THROUGH THE NECK OF THE BOTTLE
Sevier’s lead in the race for freedom depended largely on the length of
time McGillivray’s plight should remain undiscovered. The dogs would
balk at going south and their keepers would soon realize the fugitive’s
trail lay not in that direction. Given the sunlight, the borderer’s
fleet mount would cover miles before a pursuit to the north could be
organized. But night reduced the pace of all horses to a mediocre
plane. Sevier entered the trail on the gallop but was quickly compelled
to rein in and proceed cautiously.
He rode with his ears tuned to catch the first note of alarm behind
him. He had advanced but a short distance when he came to a shallow
stream. He turned his horse into this and followed it slowly toward the
east. He believed it was the same water Jackson had taken to in hiding
his trail. On leaving it he swung back to strike into the Great
War-Path, going by the map he carried in his mind. As he broke through
a patch of broom-sage on the side of a low hill and entered the
hard-packed path the sinister sound he had been anxiously anticipating
floated to him on the evening air; a long-drawn bell-like note.
“Sooner than I had expected,” he grimly muttered, shaking the reins.
Now he rode recklessly, bending low to escape the clawing boughs and
trusting to his horse to keep to the path. The animal soon splashed
into running water. Reining in with some difficulty, he forced the
animal to ascend the stream for a quarter of a mile, this time
travelling due west. Then followed a repetition of his first manœuvre
of beating back to the main trail. He planned to follow the Coosa until
he had crossed into the Cherokee country when he would leave it below
Turkey Town. Riding across country, he could pick up the river again
and follow its headwaters until in the neighbourhood of the Hiwassee.
On re-entering the trail he had covered but a short distance when he
was startled again to hear the baying of the dogs. He had counted on
the animals being delayed on reaching the two streams. Not knowing
whether he had followed the streams west or east, the pack would have
to course the streams in both directions before correcting the fault.
“Sharp devils, those Creeks!” he grumbled. “Outguessed me, or learned a
lesson from trying to catch Jackson. They either divided the pack, half
searching the creeks while the other kept straight ahead, or else
they’ve paid no attention to the water and are holding all the brutes
to the path.”
This suspicion impelled him to ignore the next stream. The two detours
already made had cost him time and distance. He could tell by the
increased volume of the baying that the chase was closing in. Then
followed a short period of silence so far as the chase was concerned,
only to be snapped by a frantic, exulting chorus close behind him.
“They’ve let them loose!” he gritted, driving his heels into the
quivering flanks.
To be overhauled and dragged from the saddle was not on Sevier’s
program. He pushed ahead until the trail opened into a strip of meadow
land bounded by the waters of the Coosa and a sharp slope of a
rock-littered ridge. Here it was possible to distinguish form.
Dismounting, he led the horse up the rocky slope and tied him to a
tree. Stumbling on, he came to what he was searching for, several
boulders so arranged as to afford protection on three sides. To get at
him the dogs must enter the pocket by the one mouth.
Placing his rifle and pistols before him, he slipped off his
hunting-shirt and wrapped it about his left arm. Sticking his two
knives into the ground, he settled on his heels to wait. Somewhere in
the night a whippoorwill—_waguli_ the Cherokees call it because of its
song—was monotonously reiterating its plaintive cluster of notes. From
deeper in the forest came the screech-owl’s _wa-huhu_; but of human and
four-footed enemies there was never a sound.
When the crisis broke it was so close at hand as to seem to be in his
very face; a triumphant chorus of the bloodthirsty trackers. Sevier’s
wide gaze made out several vague forms racing up the slope to where
reared the frightened horse. He counted five, one running behind the
other, their undulating bodies suggesting the approach of a monster
serpent.
