.
“He wore Cherokee paint,” smiled Sevier.
The chief lowered at him evilly, a heavy scowl distorting his dark
face. The borderer knew something had gone wrong with his enemy and
philosophically decided he ought to be benefitted by whatever had
displeased the chief.
“My brother is angry because I did not ride down the trail,” he said.
Watts snarled like a tree-cat, then forced his face to composure and
said:
“I am angry at your narrow escape. If you had gone down the trail, the
snake might have bitten you. Who knows? Bad dreams would have come to
me if you had been harmed.”
“Just what does that mean?” Sevier suspiciously asked.
Watts pointed to the end of the village, where warriors were filing in
between the first cabins.
“Old Tassel comes, and with him is the Tall Runner, the man of the
Wolf, who Polcher said was dead.”
Sevier could scarcely credit his eyes. Old Tassel and Tall Runner rode
ahead of the band.
“Then I am free to go. I do not need to wait for the Green Corn Dance
to wipe out all sins,” he cried.
“Little John is as free as the birds of the air,” quickly assured
Watts. “His horse is waiting. He has his rifle, pistol and ax. He had
better go before Old Tassel asks him to stay. If there is a snake in
the woods, I will drive him away.” And he raised two fingers to his
lips and whistled shrilly. The signal was promptly answered. “The path
is open and smooth,” he said to Sevier.
There was a strong possibility that Old Tassel would insist on his
remaining in the village. Sevier had learned, however, that he
invariably profited by doing the opposite to what hostiles like Watts
wished him to do. Now that luck had permitted him to meet Old Tassel,
whose pacific inclinations were a thorn in the side of the war-faction,
he instantly became determined to win some advantage from the encounter.
“Where is the man Polcher?” he asked.
“He is here somewhere.”
“I think my medicine is telling me to see Old Tassel before I go,” he
announced. With that he hastened forward, followed by the chief, and
overtook Old Tassel in front of the council-house.
The old chief was not prepared for the meeting, and his alarmed manner
of glancing about suggested an expectation of beholding a band of
Chucky Jack’s famous riflemen. His show of perturbation impelled Sevier
to wonder what tricks the wily old diplomat was up to. The Tall Runner
ignored Sevier’s presence entirely.
“My brother did not think to see me here,” greeted Sevier, grasping the
chief by the hand.
“My brother is far from home,” mumbled the chief.
“Not when he is in the home of his friends,” corrected Sevier. “Come,
let us open a bag of talk. I sent you a talk by Tall Runner to say I
would meet you in council. I am here alone to do so.”
Old Tassel stared in amazement at his audacity. The warriors behind the
old man exchanged puzzled glances and tightened their grip on their
axes. Sevier noted the hostile demonstration and read the red minds
easily. Never before had they been given such an opportunity. Many
times Chucky Jack and his mounted riflemen had struck them and wounded
them sorely. Now he was in their midst, far from the settlements and
seemingly alone. The last fact they could scarcely believe.
As their gaze turned to suspiciously sweep the forest, John Watts spoke
up, assuring:
“Little John rides alone. My young men found him and brought him here.”
“To this white town of peace,” added Sevier. “What could be better than
to hold our talk in a peace town, where evil thoughts and bloodshed are
not known?”
Old Tassel’s braves glanced at Watts, as if asking if that were the
reason the borderer was still alive, and found their answer in his
gloomy eyes. Old Tassel shook off his confusion and assented:
“We will hear my brother’s talk. The Cherokees do not want war with the
whites. My brother would be safe in a peace town or a red town, as safe
as he would be on the Holston or the French Broad.”
The sullen countenances of his followers and the half-masked ferocity
of Watts left room for doubt as to the unanimity of this sentiment, but
no word was spoken as the two chiefs and representative men filed into
the council-house and took their places.
After a decorous pause Sevier rose and said:
“Evil birds have whispered to the Cherokees, and the nation now refuses
to keep the chain of friendship from dragging on the ground. It lies in
the dirt, no matter how high my people lift their arms. It is the end
in the Cherokee country that is allowed to drag. This should not be.
