SEVIER OFFERS THE RED AX
Old Tassel wished he had remained at the Little Tennessee towns instead
of coming to the country dominated by the war-spirit of the
Chickamaugas. In particular did he regret his visit to Turkey Town,
where messages from McGillivray poured in upon him and where he could
not hide from the persuasive tongue of John Watts. As he was fond of
reminding those who met him in council, he was an old man.
When the pressure of the war-faction threatened to become irresistible
he could only console himself with thinking that war might not come in
his day. Now, here in Turkey Town, even this sorry consolation was
denied him. Pacifist and diplomat, he had been overwhelmed by the
enthusiasm of Watts and the insistence of Dragging Canoe.
In seeking to temporize he had drifted unconsciously with the tide.
Like one helpless in a dream-drama he now found himself in the
council-house about to listen to the formal speeches which preceded the
sacred rites of getting the eagle’s feathers, the shamans’ recital of
the formula for those about to take the war-path, the going to water
and the chewing of the charmed root. Even now he would have entered a
protest and asked time to reconsider, but the Chickamauga chiefs had so
cunningly hurried him along he found himself accepted as a war votary.
Watts felt so secure that this day would see Cherokee and Creek
enrolled in a common cause he did not hesitate to return to his
warriors, who were waiting to pounce upon Sevier. The borderer’s escape
from McGillivray’s hands would soon take on a tinge of the supernatural
if the man were not caught. The runners, who had brought the news and
the emperor’s request for co-operation, told of the slaughtered dogs.
This feat alone was bound to make a tremendous sensation throughout the
nation and redound mightily to Sevier’s reputation unless he were run
down immediately.
There was no doubt in either Cherokee or Creek minds as to Sevier’s
hiding-place. It had to be in the narrow strip of territory between the
two lines of smokes. Even had Watts felt uneasy to leave Old Tassel’s
side the necessity of capturing Chucky Jack would have called him away.
Already one refugee from the Creek country had passed the Cherokee
lines—Kirk Jackson. The young Virginian’s successful flight escaped
being a disgrace to the Cherokee Nation because he had penetrated deep
into the country before the runners arrived with the news.
Warriors had been sent after him and there was a chance he might be
overtaken before he could reach the French Broad. But there would be no
excuse if Chucky Jack, prize of all prizes, slipped through the
Cherokees’ hands. Thus, despite his inclination to remain at the
village until Old Tassel was irrevocably crowded into the war-pact,
Chief Watts was compelled to rejoin his lynx-eyed warriors. And Old
Tassel sat disconsolate and heavy-hearted among the hot-bloods.
There were staid and sophisticated head men in Old Tassel’s train who
would be pleased to see the red ax buried. These lived in the Eastern
towns and had mingled with the whites and had begun to realize the
irresistible momentum of the tide sweeping down over the Alleghanies.
Old Tassel knew he could count on his followers, but he had permitted
John Watts to believe he would consent to war, and he feared the scorn
of the fighting chief and his men.
Now that he knew he was being carried along with the red tide and was
to be dashed against the Western settlements he sought surcease from
worry by whipping himself into a rage. God knows he had had much to
bitterly complain of. But despite the injustices worked him he could
not establish a lasting anger. His attempt to cultivate a blood-lust
failed. He had held to the white trail too long. Even in these great
moments of regret he recalled certain victories he had won by guile and
cunning, or fair dealing, when never an ax was reddened with blood.
The long benches were full and the majority of those present were
flushed with thoughts of conquest. Theoretically they could not fail.
Old Tassel was an Indian and not to be put out of countenance by the
death of white folks. It was the ever present fear of disaster to his
people that worried him. Even the most perfect of theories may end in
alarming facts. And there was the rub. He could not be sure the Creeks
would do all they boasted. If a single link in the chain broke, the
chain would fly to pieces. Then it would be Old Tassel’s domain that
would first feel the vengeance of Chucky Jack and his horsemen.