The horse shrilly voiced his terror; the pack swerved aside and came
for the rocks. Raising his rifle, the borderer carefully covered the
leader and fired. Down crashed the brute, its mates leaping over the
dead form and dashing onward. Dropping the rifle, he snatched up the
two pistols and held his fire for a brace of seconds. He caught one a
dozen feet from the opening between the rocks and disabled a third when
it was almost upon him. Seizing the knives, he rested on one knee and
plunged a blade through the heart of the fourth as it leaped against
him. The impact of the huge body bore him backward but he managed to
regain something of his balance as the remaining animal closed in and
grabbed for his throat and instead caught the bandaged arm.
Stabbing and slashing, Sevier pressed the fighting, and after a few
moments of convulsive struggling the beast suddenly relaxed, his teeth
still locked through the tough folds of the hunting-shirt. It required
much effort to release the shirt from the ferocious jaws. Having
succeeded, he ended the misery of the wounded beast. He was bruised and
battered and bore some slight abrasions on the left arm, but otherwise
was uninjured. Recovering his weapons, he took time to reload them,
then limped to his horse and climbed into the saddle.
He was satisfied the dogs were far in advance of their keepers and that
the rest of the pack were still on the leash. Returning to the trail,
he resumed his flight. Far behind him sounded the ominous baying, but
he gave it scant heed. The dogs at the creek had picked up his trail,
but the fight among the rocks had increased his optimism. His star was
in the ascendancy.
For three days and nights Sevier made his way north, each hour bringing
him nearer the neck of the bottle through which he must pass. Jackson’s
flight undoubtedly had aroused the country. McGillivray’s runners
despatched on the heels of the young Virginian must have sent a cloud
of Cherokees across all paths. The Creeks in large numbers were beating
the country as they advanced. It was obvious to the borderer that
McGillivray had been promptly released and had lost no time in calling
back the men and dogs from the southern trail. But there had been no
sign of the dogs for the last seventy-two hours.
There was a menace in the rear, however, more deadly than the
dogs—columns of smoke which warned the Cherokees to be on the watch for
a fugitive. He tried to make himself believe that Jackson had won
through, but there ever remained a doubt. The young ranger was cunning
in woodcraft, else he never would have brought his hair back from the
Ohio country. But to run the lines of John Watts’ men demanded a bit of
luck along with forest wisdom.
As Sevier drew near the neck of the bottle late in the afternoon of the
third day he decided the race was not to the fleet. He would save time
and insure his final escape by remaining concealed until the edge of
the chase had dulled itself. Once his enemies believed he had broken
through the search would broaden and move north to the Hiwassee,
leaving him the comparatively easy task of following along behind the
hunters.
Possibly his shift in tactics was influenced largely by the nature of
the country he was entering. To the east and north stretched an
extensive area of swamp land, dotted with hummocks and thick with bog
growths. Nearly a mile back in the dismal region a rounded dome, formed
by sturdy hardwoods, cut the flat sky-line and marked a low hill. He
studied the terrain ahead carefully. His horse was badly fagged for
want of rest and pasturage. He, himself, was worn by lack of sleep and
food. Behind him were the Creeks, urged on by the ire of their emperor.
And he had no doubt that the Cherokees were blocking every path ahead.
Leading his horse, he skirted the edge of the swamp until he found a
faint trail where hunters had penetrated in search of wild fowl. Taking
his horse by the bridle, he encouraged the weary animal to follow him
among the quaking morasses. The path was narrow and barely to be
discerned and wound among many death-traps. More than once the borderer
passed over only to have the horse flounder deep in the slime. Once
under way, however, there was no turning back. He must pass on even if
forced to abandon the horse. And King, as the emperor had named him,
had grown to trust his new master, and Chucky Jack was not one to leave
a friend.
“I’ll stick by you, old fellow, as long as you can keep above the
muck,” he promised after extricating the frightened animal from an
especially bad bit.
The steaming vegetation masked them from the view of any standing on
the edge of the swamp, but if it had not been at the beginning of dusk
the occasional flight of startled water-fowl must have betrayed them.