White men and women and children going to Kentucky have been killed by
the Cherokees. This must not be.
“The Cherokees have killed many white settlers who have crossed the
Holston and the French Broad. Their bones have not been covered. Our
settlers were told by North Carolina they were right in going there. It
is too late to call them back. They will hold the land because the
bones of their dead have not been covered.
“We hear that the Cherokees now plan to join hands with Alexander
McGillivray and his Creeks; that war-talks have been sent back and
forth between the two nations. Let the Cherokees beware how they take a
red ax from the Creeks.
“Where did the Creeks get their lands? From those they struck in the
head. Who filled the Creek cabins with guns and powder? A Spanish King
over the big water. How does Spain treat the Indians? Go and ask the
old men among your people, among the Creeks and the Seminoles, who have
received the stories from the old men behind them. Ask the old men of
this nation what their fathers’ fathers told them of De Soto.
“If the Cherokees take the red ax from the Creeks and should break off
all the heads of the settlers along the French Broad, the Holston, the
Nolichucky and the Watauga, what would they gain? The Creeks as
friends. They have never been a true friend to any neighbour. Spain a
friend? When you bait a sacred war-eagle with the carcass of a deer and
kill it, you pray to it not to take vengeance on you, saying it is no
Cherokee that killed it, but Askwani—a Spaniard. Why do you pray to
turn the dead eagle’s vengeance against the Spaniards? Because it is
burned into your heads from the old, old times how cruelly Spain used
your people.
“_Hayu!_ If you do not sound the red war-whoop, the Creeks can do
nothing. They can not harm you. If you join with them Spain will see
they get your lands. Then Spain will take all the land for herself. If
you hold up the chain of friendship so it does not drag on the ground,
I will promise you that our settlers shall not go beyond the boundary
we agree upon at the grand council.
“The land now held south of the Broad and the Holston must remain ours
to cover the dead you have slain. We will cover your dead with presents
and will not wander from our land to your land. If you make this treaty
and stand to it, I promise I will lead my riflemen against the Creeks
should they try to steal any of your lands. I have spoken.”
The boldness of this talk amazed the warriors. At the least they had
expected Sevier to be very conciliatory. His blunt reminder of what the
Kentucky settlers had suffered, his firm insistence that the settlers
below the French Broad would not vacate the land and his calm offer of
assistance left them speechless. His magnificent assurance, although
isolated from his friends by many miles of enemies, touched their
imagination and commanded their deepest respect. Even Watts, although
determined to take the red path, could not suppress his admiration. The
effect on Old Tassel was very marked.
Sevier believed that Watts’ eagerness to have him leave the village
without meeting the old chief was due to some half-promise on Tassel’s
part to favourably consider the Creeks’ request for an alliance in a
general war against the whites. If Old Tassel had intimated any such
willingness, it was now obvious that Sevier’s plain speaking was
impelling him to reconsider and weigh the consequences most carefully.
Watts fumed with impatience to denounce Sevier and his riflemen and to
urge his hearers to declare war at once, but etiquette demanded that
Old Tassel speak first. The old chief did not relish his task and
faltered and hesitated but managed to say:
“My brother’s words have entered my ears. North Carolina has sent me
many talks, promising I should have justice and that all new people be
moved off my land. I am an old man. The promises must be kept very
soon, or I shall not live to see them kept. Now they tell me the
Watauga settlements are not a part of North Carolina and that I must
send my talk to the Thirteen Fires, to the Great Council of America. So
much going about to get justice troubles me.”
Sevier quickly replied:
“I will keep the promises I make in the grand council I am asking you
to come to. The Watauga settlements are to become a separate fire and
blaze beside the thirteen.”
Unable to restrain his fierce passions longer, Watts leaped to his feet
and cried:
“Why should we wait longer to have promises kept? Why should we believe
new promises will be remembered better than the old? What power has
Little John to make the settlers keep off our lands? Even now the
settlements do not know where they belong. North Carolina does not want
them. The Great Council of America has not taken them in. Who, then, is
to see that the promises are kept?
“_Ku!_ Spain tells these settlers they must not travel on the
Mississippi, and the river is closed except to the friends of Spain.
