IN THE MAW OF THE FOREST
Once they struck into the old Creek trail the Jumper went on ahead; for
this was a red path and the Indian by scouting in advance was supposed
to reduce the chances of a surprise attack by Polcher. Near sundown
they came to a small creek where the Jumper wanted to camp for the
night.
“Let my brother gather wood for the fire while I look about the forest
for signs,” said Sevier, eager to reconnoiter his back trail.
The man of the Deer clan guessed his purpose and reminded—
“If you are seen turning back, if only for a few steps, there are those
who will be glad to kill you.”
“I shall not be seen turning back,” reassured Sevier. “I go to find
signs and kill a wild turkey.”
“The forest has eyes that watch you,” warned the Jumper. “My medicine
has told me that Death walks along the Creek trail.”
“Death walks everywhere,” carelessly returned Sevier. “And it skips the
brave to touch the coward.”
Taking his rifle, he crossed the trail and, as soon as he was out of
hearing of the Cherokee turned north and made for a heavily wooded
hill. He had noted this elevation shortly before arriving at the creek
and knew it would be an excellent vantage point for spying on the back
country. He ascended it without detecting any signs of his trackers and
lost no time in climbing a tree. The stretch of country he had covered
that afternoon was spread out below him in broad relief. For the most
part the view consisted of the forest crown but there were occasional
openings and it was on the nearest of these that he focused his gaze.
He glimpsed nothing that hinted at pursuit. He studied the birds but
was unable to discover any symptoms of alarm. This emptiness of the
trail puzzled him, for he had been convinced his every step would be
dogged until he crossed into the country of the Creek. Leaving the
tree, he descended the hill and, pausing only long enough to knock over
a turkey, made his way back toward the creek.
He had reached a point due east from the camp when he was startled by
the sharp report of a gun. Dropping the turkey, he ran to the trail and
crossed it, thinking his guide was the victim of some treachery. Before
he came in sight of the fire he heard the Jumper wailing and moaning,
and yet not as one who cries out when physically hurt. In fact, he knew
a material wound could elicit no complaint from the Jumper. Slowing his
pace, he advanced more cautiously and halted for a moment at the edge
of the woods and surveyed the Indian.
The Jumper was lamenting in a dismal manner. He was busy trimming some
small branches into tiny rods.
Stepping forth Sevier demanded—
“Was it your gun I heard?”
The Jumper groaned and held up the small rods. There were seven of
them, seven being the sacred number of his people. Sevier took one of
the rods and examined it. He found it was sourwood.
“You have killed a wolf?” he asked.
“I shot at one, thinking it was a turkey in the bushes,” shivered the
Jumper. And he snatched up his gun and began unscrewing the barrel.
“Now will Kanati, the Lucky Hunter whose watch-dog the wolf is, be very
angry with me. Already I feel myself turning blue.”
“The Lucky Hunter will know it was a mistake,” soothed Sevier,
appreciating how serious a fault it was for any but the ceremonial
wolf-killer to shoot at a wolf. “While you finish your medicine for the
gun I will go back and get the turkey I dropped.”
According to the Cherokee belief the gun was spoiled unless treated at
once by a medicine-man. In the absence of a shaman one must make his
own medicine as best he could. As Sevier well knew the incident reduced
the Indian’s value as a guide and scout to zero. As a fighter he had
become nil. Even if the bad spirit could be immediately exorcised from
the offending barrel the Jumper would not dare fire it at a lurking foe
for fear of making another mistake and rekindling the rage of the
mighty Kanati. And those who stalked the borderer along a red path
would not show themselves for an open shot.
Disturbed by the incident Sevier recovered the turkey and hastened
back. The Jumper was heating the slim rods over a small fire near the
edge of the water and as Sevier came up he commenced inserting them in
the gun-barrel. Sevier watched him in silence as he completed his task
and leaned forward to place the defiled barrel in the creek, where it
must remain for the night.
Turning back, the Jumper plucked the turkey and prepared it for the
coals, groaning and grimacing as he worked but taking no heed of his
white companion.
“What is it now, my brother?” asked Sevier.
“The Crippler (rheumatism) has me,” lamented the Jumper, rubbing his
legs. “I have angered a Deer ghost.”