Old Tassel cast a mournful glance over the assemblage and rose and said:
“I am an old man. My path is very steep and slippery. Now it leads me
to this council where war or peace is to be decided.”
He paused and glanced furtively about. With the exception of his own
personal following this ambiguous announcement was received with
indignant glances. Thrown into something of a panic he hastily added——
“I believe most of the men here are for war.”
A loud chorus of affirmatives accented the truth of this statement.
With a poorly suppressed sigh Old Tassel continued—
“Is there any one here who has a talk for us?”
Up sprang one of Dragging Canoe’s leading warriors, who began:
“I have a talk for the Cherokee Nation. It is a very old talk. It is as
old as the first war-wampum. So long as we raised the ax and gave blow
for blow, we were respected by the whites. Since we have put down white
paths we have been crowded from our own trails and thrown into the
briars and on the rocks, and the white men have filled those trails. In
the old days we suffered, for we had bows and arrows against guns.
Today it is not so. Spain, through the Creek Nation, will supply us
with many guns and much powder. Already she has given us much.
“We will not have to run from the white man’s gun or dodge his bullets
to get within arrow-shot. We are men. This is our country and we will
hold it. There was a time when our land reached to the Ohio and the
Great Kanawha and the Catawba, and to the west as far as our young men
cared to hunt. Now we do not touch the Cumberland, except on its upper
waters, while the French Broad holds us back if we go toward the rising
sun.
“Brothers, we are like an old man, once tall and good to look upon, but
now bent and withered. There is but one medicine that will make us
young and strong and straight. It is a red medicine—the blood of the
whites. The all-powerful Red Spirits of the East do not love those who
give up their lands without a fight. I speak with the voice of the five
lower towns. I speak for war, war, war!”
The speaker’s fervour exploded whatever restraint his hearers had been
practising, and in a frenzy of martial emotion brawny arms waved axes
and many voices thundered:
“War! War! War!”
Even Old Tassel’s eyes gleamed with savagery, suggesting new fires
blooming through dead ashes. Then returned the old killing doubt: Could
the white man be driven out? His gaze once more became dull and
lifeless; and more for the sake of restoring a formal atmosphere to the
council than because he wished to prolong the sitting he asked—
“Is there any one else who brings a talk to us before we follow the
shamans?”
There was a bustling about at the entrance and a swirl of confusion as
a man heavily blanketed unceremoniously pushed his way into the room
and stood before the chief. Throwing back the blanket from his head and
figure, he addressed Old Tassel, saying—
“I bring you a talk, Utsidsata.”
“Tsan-usdi!” croaked Old Tassel, his jaw dropping in amazement.
The assemblage, stunned to silence at beholding the man their
redoubtable chief and the Creeks were seeking, glared incredulously.
Then broke forth a storm of guttural execrations, and brown hands
stretched forward to grasp the impudent intruder. Even in their rage,
however, all remembered the kind of man Chucky Jack was. His daring to
venture into the council while being hunted by the fighting-men of the
two nations was a mighty check to homicidal impulses. And no hand
touched him.
“Yes, it is Little John who brings the talk. Little John, who lives on
the Nanatlugunyi—‘the spruce-tree place’—once an ancient home of the
Cherokees. I am here with my talk, even as I promised you at Great
Hiwassee that I would come. Did Little John ever give his word to Old
Tassel, or to any of his people, and then take it back?”
He paused for rhetorical effect, and the aged chief began to feel the
influence of his audacious presence. Swinging about and pointing his
extended hand at the astounded and wrathful faces, he defied:
“Did I not say I would return and give a talk to
Utsidsata—‘Corn-Tassel’—called Old Tassel by the white men? Then why
are the Cherokees surprised to see me? Have I ever broken my word? Then
why are hands clawing near my back as if a panther was near?”