Little John is a brave man, but he can not shoot his rifle across the
big water. Spain speaks, and her voice comes across the water, and she
is obeyed. Let us go to no grand council until the whites have left our
lands.” Then whirling on Sevier he cried, “I have said you are a brave
man. I meant the days when we fought each other on the border. I do not
mean now—today. For you have sneaked through the woods and kept from
sight until safe in a peace town. You would talk soft if you were in
Little Talassee, face to face with McGillivray.”
Sevier knew Watts was trying to drive him into the wilderness where the
paths were red, and he accepted the challenge by retorting:
“I will go to Little Talassee. I will speak face to face with
McGillivray, and, after I have finished, go and ask him if I spoke
soft.” Turning to Old Tassel he demanded, “What do you say to my talk?
Will you come to a grand council on the French Broad or on the Holston
after I have returned from McGillivray’s town?”
Old Tassel, beset by his desire for peace, yet feeling the surge of his
warriors’ will for fighting, now found a loophole. He gravely replied—
“When you come back from carrying your talk to McGillivray, I will go
to a grand council on the French Broad.”
“You have given your promise in the council-house of a peace town. It
is to be so,” said Sevier, picking up his rifle and preparing to go.
Watts stepped forward and extended his hand, and, as Sevier grasped it
and searched his face, he said:
“Little John is still a brave man. Whether it be peace or war, you are
a brave man. And will you go to little Talassee?”
Sevier dropped his hand and coldly replied—
“Unless stopped by a Chickamauga bullet, I shall go there.”
Watts clicked his strong teeth and whispered:
“McGillivray will keep you safe there. You will not get in his trail
again.” Then turning to the curious warriors he cried out, “Ho! A brave
man goes to Little Talassee. You will not harm him. But, if you see
white man turning back before reaching McGillivray’s town, you may know
he is a coward and treat him as such.”
Ignoring the hostile glances, Sevier glided from the council-house and
made for his horse. He now had his chance to go to McGillivray on the
Coosa, and a fringe of Cherokee warriors would see to it that he did
not turn back alive.
Hurrying to the corral, he saddled his horse and mounted and confided:
“Well, old fellow, that’s where I reckon to go, to Little Talassee. But
I’d rather go alone instead of being chased there. Coming back will be
harder.”
As he rode down the white path, he kept his eyes opened for signs of
Polcher. He did not anticipate any attack from the tavern-keeper until
he left the vicinity of the village, for Watts must have warned that no
blood was to be shed so long as the path was white. When he struck into
the main trail leading southwest, then he would be traversing a red
way, and there would be no ancient law holding Polcher back. However,
that was a detail to be attended to when encountered. What worried him
considerably was not the tavern-keeper, sure to be in ambush somewhere
ahead, but Kirk Jackson and the Tonpits.
He had barely cleared the outskirts of the village when he discovered
some one was following him. He reined in, expecting to behold the van
of the Cherokees coming to make sure he did not double back to the
north. But there was but one man, and he ran with no efforts at
concealment. To the contrary he now began calling Sevier by his
Cherokee name, “Tsan-usdi.”
“I am here,” called out Sevier.
As the Cherokee burst into view, the borderer recognized him as the
father of the little girl who prayed to the beaver.
“You want me?” Sevier asked.
“I go with you. Old Tassel has spoken it.”
“How far do you go with me?”
“Until we reach the land of the Creeks.”
“To see that I do not turn back,” sneered Sevier.
“To see no bad Indians cross your path,” was the grave correction.
Sevier’s hostility vanished. Old Tassel feared his promise of safe
passage might be violated by some of the younger men and wished to
shift all responsibility of the borderer’s fate on to the Creeks. Still
half a measure of solicitude was decent of him, and Sevier knew he had
him won from thoughts of war for the time being at least.
“You are?”
“The Jumper, of the Ani-Kawi.”
“A man of the Deer clan should know the trails. We will go on, Little
Brother. Tell me when the white path turns red.”
“I will tell you,” grunted the Indian.
“Tell me where is the man called Polcher?”