“You shall make a prayer to the Black, Blue and White Ravens. The Two
Little Men of the Sun Land shall come and drive the intruder away,”
comforted Sevier.
“Only a shaman can make the prayer,” was the doleful reply.
Sevier turned away in disgust. He had counted on the Jumper as a
powerful ally for defensive work at least. His woodcraft and sharp ears
and eyes would be invaluable in detecting the secret approach of
Polcher. Now his superstitions had changed him from an asset to a
liability. It was useless to argue with him. Deer ghosts sent
rheumatism as a punishment for some deer killed without placating the
spirit.
Every one knew that the Little Deer, chief of all Deer spirits, watched
over all his subjects. Never could one fall by the hunter’s arrow or
bullet without the Little Deer standing at the victim’s side and asking
the clotted blood if “it had heard”; that is if the blood had heard the
hunter begging forgiveness for the life he had taken. Obviously the
Jumper at some time had failed to repeat the prayer and as a result he
was now useless.
“I can not sleep tonight. I will keep watch,” mumbled the Jumper after
the turkey had been served.
“_Siyu!_ (good)” agreed Sevier, thankful for a chance to snatch a few
hours of sleep.
He had slumbered for several hours when a bullet clipped into the boll
of a hemlock near his head and brought him to his feet, rifle in hand.
The Jumper, with protruding eyes and gaping mouth, sat leaning against
a tree. He made no move to investigate the murderous assault. The fire
was down to a bed of coal.
Without a word Sevier glided into the woods. Polcher had had his first
try, he concluded. He circled the camp and halted every few rods to
locate the enemy by some telltale sound. Unsuccessful, he returned to
the fire and lay down at a distance from the dying embers. The Jumper
already had concealed himself in some thicket. With the first streak of
dawn the borderer rose and dug the Jumper from his hiding-place under a
huge stump and ordered him to scout the woods for signs of the midnight
visitor.
But the Jumper was now far beyond the point of suffering fear of bodily
violence. His brains swarmed with outraged ghosts. Strange
superstitions crawled through his thoughts. During the night his
medicine-bag had become dislodged from his neck, a most conclusive
warning that the Little Deer was greatly displeased with him. The
danger of assassination did not impress him as being vital. Bad Luck
had settled her talons in his soul; beside which bullets were nothing.
“Will you go or not?” asked Sevier as the Indian tarried by the white
ashes and stared timidly about.
“Last night I dreamed of the Little Deer, small as a dog and white,” he
whispered. “He told me to go back to the village and give cloth to the
shaman, who will make me a prayer and give me new medicine. Ah! The
Crippler is twisting every bone in my body.”
“Old Tassel sent you to go with me,” persisted Sevier.
“No chief of the Cherokees gives orders after the Little Deer has
spoken,” rebuked the Jumper.
“Of course; that is true,” surrendered Sevier, now resigned to
proceeding alone.
The Jumper dragged himself to the creek and removed the gun-barrel and
plucked out the rods, then cleaned the barrel and screwed it in place.
That the man he had been so solicitous for the day before should now
stand in deadly danger made no impression on him. His own soul was in
imminent peril of turning blue. The anger of the Deer ghosts remained
unappeased. He could only think of hastening home and bankrupting
himself in order to buy the shaman’s intercession.
With head bowed and moving listlessly he went up the trail. Only once
did a flicker of yesterday’s zeal show in his sombre eyes; that was
when he halted and glanced back to warn—
“You are in a red path now.”
Sevier nodded and answered—
“So the bullet fired in the night told me.”
The Jumper resumed his gloomy way and the borderer saddled his horse
and rode south.
John Watts had charge of the warriors enforcing this trip to the Coosa.
The mystery of their failure to appear on the trail while he was spying
from the hilltop was now quite obvious. Watts dared not slay until
Chucky Jack endeavoured to return through the land of the Cherokee, but
he was perfectly willing to hold his warriors back and give Polcher his
chance to make a “kill.”
Polcher, however, must be mounted, which would necessitate his sticking
close to the trail if he would not have his victim leave him far
behind. Sevier found some consolation in this thought and, leaning over
the neck of his horse, he looked for signs and found them within a mile
from the creek. The traces indicated that the tavern-keeper had left
his horse near the trail while he beat back through the woods to shoot
at the shadowy form by the dying fire. On returning to his horse, so
the signs read, he had led him some distance, then mounted to spur on
as fast as the night would permit.