As the light faded Sevier renewed his efforts, scarcely pausing to pick
and choose. He must reach the low hill before the night blinded him.
The last quarter of a mile was a desperate plunge. Several times he
believed the horse was lost and pulled his pistol to give a clean
death, when the intelligent animal by a super-effort won the right to
live.
When he felt firm ground under his soaked moccasins he had no thought
of Creek or Cherokee and threw himself down to rest. The horse gladly
shifted for himself and found the pasturage rank and rich. Some time
during the night Sevier groped his way up the slope and cut boughs and
indulged in the luxury of a bed. But he did this as one in a dream and
had scant recollection of it when he awoke in the morning.
With the new sun to warm him he worked the stiffness out of his joints
and succeeded in knocking over a water-fowl with a stick. Selecting
some dry sticks that would give a minimum of smoke, he lighted a tiny
fire inside a dense clump of swamp-cedar and ate his first full meal
since leaving Little Talassee. He saw that the food problem would cause
him no worry; the swamp was carpeted by game birds. Water remained to
be found.
Hunting up his horse, he followed his trail to a spring. With thirst
and hunger satisfied, he proceeded to examine the low hill, or knoll,
and as he had expected discovered it was surrounded by the swamp.
Toward the north, however, the signs indicated an easier escape than
that afforded by the route he had taken in gaining his refuge. He could
see occasional groups of deciduous trees that demanded a stout soil.
Ascending to the top of the knoll, he climbed an oak and obtained a
wider survey of the country. In the east the lowlands met the sky-line.
The extent of the swamp to the south, his back track, was much less but
so hazardous to contemplate that he wondered how he ever managed to
cross it with the horse. The Great War-Path skirted the swamp on the
west, and the solid forest wall in that direction was quite close, not
more than half a mile away, but was barred by open expanses of water.
The path to the north was the way out. Now that he possessed a high
coign of vantage he could trace the course most desirable to follow.
For many minutes he examined the country, jotting down in his mind
certain landmarks to go by.
A smudge of smoke in the southwest held his gaze, one of the ominous
pillars that had followed him for three days. Another column, directly
south, was crawling high above the forest crown. A third in the east
marked the long line established by the Creeks. As he was about to
descend something vague and sombre in the north caught and held his
gaze. Now it took shape and ballooned upward, opening like the petals
of a black flower. The Cherokees were signalling to the Creeks that
they, too, were on guard and waiting for their old foe to be driven
into their arms.
“The trap is well set,” mused Chucky Jack.
As he slid down from his perch his attention was attracted by the
action of the myriads of water-fowl in the north. They began rising in
fan-like formations at the very edge of the swamp; nor did they circle
about and return to their feeding-grounds, but flew some distance to
the east before descending. He waited and after a time a second flock,
much nearer his refuge, took wing and whirred away.
“They’re coming,” he mumbled, beginning to locate the probable path of
the advancing enemy.
Dropping to the ground, he hastened to the foot of the knoll and caught
King and led him into a thicket and secured him. Then with his rifle
ready he stole to the shore of his little “island” and ensconced
himself in a thicket of willows. He believed he had been there nearly
an hour when directly in front of his position and within a few rods of
firm land he observed a violent agitation among the bushes and caught
the sound of a guttural voice raised in alarm.
Sevier crept from under the willows.
“Awi-Usdi! _Higinalii?_”
There was but one voice and it was calling on the Little Deer and
asking if the super-spirit were not a friend. Sevier struck into the
bog and again heard the frenzied voice crying:
“Little Deer! You are my friend?”
Leaping from rotting stump to decaying log, the borderer found himself
committed to a precarious pathway. Often his foot found a transient
resting-place only to leave black water behind as it was lifted.
Sluggish snakes were disturbed by his passing and swam across slimy
pools.
“Awi-Usdi!” Now the voice was filled with despair.