Facing the chief again, he rapidly continued:
“I have always kept my word with you. Who else of those you count as
friends have done the same? Is he a Creek? Does McGillivray always keep
his word? Or does he first build for McGillivray and ask you to help
him, and then tell you he is too tired to help you build, but some
other time. _Hayi!_”
“My men want war, Little John, for the wrongs the white men have done
them,” weakly retorted Old Tassel, still scarcely able to believe
Chucky Jack had slipped through so many fingers.
“Your men shall have war, Utsidsata. Men shall have the thing they
crave; but let them beware lest the thing they seek does not bring
death to them.”
“Ha! The white man is a fool to talk of Cherokees dying when he stands
alone with his enemies in the war-council at Turkey Town,” passionately
cried the orator from the lower towns.
Sevier turned on him and extended a knife, handle first, and challenged:
“So, Little John is a fool to say what he does, to speak of death? Here
is a sharp knife; here is my heart. Use the knife; kill my heart. But
remember this, and all here remember it—there is one now who is
rallying the riflemen of the Watauga. Before my blood can dry they will
be riding a hundred miles deep into your country and will be burning
your towns and corn and driving your people into the mountains, even as
they have done before when you shed the white man’s blood.”
Abashed the warrior refused the knife. Old Tassel cried—
“Who calls the riflemen together when Little John is in Turkey Town?”
“The man called Jackson, who was held a prisoner of the Creeks in
McGillivray’s own town until I unfastened the door and told him to go.
Did the Creeks and their dogs stop him? Could the renegade Cherokees
under John Watts stop him? He laughs at you and carries my word to the
riflemen. My word is this: Unless I cross the French Broad on a certain
day the men of the Holston, of the Nolichucky, the Broad and the
Watauga, are to enter the Cherokee Nation, killing and burning. For if
I do not come it will be known that Old Tassel has broken faith, doing
me harm after asking me to a council on my return from the Creeks.”
The warriors glanced uneasily at each other and refused to meet the
sharp gaze of the white man. Little John was once more establishing his
influence. McGillivray was considered to be a mighty war-leader; yet he
had been unable to hold Little John or Little John’s friend. If the
Emperor of the Creeks could not hold two of the borderers prisoners in
his own village, what guarantee did the Cherokees have he could aid
them in withstanding the attack of some three thousand riflemen?
Old Tassel, greatly alarmed at the prospect of having the northern and
eastern towns destroyed, hastily insisted:
“McGillivray does not make war for the Cherokees. It is for the
Cherokees to say whether they will have war or peace. The Creeks live
far from the western settlements. They talk like children at times.
This council has not voted for war.”
“Not yet voted for war?” scornfully replied Little John. “Then take
this talk from me and have done with talking. You can have war. I am
not here begging for peace. I am tired trying to remain friendly with
the Cherokees. Take your vote and go to water; then chew your sacred
root and see if the medicine can stop our bullets. At Great Hiwassee I
gave you a friendly talk and asked you to a grand council. And before
doing that I sent a talk to you by Tall Runner—a peace talk.
“Now I will give you no more peace talks; for you do not like them. You
want war. These young warriors from the lower towns want war. You can
always have what you want if your medicine is strong. As I stood at the
door I heard this warrior shouting for war.”
And he turned to Dragging Canoe’s orator and snatched the ax from the
nonplussed warrior’s belt. With his knife he slashed his own forearm
and allowed the blood to drop on the head of the ax.
Before the stupefied circle could more than draw a breath he waved the
gory ax above his head and threw it at the feet of Old Tassel, defying—
“You, who want red war, pick up that red ax!”
Old Tassel drew back as if it were a deadly serpent. Wheeling on the
owner of the ax, Sevier invited:
“You pick it up for him. He is old and his bones are lame. You are
young and strong. You love war. Yours is the voice that raises the red
war-whoop. It is your ax and my blood is on it. You pick it up!”
The startled warrior glared from the chief to the borderer, then
dropped his gaze and folded his blanket about him and drew back.