A glance told Sevier these truths, and red rage smouldered in his heart
as he pictured the man withdrawing before him and planning murder,
while the Cherokees formed an implacable barrier to drive him to his
slayer. His anger did not blind his woods sense, however; and when the
forest promised decent travel for his mount he swung from the path and
made wide detours. Once he came upon tracks of a horse in the forest
mould and decided his foe was indulging in a similar manœuvre.
Yet the day passed without any demonstration from the man ahead or any
sign of the Cherokees behind. Both red and white were in their places,
never a doubt of that. At sundown Sevier found water and followed it
some distance from the trail. Selecting a small circle of cedars he
made his fire where he could not be seen unless the prowler approached
very close. He had saved enough of the turkey to suffice him for food;
and after the first darkness came to hide his movements he shifted his
horse up-stream. Returning to the cedars, he gathered small boughs and
rolled them in his blanket. Then, heaping fresh fuel on the fire, he
withdrew into the night and took up his position between the sprawling
roots of a mighty oak.
He planned to sleep through the first of the night, being confident no
prowler would approach the cedars so long as the blazing fire suggested
he was awake and alert. The flames would consolidate into coals about
midnight; it was then that any lurking assassin would seek the
blanketed decoy.
With the woods instinct he timed his slumber accurately. As he opened
his eyes and caught the reek of the smouldering fire and beheld the
glowing coals staring through the foliage he softly rose to one knee
and raised his rifle.
The disturbing voice of a screech-owl raised his _wa-huhu_. Sevier
pricked his ears, then relaxed as the dismal notes were repeated. They
were genuine and no Indian signal. This corroborated his theory that
Chief Watts’ men were holding back to give the mixed-blood every
opportunity to kill. Something stirred on the borderer’s left, a faint
rustling. The smoke from the fire would have repelled a night animal.
The darkness made vision useless except as he gazed toward the coals.
He aimed his rifle at these. A minute passed and the glowing coals
vanished, advertising the intervention of a solid body.
With finger on the trigger Sevier waited for a count of ten, when the
explosion of the assassin’s rifle tore a red hole in blackness. Almost
at the same moment Sevier fired. Something collapsed and the twinkling
embers reappeared.
As he fired the borderer fell flat and remained motionless. The silence
shut in again. The adventure was finished. Yet Sevier held back until
he had reloaded. Then, armed with rifle and ax, he edged forward. He
had covered half the distance to the cedars when his moccasin touched
something that impelled him to drop his gun and spring forward.
But the form he grasped made no effort at defence. Groping about until
he found the hands and had made sure they held no weapons, he dragged
the limp figure up to the fire and dropped some dry grass on the coals.
The flames flared up and revealed the face of the dead man. It was not
Polcher but one of the two whites who had ridden with Red Hajason.
With a smothered exclamation of surprise he drew back under the bushy
boughs and crouched on his heels. He observed by the expiring light
where the bullet had pierced his blanket and he had no regrets for the
death he had dealt. He was chagrined, however, for not anticipating Red
Hajason’s entrance into the grim game. It was to afford the outlaws a
chance to strike, rather than to give Polcher a clear field, that the
Cherokees were moving leisurely. Hajason immediately on arriving at
Great Hiwassee must have learned from Chief Watts about the white man
riding for the Coosa. And how many men had Hajason sent down the trail?
Was he one of the trailers?
“I only wish he’d been this chap,” muttered Sevier. “That peace law is
bad medicine when it stopped me from shooting him on sight.”
_Wa-huhu_ called a screech-owl. Another owl answered from the east and
another from the west.
“The Cherokees,” he murmured, securing his blanket and stealing from
the cedars and making for his horse. “They heard the two shots and are
puzzled to know how it came out.”
_Wa-huhu_ came the call, now much nearer. And the notes were tinged
with impatience, as if the dead man had promised to answer.
Sevier threw back his head and sent the answer ringing through the
forest aisles.
He was now convinced his life would be in peril every mile of the way
to the Creek country. Old Tassel had feared he might come to harm while
in the Cherokee country and had sought to evade responsibility by
sending the Jumper to guard him. What might happen to him after he
crossed the southern boundary did not concern the old chief. But
Polcher, Watts and Hajason were determined he should never reach Little
Talassee. He summed the situation up by telling himself:
“From now on I must push ahead as fast as possible. I can’t be watching
for Polcher and at the same time dodge the gang behind me.”
