All over-mountain men rode well, and their mounts were the envy of both red and white thieves. Among the saddle-bred, however, Chucky Jack was given the palm. Until he reached the French Broad, he spurred along openly, sticking to the trail. The occasional settlers he encountered invariably caught up their arms and made for their horses, only to be told their leader rode alone. After crossing the river the little clearings were more scattered and the approach of the rider brought the gaunt border-men to sharp attention, rifles ready, until he shouted his name.

Once south of the Broad he traversed a land where Death stalked abreast of each passing minute and the husbandman worked with his rifle at his side and the children were taught not to stray from the cabin door. For this was the ragged edge of Western life, where the first threads would be unraveled should the red scourge essay to tear its way to the mountains. On the right of the Great War-Path were scattered the homes of the Holston folks, a tense, grim people waiting for what the next hour might bring them.

Once below the rough parallelogram formed by the Watauga, the Holston and the Nolichucky, the horseman had left the settlements behind him and rode more circumspectly. The site of what was to be Knoxville would not receive its first visit from white men, James White and James Connor, for another three years. A tavern and a court-house marked the beginning of Greeneville. Below this “settled” area were a few “stations,” as the blockhouses were called, consisting of the usual stockade inclosing a few small cabins. Invariably these cases of civilization were girt about by the primeval forests.

“Sevier rides alone!” was the word flashed from clearing to clearing on both sides of the Great Trail, and men wondered, and women called the children indoors and stoically awaited the result of the wild gallop.

For Chucky Jack, their idol, was not given to racing into the wilderness unless spurred on by the imperative.

At the Tellico crossing Sevier met a frightened hunter who said he had seen a white man, riding like mad.

“Was there a girl with him?” asked Sevier.

No; he was alone, it seemed.

With a word of thanks Sevier warned:

“Get back to the Broad! This country won’t be safe for any honest white man.” And with a prick of the spur he was darting away.

At times he avoided small bands of Cherokees, but these were not overwatchful as none dreamed of a white man so far within their country. When near the Hiwassee, the borderer drew aside and sought a ford farther to the west of the regular crossing. River-crossings were the favourite haunts of those younger Cherokees who refused to heed the council of pacific elders.

Now, too, each mile of the way brought Sevier that much nearer to the lower towns on the Tennessee, where the motley hordes of white refugees, Shawnee outcasts, Creeks fleeing tribal punishment, as well as turbulent Cherokees, held the towns of Nickajack, Crow Town, Long Island, Lookout Mountain and Running Water. Implacable hatred for the whites was the occasion of these villages, and from them radiated an atmosphere of hostility that no number of peace talks could soften.

It was while seeking a ford that Sevier came upon something that furrowed his brows and caused him to examine his weapons. It was a soiled apron, thrown on a bush. It marked the passing of Polcher, and it openly advertised his identity to any passing savage. Its presence west of the regular ford told Sevier the man was hastening to the lower towns, where the Chickamaugas under Watts and Dragging Canoe would respond promptly to his urging for immediate war.

It revealed the cunning of the man, for, had he paused to win over Old Tassel’s people in the eastern villages, he would have lost valuable time and laid himself open to discovery by a pursuing posse of settlers.

“He strikes for headquarters of the war faction,” Sevier told himself. “Let him go. They can do nothing without the aid of the Creeks. My path lies south of Lookout Mountain town to the Coosa. All I ask is that I may overtake the Tonpits.”

His rapid, stealthy flight, his evasion of all villages minimized his chances of picking up Tonpit’s trail. But, knowing the couple were safe in the Cherokee country and convinced they were making for McGillivray’s town on the Coosa, he had planned to press forward with all speed to the head of the river below the Chickamauga towns and there endeavour to intercept the two. If luck were with him, he would accomplish this before Polcher had finished his talk with Watts.

Dismounting, he studied the faint trail left by Polcher’s horse and decided it was at least twenty-four hours old. This lead was in part represented by the tavern-keeper’s hurried flight from Jonesboro and in part by his freedom to ride posthaste by the shortest route regardless of villages. On the whole Sevier was much pleased with his own progress, for he had been compelled to make detours and to dodge roving bands of savages.