“Ho! Dragging Canoe’s brave cries for the white man’s blood but will
not take back his own ax when there is white blood upon it!” jeered
Sevier, spurning the weapon with his foot. “Is there any one from the
lower towns who wants to pick up the ax? Remember, the Creeks will help
you—the Creeks who could not hold two white men prisoners. What
Chickamauga wants it? I call on the men from Running Water, from
Nickajack, from Long Island, from Crow Town, from Lookout Mountain
town. Who wants the red ax?”
Old Tassel scrambled to his feet and in a low voice announced:
“Red axes have no place in a peace council. Go back to the Nolichucky,
Little John, and tell your riflemen to put away their guns. The
Cherokees do not go to water or lay down a red path. I am an old man.
My path is steep and slippery. I will not make it red with blood. You
gave me a promise at Great Hiwassee. I gave you one. I said if you came
to me after going to McGillivray I would meet you in a grand council on
the French Broad. I will do so. Go to your home, Little John, before
your men ride into my country. You shall find nothing but white trails
between here and the French Broad. I have said it.”
“_Ku!_ But there is something else. How can I hold my riflemen back
when Creek warriors are crossing your land to strike us in the head? If
you are honest, see to it the Creeks are turned back home. For my
riflemen will believe you have given them a bloody belt if they see
them on your land. Ride! Ride fast, Utsidsata! Reach the Tellico before
I reach the Nolichucky, so my men may know your talk is straight when
you say you will come to a grand council. Send out warriors to drive
McGillivray’s Creeks where they belong—back on the Coosa. I will not
answer for peace unless this is done.”
Leaving the village, followed by the black scowls of the fighting-men,
Sevier lost no time in striking for the Hiwassee River a hundred miles
away. He left the warriors in the council-house inert and speechless
under the impress of his bold speech. His personal magnetism had once
more stood him in good stead, and did Old Tassel ride for the Tellico
before Watts returned to Turkey Town there was every likelihood of the
Cherokees refusing to complete their war-pact with the Creeks. A few
miles from the village, as he galloped along the eastern bank of the
upper Coosa, he found the Jumper waiting for him.
“Brother of the Deer, you have a talk for me,” he saluted as he drew
abreast of the silent figure.
“The man called Red Hajason is ahead with Creek warriors. They will
turn east at Fighting Town and make for the head of the Hiwassee, where
Red Hajason has his village.”
“Tsan-usdi thanks you. Old Tassel votes for peace. Go to him and say
that Little John demands the Creeks with Hajason be turned back home.”
The Jumper led a horse from the bush and scampered down the trail while
Sevier resumed his journey. The borderer knew he would not be molested
in the immediate vicinity of Turkey Town, but so soon as he encountered
warriors who had not learned of his last talk with the old chief there
was likely to be trouble. For it was accepted as a fact throughout the
nation that Old Tassel had been won over by the war-faction. So Sevier
held to the trail for a scant score of miles and then turned aside into
the forest, to proceed by stealth until the news of Old Tassel’s latest
decision could be carried to the northern towns.
Behind him the Cherokee smokes still answered the Creek signals, the
watchers confident that Chucky Jack was bottled up between the lines.
The result of the peace talk had not yet been conveyed to Chief Watts.
And Chucky Jack smiled as he pictured McGillivray’s rage on being told
Old Tassel was opposed to the Creek alliance.
“If he sticks to his word and keeps on being opposed!” Sevier murmured
as he picked his way beneath the ancient trees. “Can Watts win the
chief back again? Not if fear for his towns on the Little Tennessee
sends him home without meeting Watts. If he rides for home he will
sweep the country with the news that the ax is buried. I’ll save time
by waiting a bit to make sure. If he stays at Turkey Town, then Watts
will make him change his mind.”