Yet one must sleep and a horse must rest even though two-score
Cherokees were stealing like ghouls about the abandoned camp-fire and
its dead man. So, shifting his blanket to a deep covert and trusting
that his horse would not be found, he slept until sunrise. He sought
his horse only after making a circle around the animal; for if other
killers were in the vicinity and had stumbled upon the horse they would
wait there in ambush, knowing the sun would bring their victim.
But no one was in hiding near the horse; and he threw on the saddle and
returned to the main trail without being molested. He rode at a furious
gallop and had covered a mile before being reminded of the enemy. A
rifle spat at him from the brush and he fancied he felt the wind of the
bullet. His only notice of it was to throw himself flat over the
saddle-horn and urge his mount to greater efforts.
For several miles he rode at top speed and slowed down only when
confronted by a swampy stretch bordering a sluggish creek. Dismounting,
he placed his ear to the ground and caught the _thud-thud_ of pursuing
hoofs. When standing erect he was unable to hear the hoof-beats, and he
knew he had ample time to make the miry ford. Walking ahead to test the
footing, he soon waded the creek and helped his mount up the bank and
gained firm ground. Springing into the saddle, he rode a few rods up
the trail and backed off behind some hemlocks and cocked his rifle.
The minutes passed. Perfect serenity seemed to mark the trail and the
surrounding forest. Then wild fowls rose from the creeks and winged
away. Peeping from his hiding-place, he beheld a white man afoot
leading a horse. The animal was a big black, and a second glance noted
the white knees. It was Major Tonpit’s favourite steed. The man halted
at the edge of the swamp and studied the tracks. Then, climbing into
the saddle, he urged the horse into the muck. As he lifted his head to
examine the opposite bank Sevier recognized him as another of the trio
who rode with Hajason behind the drove.
Possessed with the notion of making the fellow a captive and learning
something from him about his master, Sevier spurred into the open just
as his tracker reached the middle of the ford. Sevier flung up his left
hand and cried—
“Up with your hands!”
The man stared at him, nonplussed for a second, then recognized him and
threw up both hands and fired. Without raising his own gun Sevier
pulled the trigger, the two reports sounding as one. The borderer felt
his brown hair twitch; his opponent toppled off into the creek. The
black horse wheeled with a shrill whinny of alarm and dashed
frantically back over the trail.
“Two!” Sevier ejaculated, pricking on toward the frontier of the Creek
country. “That whittles Red Hajason’s fighting strength down quite a
bit. Unless he’s back there I shouldn’t stand in any more danger from
that direction. Now to watch out for Polcher.”
On gaining an elevation that commanded a view of the last ford he
reined in and glanced back. A score of Cherokee warriors were swarming
across the creek. One stumbled and fell over the dead man, and by the
commotion the discovery created Sevier knew they were greatly excited.
They carried the body back to the bank, then held a council as though
hesitating as to what course they should pursue. Finally a runner was
despatched to the rear and the band came on; only now they moved
cautiously, as if suspicious of every bush and tree.
Sevier smiled in quiet satisfaction. He was sure he had cleaned out the
white assassins, else the Indians would have waited for a third to
precede them. For the rest of the day he nursed his speed, walking much
to rest his horse and racing madly only when the trail stretched in a
straight line for any distance. Whether afoot or flashing down the
leafy alley at break-neck pace, he momentarily expected the
tavern-keeper to announce his presence with singing lead. Abrupt turns
in the path were negotiated carefully, some being avoided by detours.
Night found him far advanced on his journey without having discerned
any signs of Cherokees or Polcher.
At last he stood at the edge of Little Talassee. His ride through the
Creek country had been accompanied by stealth and superb woodcraft and
had been uneventful. The wandering bands of warriors that might have
intercepted him were avoided without much effort. This taught him the
Creeks did not imagine a hostile white man was so far within their
territory. It also carried the conviction that Polcher took it for
granted Red Hajason’s men would prevent his coming. This belief
necessitated the conclusion that some of the Cherokee runners had
passed round him and informed the tavern-keeper he need bother no
longer with Chucky Jack as others had undertaken the work of removing
him.