“In the forest. Somewhere along the red path.”
Trotting ahead, the Jumper led the way for several miles, and yet
Sevier could detect no signs of Cherokees in the rear. He said as much
to the Jumper, who drew a half-circle in the air behind him, saying:
“They are from there to there. We shall not see them so long as we go
toward the Coosa.”
“It is well,” said Sevier.
The Jumper raised a hand and then threw himself prostrate with his ear
to the ground. Sevier quieted his restless horse and listened. He heard
nothing. The Indian rose and informed:
“Men come. We must leave the trail.”
“Why should we hide, Little Brother? What is there to fear along the
white path that leads to the white town?”
“Nothing to fear from men of my colour,” said the Jumper with a touch
of irony. “But I can not answer for the whites.”
“White men!” exclaimed Sevier, dismounting and leading his horse aside
and into cover.
His first thoughts were of Tonpit, the man who, despite his weakness
and ambitions, was so necessary to Spain and Charles III’s field
representative, Alexander McGillivray.
“They bring horses to trade in Great Hiwassee,” the Indian added.
Sevier’s hopes fell, then rebounded as he discredited the Indian’s
ability to know who was coming and their purpose. Thus far he had been
able to detect nothing but the usual forest sounds.
“How do you know that?” he demanded.
“Some of the horses have no riders.”
Sceptical, Sevier composed himself to wait in patience. After what
seemed a long time, there came a burst of voices and the trampling of
hoofs, and above the confusion roared a coarse voice hurling curses at
animals and men.
“Hajason!” muttered the Jumper, his face scowling.
“Red Hajason!” softly cried Sevier, mechanically shifting his rifle.
The Jumper touched his hand as it lay on the gun, and he warned:
“You must not think of that. You are still in the white path.”
Sevier lowered the rifle and asked—
“Does he trade at Hiwassee?”
The Indian nodded. Had not Sevier’s errand concerned the fate of the
Western settlements, he would have considered his journey well worth
the danger just for an opportunity to confront and kill this man whose
name was anathema from the Watauga to the French Broad and throughout
the Carolinas east of the mountains.
Wherever horses were stolen and hurried to hidden forest depots, the
name of Red Hajason was known and detested. That he continued to carry
on his thievery was due to his practice of sending agents to do the
actual work while he remained in his stronghold somewhere at the
headwaters of the Hiwassee River in the southwestern corner of North
Carolina. When not at this camp, it was said he made his home over the
line in South Carolina, “that delight of buccaneers and pyrates,” as
the Rev. Hugh Jones, chaplain to the honourable Assembly of Virginia,
characterized that commonwealth in 1750.
Border-folks, however, denied that Red Hajason was compelled to shuttle
back and forth between the Hiwassee and the Tugalo rivers and openly
charged he had been seen in the capital of North Carolina, seemingly on
excellent terms with some of those who pretended to safeguard the
destiny of the State. This would not be surprising, as in formative
periods the devil takes advantage of chaos to walk close to saints.
But the over-mountain country was closed ground to the king of
horse-thieves; there was no doubting that fact. A bullet on sight was
what he would receive did he venture forth where he sent his men. Thus
it had happened that Sevier, while having had the pleasure of hanging
several of Red Hajason’s tools, had never looked on his face.
The Jumper increased his vigilance and cunningly took Sevier’s horse by
the nose to prevent a whinney.
“We must go deeper into the woods,” he urged.
“Listen, Little Brother, I must see this Red Hajason,” whispered
Sevier, dismounting. “Take the horse back. I will stay here.”
“This path is white,” frantically protested the Indian, anticipating
from Sevier’s frowning visage a bloody settlement with the outlaw.
“My eyes can not shed blood,” soothed Sevier. “He shall pass
unharmed—this time. But I must see him.”
The Jumper reluctantly led the horse deeper into the cover, and Sevier
hid himself and waited. The Cherokees owned many horses, excellent
animals. A brisk trade was carried on between the friendly Indians and
the settlers. And there was much trading between Cherokee and Creek,
only it was the white man’s horse that sometimes went to the Southern
nation. And Hajason traded stolen nags for honest ones and through
unsuspected agents sold the latter to the whites.