That night he made his camp on the side of a hill overlooking the trail
to the north. Before sunrise he was up and anxiously scanning the worn
ribbon of a path where it debouched into an opening. Either Old Tassel
and his followers would pass within a few hours or had succumbed to the
insistence of the Chickamaugas. If the old chief was still for peace he
must be within a few hours’ ride of the borderer and would press on
hotly to avoid being overtaken by Watts.
With his gaze fixed on the opening Sevier saw the mist-ghosts rise and
draw their shrouds about them and vanish before the level rays of the
sun. For two hours the open trail was purified by sunlight; then a
horseman, riding hard, broke from the woods. Behind him came others,
until the borderer counted nearly two score, and in the middle of the
galloping line rode Old Tassel.
“I’ve won!” softly exclaimed Sevier, sinking limply back on the moss.
“Old Tassel hurries to the Tellico. That means peace! Now, McGillivray
of the Creeks, go ahead with your secret treaty with Spain, and be ——
to you!”
In great elation Sevier shot a turkey and ate his breakfast and
leisurely followed on after the warriors. The cry of peace would
radiate on all sides of their advance. Twice during the day he saw
Cherokees. One party he avoided. The second was afoot and hidden by a
twist in the trail and he rode into them unexpectedly. Instead of
seeking to force him to pass between them, they drew to one side.
Yet he halted and sternly asked—
“Is it peace?”
They presented empty hands, and an elderly warrior gravely answered—
“It is peace, Tsan-usdi.”
He galloped on. Could he but intercept the Tonpits he would set back
McGillivray’s plans for two years; and during that period of grace he
was confident his riflemen would increase in numbers until a show of
force on Spain’s part would be folly.
Toward evening, while looking about for a place to camp, he came to a
point in the trail where Old Tassel’s band had split into two parties.
The larger had turned in an easterly direction, the smaller had stuck
to the main trail leading north. He deduced the reason for this
division almost at once. The Jumper had told Old Tassel that Little
John wanted the Creeks and Hajason turned back, and the bulk of the
warriors were following the outlaw to strip him of his escort. The
chief and a few men had pushed on to make the Tellico.
With a solid night’s rest refreshing him and his mount Chucky Jack took
after the eastbound band; for he must be near at hand when Red Hajason
told the Tonpits they were free to go to Little Talassee. He knew Major
Tonpit would bitterly resent any interference with his plans and would
insist on going to the Emperor of the Creeks. In that event Sevier
planned to use the girl as a lever and take her from her father by
force if necessary. Did Jackson succeed in returning with the riflemen
the task would be simple; if he failed, then Chucky Jack must depend
upon his own medicine.
A day and a night and another morning, and just as he was about to
light his tiny fire there came the noise of many horsemen riding
carelessly. He stood at the head of his horse to prevent the animal
from betraying him. First came the Creeks who had gone north with
Hajason, and the borderer’s heart sang in victory. Behind them,
taciturn and determined, rode Old Tassel’s Cherokees. The Creeks were
sullen and talked none with their escort. Sevier now knew that Hajason
was alone, and no sooner had the Indians passed out of hearing than he
was riding madly along the trail to overtake the outlaw.
Near midday a bullet clipped through foliage on his right and missed
him only because of the Providential intervention of a hemlock bough.
He dropped behind his horse and drove the animal to a huge oak, where
he left him to slip into the woods and scout toward the source of the
murderous assault. He had advanced a score of rods when the rifle
barked again, this time back near the trail, showing his assailant had
doubled back.
Sevier ran rapidly, sacrificing cover for speed, for he feared his
unseen enemy was planning to steal his horse. As he broke into the
trail and beheld his mount by the oak there came the _thud-thud_ of
swift hoofs ahead, and he smiled grimly at the error in his reasoning.
The fellow had left his horse in the trail and was eager only to escape
after his two unsuccessful attempts at murder.
The borderer spurred after him, rejoicing at the prospect of an open
fight. Only once, however, did he sight his quarry. He had topped a
rise and the horseman ahead was beginning the descent of a low ridge.