Sevier had timed the last leg of his journey so as to permit an
entrance to the village after sundown. From his hiding-place he halted
and observed the emperor’s home. It was a large handsome house,
pleasingly situated back from the river and surrounded by shade trees
and extensive beds of flowers. The grounds presented nothing to view
which would suggest the red man. It might have been a bit of Pensacola
or New Orleans. It was the environment of a white man.
Back of the big house were some two-score neat little cabins that
constituted the slave-quarters, while scattered about the residence in
a seemingly haphazard manner were outbuildings for supplies and
equipment. The entire effect on the borderer was that of a town rather
than Emperor McGillivray’s private estate.
Near Sevier’s hiding-place was a large corral filled with horses. Other
animals grazed outside. Waiting until evening had blurred the
landscape, Sevier left his horse to graze and ventured among the
outbuildings. From the opposite side of the grounds came a chorus of
melodious voices as the slaves sang and made merry. Lights sprang up in
the big house, fires twinkled before the cabins in the slave-quarters,
but the edge of the estate where Sevier reconnoitred seemed deserted.
He had stolen by a sleepy herder and with a horseman’s love had paused
to admire the many excellent animals when a big bay passed near him and
caused him to start convulsively. There was no mistaking the bay. It
was one of Stetson’s nags, and he would have taken oath it was in
Jonesboro the night of his departure. Wondering at the mystery of it
all, he rounded a long structure that was used as a granary and dropped
as though shot as a light flared up within twenty feet of him.
An Indian had stepped from the end of a cabin and had revived a
smouldering torch by swinging it violently round his head. Sevier
remained motionless, his travel-stained forest dress blending with the
shadows and logs. But the Creek had no eyes for intruders. Besides the
torch he carried a shallow wooden platter of steaming food. Intent on
his business he walked to the window of the cabin and, after thrusting
his torch into a socket, shoved the platter through a narrow aperture
beneath the window, grunting unintelligibly all the time.
For the first time Sevier discovered the cabin was used as a place of
detention, for there were iron bars across the window. The face of a
white man pressed against the bars and the prisoner said something to
the Creek.
Sevier sucked in his breath and then gasped:
“Kirk Jackson! So that’s the reason for Stetson’s nag being down here.
Kirk Jackson, and he’s a prisoner!”
The Indian removed the torch and walked round the end of the cabin.
Sevier glided forward. Jackson had retired from the window. The
borderer glanced over his shoulder to make sure no more torches were
approaching and, confident no one could discover him unless by physical
contact, he seized the iron bars and shook them gently, and called
Jackson by name.
There was a moment of intense silence, then a cautious voice whispered—
“Who is it?”
“Sevier. Chucky Jack.”
“Good Lord! What luck!” Jackson fervently murmured, and his face came
close to the bars and his hand was thrust to grasp that of the
borderer. “The door is fastened on the outside. No danger here of any
one setting a prisoner free. Throw up the bar—”
He choked the rest off with a groan of dismay and Sevier began to face
about just as a familiar voice exulted:
“Now, —— you, I have you where I want you! There are no white paths
here!”
And before Sevier could close in the newcomer thrust a pistol in his
face and pulled the trigger. The weapon missed fire. The borderer’s
outflung hand caught his assailant’s wrist, the other fumbling for the
throat.
“Help! Help! This way!” yelled the man in English.
“Polcher!” roared Sevier, forgetting his danger from the Creeks.
And he redoubled his efforts to get at the man’s throat.
But Polcher was fighting purely on the defensive and evading the
groping fingers.
“Look out, Jack!” yelled Jackson at the window.
Sevier glanced about to see whence came the new danger and at first
thought the cabin was on fire. This fancy was instantly dispelled by
the appearance of several torches round the corner, and before he could
think to release Polcher and make a break for it a dozen Creek warriors
had penned him in against the cabin. Polcher wrenched himself free and
with a howl of rage leaped to an Indian and snatched an ax.
“Stand back there, Polcher!” cried a clear, strong voice using
faultless English. “What the devil do you mean by prowling ’round my
gaol and raising a riot like this?”
As the newcomer passed through the circle Sevier beheld a tall, slender
figure of commanding carriage, and a dark, immovable face. The man was
faultlessly dressed after the fashion of the seaboard cities. In his
hand he carried a light riding-whip. And Sevier knew he had met
Alexander McGillivray, Emperor of the Creeks.