Hajason was not dubbed “Red” because of rufescent hair or complexion.
He was Red because of his deeds, his readiness to spill the blood of
the weaker. Only affairs of great importance had restrained Sevier from
taking a posse of his swift-riding riflemen and running down the
scourge long before this.
The cavalcade now drew near, and he could easily make out the oaths and
commands being shouted in English by Hajason, sprinkled with orders in
the Cherokee tongue. Now they burst into view, two half-breeds riding
ahead, a dozen horses following them. Bringing up the rear were three
white men. Sevier had eyes for only one of the trio, a giant of a man,
whose features were an amazing mass of brutality and evil passions,
whose bearded lips opened seldom except to permit the escape of a
blasphemy.
His companions cowered under his tongue-lashings, while his thunderous
epithets hurled at the head of the drove kept the breeds jumping
convulsively. He passed within a dozen feet of Sevier, and the borderer
had ample opportunity to study him in detail and time to regret that
his hands were tied by the ancient law. With his pistol he could have
obliterated a great evil, and he was powerless to act.
So intent was he on scanning the outlaw’s burly body and repulsive face
that he all but overlooked the horse he was riding. The moment he
noticed the big black his interest in Red Hajason became a minor
matter. There was no mistaking the animal. Not another horse on the
border that showed those white knees, for all the world like two
bandages. The horse was Tonpit’s favourite mount. Staring
incredulously, Sevier darted his gaze over the rest of the animals and
found the small bay Miss Elsie always rode.
“By all the red gods in the East, he’s got the major’s and the girl’s
nags!” gasped the borderer, craning his neck and risking discovery to
watch the cavalcade move up the trail.
Tonpit and his daughter had disappeared from home the night of Old
Thatch’s death. Their departure was, presumably, the result of the
Creek’s message from McGillivray. Lon Hester had disappeared the same
night.
“They were bound for Little Talassee,” he mused. “They rode in haste,
or I should have overtaken them. And yet the girl had to have time to
rest. Polcher and Hester are free to come and go among the Cherokees. I
know Polcher is ahead, waiting for me. Hester is just the man to dicker
with Hajason for fresh animals for the major and the girl. But their
horses appeared to be fresh. Why change them?”
He stared longingly up the trail, fighting down his impulse to pursue
Red Hajason and kill him, if need be, to get the truth. To shed blood
would be a violation of the law he had invoked to save his own life. He
heard Hajason shouting a boisterous greeting in the Cherokee tongue and
knew he had glimpsed some of the warriors advancing on either side of
the trail. To go after the outlaw and scare the truth from him would
mean an encounter with the Indians, who had been ordered to treat him
as a coward did they catch him turning back. They would not slay him on
the white path, but they surely would make him a prisoner.
He almost wished he had delayed his departure until Hajason had
arrived. And yet, had Fate worked that way, new complications would
have arisen and the trail to the south might not have been open to him.
Next rose the puzzling point: why should Hajason come in person to
superintend the sale or exchange of a dozen horses? The outlaw was a
villain of large activities. He was well known and hospitably received
in Great Hiwassee. His immunity to danger consisted in leaving details
to his subordinates.
“No!” growled Sevier. “He never came just to get rid of the horses. He
has had many deals with this town. He could have sent a boy and a talk
and made the trade. He came for a purpose. The nags happened to be on
hand, and he fetched them.”
The Jumper pressed through the bushes behind him and touched his
shoulder and anxiously insisted:
“Little John loses much time. The medicine of the Deer tells me Death
creeps down the trail, even though it be a white trail.”
And he nervously fumbled a small bag hanging round his neck and rolled
his eyes in alarm toward the village.
“I am ready,” Sevier said, springing into the saddle. “Death ever lurks
where Red Hajason is.”
“Chief Watts’ Chickamaugas are very close,” warned the Jumper.
“Let them come,” was the careless reply. “We have not turned back, not
so much as a foot.” And, shaking the reins, he rode down the trail with
his guide at his stirrup.
------------------------------------------------------------------------