He followed the trail to the river and studied the opposite side with care. There was no sign of life except a huhu, or yellow mocking-bird. High in the heavens floated the awahili, the great sacred bird of the Cherokees, the war-eagle. The superstitious would have found an ill omen in the eagle’s course toward the Chickamauga towns.

Its white tail-feathers tipped with black would buy the best horse in any village. It could be killed only after the crops had been gathered and the snakes had denned for Winter, just as the eagle songs must not be sung until the snakes were asleep. But Sevier was not superstitious, and, if he found any symbol in the great bird’s majestic flight, it prompted him to picture the expansion of a mighty nation toward the western sun.

Taking his horse by the bridle he waded into the ford and the mocking-bird darted away. He was hoping no Indian had seen the songster’s fright when there sounded behind him the click of a rifle being cocked. He stopped with the water swirling about his knees and looked back. A glance sufficed to tell him his plight was hopeless did he offer resistance. Fully a dozen warriors were on the bank with rifles aimed.

Turning and leading his horse back to them, Sevier complained—

“When a Cherokee brings a talk to Tsan-usdi he is not met with a pointed gun.”

One of the warriors met him as he came out of the river and relieved him of his rifle and belt and significantly replied—

“They say that when a Cherokee went to see Little John he left his scalp.”

Eyes flashed, and bronzed hands played with knife and ax at the speech. Sevier knew Polcher had begun spreading his poisonous tale and that by this time the story was radiating through the wilderness, village after village catching it up and passing it on. Like magic would the news spread throughout the nation.

“By the lips of a Cherokee himself you shall learn that it is a lie. None of your brothers has been harmed in Jonesboro where the Cherokee talks are brought to me,” quietly answered Sevier. “Who commands here?”

“We follow John Watts,” sullenly replied the warrior.

“Chickamaugas, hopelessly hostile,” Sevier inwardly exclaimed. Then aloud, “Where is he? I bring him a talk. I have come fast as the wind to see him.”

“He is near. You shall see him,” was the grim reply.

“Then do not keep me waiting,” was the brusque command. And the borderer leaped on his horse.

The Indians feared him as they had never feared white or red man, and, although he was unarmed and greatly outnumbered, they kept their distance and nervously covered him with their guns as if fearing some magic. The temporary leader of the band went ahead and frequently glanced back to make sure Chucky Jack was not too close to his heels.

Sevier whistled softly, outwardly calm and indifferent. As a fact, he would have preferred that almost any other man than Watts should be ahead of him. He had fought Watts and whipped him, but he respected him for his courage and shrewdness. He considered him the most astute of all the Cherokee leaders, the one chief destined to succeed Old Tassel. Watts was hopelessly belligerent, where Old Tassel sought to gain his ends by trickery and diplomacy.

“Where is Tall Runner?” Sevier sharply called out to the warrior ahead.

“Ask those who laid down the Black Path for his feet to follow to the Twilight Land,” was the ominous answer.

“Tall Runner will come to give you the lie,” coolly declared Sevier. “He has not gone to the ever-darkening land in the west.”

The savages’ firm belief in the warrior’s demise set the borderer to wondering, however. What if Polcher had overtaken Tall Runner? It might easily have happened that the fleeing horseman had come upon Old Tassel’s messenger. And, had it happened, Sevier hadn’t the slightest doubt concerning the tavern-keeper’s readiness to slay the man and blame his death on Jonesboro. He suddenly decided that his life was most critically in the balance.

“The soul of Tall Runner turns to nothing. It becomes blue,” chanted the warrior ahead, his voice taking on the intonation of a shaman.

Sevier held his tongue, knowing his fight must be waged with Chief Watts. In silence the party passed up the bank for a mile and then crossed and struck into a well-beaten path and turned northwest. Another mile and they came to a village. The habitations were substantial log structures surrounding a council-house. Evidently it was a prosperous village, for hogs and fowls wandered about in large numbers, and many horses grazed on the outskirts. Gardens of beans and corn flourished between potato-fields and fields of squash. Along the edge of the clearing stretched peach orchards.

Women engaged in basketry and pottery ceased their labours as Sevier was brought in, then pretended not to have seen him and bowed over their work.