Springing to a long tree-trunk, inches deep in its pile of vivid green
mould, Sevier ran to the end and parted the bushes. For a moment he was
astounded by the spectacle he beheld. An Indian face was floating on
the water, the painted features registering all the horrible
anticipation of a hideous death.
Placing his rifle one side, Sevier manœuvred gingerly until he could
reach down and grasp the scalp-lock. Although he could lift the head a
trifle and easily drew the submerged body close to the log, he was
unable to lift the man from the slime.
“What’s holding you down?” he demanded as a brown arm came from the
dark water and clutched frenziedly at his wrist.
“Awi-Usdi heard my prayer! He sent you!” gasped the Indian.
“What’s holding you down?” angrily demanded Sevier.
“My feet are caught in the roots of a water-soaked stump,” groaned the
warrior.
“Let go my wrist. I’ll get you out if you do as I say.”
Staring up into the bronzed face with a strange light in his eyes, the
Indian released his hold, whereat Sevier dropped in a sitting posture
on the end of the log and extended a foot before the imprisoned savage
could sink. The hand caught the foot, and as hope brought intelligence
the warrior did not make the mistake of pulling his rescuer into the
death-trap. Supporting him with his foot, the borderer gathered the
tops of several bushes into a bunch and forced them down until the
Indian could grasp them.
“Now don’t waste your strength,” quietly commanded Sevier as he slipped
off his shirt and bent down a small sapling which he held with his left
hand. “You have an ax in your belt?”
The Indian nodded vigorously.
Supporting himself by the sapling, Sevier grimaced and dropped into the
slime beside the Indian. He had no trouble in securing the ax, but he
grunted loudly in disgust as he shifted his hold on the bowed sapling
and allowed his body to sink beneath the stagnant water. He remained
long enough to locate one of the imprisoned feet, then pulled himself
above the filthy surface. Filling his lungs, he drew the ax from his
belt and again descended. He worked cautiously to avoid chopping the
foot and after delivering three or four blows was compelled to rise
again.
For thirty minutes he repeated the manœuvre, scoring nothing on some
trips down, feeling the blade bite deep into the tenacious root at
other times. At last the Indian gave a yelp of joy and kicked one foot
free. The release of the other foot was quickly effected as the Indian
managed to use the liberated member as a lever.
As the two bedraggled men sat on the log, puffing for breath and
staring at each other, Sevier smiled and greeted—
“Jumper of the Deer clan, how did you do a thing like that?”
The Jumper wiped the muck from his face and in a weak voice explained:
“As Tsan-usdi knows, I shot at a wolf. It was bad medicine. It made me
jump among the roots, thinking the stump was stout and strong. When my
feet hit the roots they caught round my ankles like serpents and the
stump sank. Kanati, the Lucky Hunter, is still angry because I shot at
his watch-dog.”
“But I came and pulled you out. Kanati must be over his anger,” soothed
Sevier.
“The Little Deer sent you when I prayed,” said the Jumper.
“The Little Deer will help no man who is being punished by the Lucky
Hunter. The bad medicine has worked itself weak. Kanati forgives you.
The Little Deer forgives you. Has the little girl got her new tooth
yet?”
The Jumper’s doleful features lighted up. Hope gleamed in his small
eyes, and his strong chest expanded as he began to feel himself a
warrior once more, a man of the Deer, unafraid because the gods were
smiling. The reference to his child caused him to fairly beam with
gratitude.
“She looks many times in the glass Tsan-usdi gave her. She know it will
bring a big, strong tooth. Ah! It is good to know the Lucky Hunter is
no longer angry.”
“Then suppose we get to dry land and clean up,” Sevier suggested,
taking his rifle and rising. “And why did the Jumper come out here
alone?”
“I was sent to kill a bad white man.”
“But I am the only white man here.”
“I was told a bad white man was between our warriors and the smoke
signals of the Creeks. I saw birds flying away when the sun went down
yesterday. I believed the bad white was here. I waited till sunrise and
came. I found—my friend.”