Already the horse was hidden from view. Throwing forward his rifle and
taking quick aim, Sevier fired. The man’s fur hat leaped into the air.
On gaining the ridge Chucky Jack found the trail to be empty.
“He can consider that a promise of what’s coming,” Sevier told himself
as he paused to reload.
He raced on recklessly, feeling only contempt for a white man who would
seek to ambush one of his own colour, but he pulled his horse in
sharply enough on discovering the trail of the fugitive now showed two
sets of tracks. Either some one was pursuing him or had emerged from
the woods to ride with him.
“They’re friends. Two against one,” he decided after studying the
tracks carefully.
Night overtook him without his sighting the couple. This time he
arranged his camp with much cunning, camping apart from his evening
fire and arranging his blankets so as to resemble the muffled form of a
sleeper. He fell asleep at once and slumbered peacefully until aroused
by a rifle-shot.
“Daylight is when I want to meet you, my lads,” he drowsily murmured
before turning over and going to sleep again.
With the first light he returned to the dead camp-fire and retrieved
his blanket. There was a hole through one end of it. He examined the
ground and found where the intruder had stolen forward to shoot and
then ran away without investigating the success of his shot. That he
had retreated in haste was indicated by the broken sticks and the torn
up moss.
“Never even stopped to see if he got me,” murmured Sevier with a grin.
“Wonder if it was Hajason or the man who joined him. Hajason seemed to
have enough grit when he faced McGillivray.”
His visitor had come afoot and his trail was lost once he struck into
the main trail. Sevier lost some time in searching for the men’s camp,
then shrewdly decided he could pick them up by pressing on to the
headwaters of the Hiwassee. Moving cautiously, for even a coward’s lead
is not to be despised in the daylight, he covered a dozen miles and was
brought to keen attention by the muffled report of a rifle some
distance away.
This shot was not intended for him, and the field of conjecture was
very wide. Had it been followed by other shots he would have believed
the riflemen were heading off Hajason and his mate. But the forest
remained quiet enough and, leading his animal, he stole on. Suddenly a
frantic scrambling of a heavy body in a dense growth sent him to
shelter; and yet neither of the outlaws’ mounts could be creating this
confusion.
He stood erect, his gaze betraying his astonishment as a woman’s voice
close at hand shrieked the one word—
“Father!”
The anguish in her voice bespoke a deadly fear. Sevier darted toward
the sound. Again the voice rang out, this time in a cry of despair,
followed by a hoarse shout of triumph. And the bushes parted and a
maddened horse, riderless and with blood-smears on his flank, plunged
out and past the borderer.
Throwing caution to the winds, Sevier plunged ahead. A familiar voice
was exclaiming:
“Run ye down, pretty bird, didn’t I? Wasn’t fit for ye to wipe yer
leetle feet on—an’ now!”
Sevier became a shadow, but the speaker obviously attributed any noise
he had heard to the mad plunges of the riderless horse, for he
continued:
“Hajason can play some folks double, but not me, young woman. Now ye
quit that foolishness an’ git up on yer pins, or it’ll be the worse for
ye.”
Parting some cedar boughs, Sevier beheld Lon Hester. The villain was
still wearing his bedraggled cock’s feather and was standing beside his
horse and staring evilly at the limp form of Elsie Tonpit, where she
lay unconscious after being unseated by her crazed mount. The little
drama was clear; the girl had escaped and Hester had pursued and shot
her horse.
“—— if she ain’t pretty’s a picter,” gloated Hester, his face growing
bestial.
The girl was alive and Sevier waited. Hester continued, speaking aloud
to check off certain data:
“I can’t go back to Jonesboro. McGillivray might pay a ransom, an’ he
might string me up without even sayin’ thank ye. I reckon I’ll keep her
for myself, seein’ as nobody else ’pears to want her.”
It was at this point that Sevier noiselessly stepped from cover and
quietly informed—
“But I want her, Mr. Hester.”
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