A little girl, carrying a milk-tooth by a string and intent on replacing it by the time-honoured custom of invoking dayi, the beaver, famous for his strong teeth, came running round a cabin. She shrilly cried out four times, “Dayi skinta” (“Beaver, put a new tooth in my jaw”) and completed the formula by throwing the tooth on the parental roof. Not seeing Sevier because of her excitement, she bumped into him as he leaped to the ground.

Her terrified squeal was hushed as Chucky Jack caught her up and smiled into her little face. He patted her head and fished out a small trade mirror from his hunting-shirt and pressed it into her hand and earnestly assured:

“The Gnawer will give you a new tooth very soon. Look in this each morning, and some morning you will see it.”

With that he set her on her feet. She opened her mouth to bleat in fear but caught a glimpse of her face in the mirror and smiled and decided there was nothing to be afraid of. Neither warrior nor squaw gave any sign of having noticed the little incident, but among the women looks were exchanged as the great borderer was conducted to the council-house. And more than one mother whispered in awe—

“Tsan-usdi!”

Ignoring the cane-benches, which were reserved for the head men, Sevier threw himself down on a bearskin and curtly demanded:

“Where is John Watts? Do not keep me waiting.”

Fear and respect dominated his captors, and the leader replied:

“He will be here soon. A messenger has gone for him. He rode early this morning and should now be coming back.”

“Do not keep me waiting,” Sevier repeated.

The warriors withdrew and took up positions about the council-house. As the leader passed out, he reached to one side and caught up something and carried it before him, but not before Sevier recognized it as a large soapstone pipe. His features changed none, yet the warrior’s stealthy act in withdrawing the pipe kept alive his sense of danger. The removal of the pipe had two significances: it had been used in cementing a peace pact; and it was not to be offered to Sevier.

“The Creeks came here hotfoot on learning the Watauga settlements had been ceded to the central Government and are no longer under Carolina’s jurisdiction. Watts has struck a bargain with McGillivray,” Sevier quickly deduced.

Half an hour passed with the village remaining very quiet. Then sounded a slight confusion, and the prisoner knew Chief Watts had returned. The low murmur of voices suddenly ceased. The little girl wishing the new tooth shyly thrust her head through the door and invited the stranger to confidences and more gifts. A strong hand gently lifted her away; then Chief Watts, arrayed for hunting but carrying no weapons except the knife in his belt, entered the room, followed by a file of head men.

“I greet you, Little John,” he gravely saluted as he seated himself on a bench.

“You have kept me waiting,” rebuked Sevier.

Watts’ beady eyes flickered a tribute to Sevier’s nerve, and with ironical meekness he replied:

“I am sorry. As soon as I knew you were here, I came. What is your business so far inside the Cherokee country?”

“I seek a murderer, a white man. I have no time to waste. Three thousand riflemen will misunderstand my absence and come searching for me if I do not get back to them.”

The warriors fidgeted uneasily at this threat. Chief Watts’ visage became malignant, and he hissed—

“It would have been better for you if you had brought your riflemen with you.”

“It will be much worse for the Cherokee Nation if I do not return,” was the prompt reply.

“That is as it will be,” rumbled the chief. “I ask you why you or some of your men killed Tall Runner of the Wolf.”

“A renegade brought you that lie. You know it is a lie,” Sevier calmly retorted.

Watts half rose with hand on knife, then sank back on the bench. Sevier continued—

“The man who told you that is a murderer and the man I am after.”

“He killed Tall Runner?” sneered Watts.

“He killed a white man. No one killed Tall Runner. There is peace between the Little Tennessee towns and the Watauga settlements. Tall Runner was a messenger from Old Tassel, who is our friend. Why should we kill him? The Runner brought me talk from Old Tassel about a grand council. I sent a talk back to him, saying I would meet him and all friendly Cherokees in council and settle the trouble about the settlers moving on to the lands south of the French Broad.”

“No such talk was brought to me,” said Watts.

“That is for Old Tassel to look after. Perhaps he knows you already have made a treaty with the Creeks; that you want war against the whites.”

“Why do you say such things?” cried Watts.

“Why do you hide the white peace-pipe when I’m brought here? The pipe you have just smoked with the chiefs sent by McGillivray?”

“It is false. My people do not want war with the whites. They only ask to have back the lands they always held from the beginning of things, the lands the whites have stolen from them.”