Sevier led the way to the spring where they cleaned themselves and the
borderer’s garments. This done Sevier inquired—
“Where is Old Tassel?”
“At Turkey Town.”
“I thought he was at Great Hiwassee. Have the Cherokees caught a white
man called Jackson?”
The Jumper shook his head, saying:
“Creek runners came and our warriors went out; but he must be very
cunning. He was not seen. His trail was not found.”
This was the best of news for Sevier. With Jackson beyond the barrier
and speeding on to the settlements there was a chance he might raise
the riflemen and sweep down on Hajason’s stronghold in time to prevent
the departure of the Tonpits for Little Talassee.
“Have you seen Red Hajason?”
“He got fresh horses at Turkey Town and rode fast for his home three
days ago,” the Jumper replied.
This news was not so pleasant.
“Where is John Watts?”
The Jumper waved a hand toward the line of smoke signals in the north.
“Waiting to catch me?”
The Indian nodded.
“What does Old Tassel do at Turkey Town?”
The Jumper hesitated, loyalty to his people vieing with gratitude to
his rescuer.
“The shamans perform the sacred rites very soon,” he slowly retorted.
“For going to war?” sharply demanded Sevier, his gaze contracting.
“They have looked in the great crystal and found war floating in it.”
“When did they go to water?”
“They do not begin the rites till two days from now.”
Sevier leaped to his feet and glared eagerly toward the north. Wheeling
about, he caught the Jumper by the arm and said—
“Little Brother, you owe me a life.”
“Take it!” proudly answered the Jumper, holding out his war-ax.
“You shall pay me another way. I must give a talk to Old Tassel before
the Cherokees go to water. You must take me through John Watts’
Chickamaugas. You must take me to Turkey Town unseen. You shall leave
me near the town and no one shall know you brought me.”
“I can do that, Tsan-usdi,” quietly agreed the Jumper.
Sevier’s face grew troubled.
“It will be hard to see Old Tassel alone. Watts’ Chickamaugas will go
there to perform the rites.”
“The Chickamaugas went to water before you reached the Creek country.”
“Good! I remember Major Hubbard said that back in Jonesboro, only he’s
always hearing of war-parties to excuse his killings.” Then to himself,
“—— those hostiles. They’ve been on the red path for years. They don’t
count if the rest of the nation can be held back.”
“If we are to reach Turkey Town in time we must travel all night. We
must cross that before dark.” And with a shiver the Jumper pointed
north across the traps of the slime-covered swamp.
“It shall be done. I must take my horse out.”
“Then Little John’s horse must grow wings like _awahili_, the
war-eagle.”
Sevier replied:
“But I brought him in here, and from the south. The trail to the north
is not so bad.”
“Little John’s medicine is very strong,” conceded the Jumper.
Moving by night with the stealth of phantoms, with the Jumper leading
the way; following little-travelled side-paths, sometimes doubling
back, often making wide detours to avoid the Cherokees hastening south
to be in at the killing of the white man, the two edged their way
toward Turkey Town. The first day they covered but a short distance,
satisfied to work to the east and taking time to rest; for it was the
Jumper’s plan to make a dash round the left of the Cherokee line and
cover the distance with a rush during the last twenty-four hours of
grace.
The second night they made notable progress, escaping detection by
inches when they stole between two large groups of warriors. With the
morning sun they found themselves above the smoke signals. They had
passed through the barrier and would now have to guard against
stragglers only. Sevier was impatient to make an open ride for it, as
he feared he might be too late. Did he arrive after the warriors had
gone to water Old Tassel would consider himself hopelessly committed to
a program of war and, being surrounded by men of the belligerent lower
towns, he would be too weak to resist the pressure.
The Jumper insisted, however:
“They do not begin the rites until tomorrow. The ceremony takes four
days. We must move cunningly until dark. If I am seen by Watts’
Chickamaugas——”
“You shall not be seen. We will move cunningly,” agreed Sevier.
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