“What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you speak?” sharply demanded
McGillivray.
Polcher chuckled sardonically and pointed to Sevier leaning against the
wall and informed:
“You have another guest, your Majesty. He was trying to kill me.”
“That is why you snapped your pistol in my ear before I saw you, I
suppose,” dryly spoke up Sevier, now stepping forward to meet the
emperor.
McGillivray snatched a torch from one of the warriors and thrust the
flame close to Sevier’s face.
“And who the devil are you?” he curiously asked, his eyes twinkling in
appreciation as they ranged up and down the lithe, upright figure.
“John Sevier, of the Nolichucky, come all the way from Jonesboro to
talk with you,” was the calm reply.
“——! Nolichucky Jack? And here?” cried McGillivray, his French blood
overwhelming his usual Indian taciturnity.
“They call me that among other names,” modestly admitted Sevier.
“Wishing to see you, I had to come here.”
“Well, I admire your courage,” declared McGillivray, his dark eyes
slightly bewildered. “Why were you fighting with Polcher?”
“Because he snapped a pistol in my face and said he had me where he
wanted me. Oh, I’d have jumped him anyway. He only happened to see me
first. I’ve promised myself that some time I shall hang him for a
murder he committed.”
McGillivray’s black brows drew down.
“Have a care, sir,” he curtly warned. “Alexander McGillivray is the
only man who gives the law in the country of the Creeks.”
“If you value your life you’ll string this man up now, while you have
him!” Polcher fiercely broke in.
McGillivray turned on him, and his voice had an edge as he warned:
“Men who volunteer me advice usually regret it. As for valuing my life,
it would be in no danger if Chucky Jack had all his riflemen at his
back.”
“That is true, sir,” warmly averred Sevier. “I know of no red wampum
hanging between us.”
“Not so fast,” muttered McGillivray, staring at him meditatively. “I
didn’t mean it that way. If there is no red wampum, neither is there
any white wampum between us. You’ve come here without being asked. I’m
not yet ready to smoke with you.”
“At least we could go inside and sit down and have a talk,” suggested
Sevier.
“Why, certainly, we can do that. And some cakes and a glass of wine
into the bargain,” laughed McGillivray. “My surprise at your coming
made me forget my hospitality. Only remember, I did not ask you to
bring a talk, and we shall talk without belts.”
“That suits me perfectly,” assured Sevier, taking his rifle from where
he had stood it against the cabin when seeking to attract Jackson’s
attention.
McGillivray waved his hand and the warriors closed about the borderer.
Polcher disappeared in the darkness, after loitering to see if he were
included in the emperor’s hospitality. As McGillivray strode on ahead,
leading the way to the big house, he laughed softly but laughed much.
As he drew up at the door a slave in gay livery threw it open and
humbly stood aside. The emperor slapped his leg with the riding-whip
and exclaimed:
“——! But this is unexpected. If I’d offered ten thousand pounds in gold
I couldn’t had you brought here alive. Behold! You’re here without my
even asking.”
“Yet it cost something for me to get here,” said Sevier.
“Meaning just what?”
“Two dead men on the Great War-Path. They tried to stop me.”
McGillivray’s eyes danced.
“Good! Whose men? Watts’? Dragging Canoe’s—”
“Oh, none of the friendly Indians,” Sevier interrupted, smiling as he
read McGillivray’s ardent hope that Cherokees had been slain and that
their deaths would precipitate the nation into a war against the
settlements. “Merely two renegade whites. Two of Red Hajason’s men.”
The emperor’s face fell. Sevier only raised the red ax against his
Northern neighbours. He eyed the borderer gravely; then a little smile
curled his thin lips and he said:
“Those two are better than nothing. If this Red Hajason lived nearer my
country I should send some of my young men to break off his head. He
rather got the best of me on a batch of horses. And he’ll never come
himself with a drove; always sends some of his tools.”
Sevier yawned. Instantly the emperor stood aside, bowed courteously and
lamented:
“I am forgetting myself. Please leave your rifle and belt with the
servant. And enter. You are most welcome to Little Talassee—my guest?
Prisoner? I wonder!”
------------------------------------------------------------------------