“It is true you have made a bargain with McGillivray. You are a renegade Cherokee. You lead the Chickamaugas. You have Shawnees in your cabins, bad Indians who dare not go home to their Ohio brothers. Beware, John Watts. The Chickamauga towns have been burned once. The fire is kindled that will burn from Crown Town to Running Water.”

“Who will lead the Watauga men when they bring that fire?” hoarsely asked the chief, his bronzed chest rising and falling spasmodically as he fought to retain his self-control, to keep his hand off his knife.

“Nolichucky Jack will lead them,” was the even response.

“Little John, you are said to have killed a man of the Wolf. Were you many times Chucky Jack you should die,” Watts passionately declared.

“If it is proved I killed him, or that he was killed by any of my men, I will shoot myself,” Sevier readily promised. “But, if he is alive, you will be sorry you held me here. If he has been killed on Cherokee land by Polcher, the murderer, then I demand that Polcher be handed over to me to be hanged. After he is dead you can have his scalp.”

The warriors along the cane-benches stirred and twisted uneasily at these bold words, and more than one began considering the possibility of there being any truth in the intimation that the tavern-keeper was the assassin. Chief Watts was quick to note the disturbing effect of the borderer’s speech and loudly proclaimed:

“Our shamans have looked into the Great Crystal and have seen you and the Tall Runner facing each other with a bloody knife between you, the point at the Runner’s breast. And the Tall Runner has not come.”

“No shaman has seen me in the Ulunsuti as you tell,” Sevier denied, his serene countenance belying his conviction that Watts was determined to remove him from the path of Spain and was prepared to use the shamans in order to still any protest from Old Tassel.

Watts rose and extended his hand, shaking a finger dramatically at Sevier, fiercely demanding—

“You dare to say a Cherokee was not killed and scalped at Jonesboro a few days ago; that you did not hold a council in your council-house and saw the raw scalp placed before you?”

Now Sevier knew for a certainty that Polcher was near and had told his story to the lower towns. Nor did Sevier care to explain that a Creek had been killed, and not a Cherokee; for that news, relayed to McGillivray, would bring even greater evil. He was forced to believe Watts was sincere in considering Tall Runner dead. The messenger’s failure to return home was alarming. He found one slim hope to cling to: Tall Runner had started from one of the Little Tennessee towns and had returned there. During his absence Old Tassel had set out on a journey and the Runner had not yet caught up with him.

“After Tall Runner gave me his talk and had received mine and was ready to start back, I told the settlers of Jonesboro I would hang the man who crossed his homeward trail. And they know Chucky Jack keeps his word,” Sevier declared.

Watts seemed impressed and remained silent for several moments, his head bowed. Then he rose and with racial dignity said:

“I will send a runner to find Old Tassel to see if anything new has been heard from his messenger. But if the Cherokees should find their red brother had been killed and scalped—just as it is now believed in this village that he dwells where it is ever growing dark—and if Little John should be asked to cover the dead with his blood, who is there to become angry and make war-medicine against us?”

“My riflemen know how and when to make war-medicine.”

“Little birds whisper that they can do nothing without a leader; that their minds are in many pieces, some crying for Spain to buy their tobacco, some saying they will make themselves into a new nation and have done with Chucky Jack, who plans to join the Thirteen Fires (thirteen States).”

Sevier folded his arms and stared over the chief’s head. Watts continued:

“It can not be that North Carolina will be angry if the spirit of Tsan-usdi travels to the spirit land in the West, for Carolina has driven him from her cabin. The Thirteen Fires will not ask presents for his death, for the Thirteen Fires are made of green wood and give more smoke than flame and will soon die out. The Thirteen Fires are not like fires; they are like an old man without legs to run on, without hands to lift the ax, like an old man who can only open his mouth and make foolish sounds.”

With the quickness of a released steel spring Sevier came to his feet, and, before a savage could guess his purpose, he had Watts’ scalp-lock in his left hand and Watts’ knife in his right and in a low, vibrant voice was warning:

“I am an American. Say what you will about the Watauga, about Carolina. But, by the white man’s God, another black word against the Thirteen Fires and I’ll empty your flesh of blood!”

They stood breast to breast, their eyes fighting the old, old battle, with no warrior daring to move for fear of precipitating a tragedy. Nor was there any cowardice in Watts’ bearing when he finally broke the tense silence by saying:

“Little John of the Nolichucky is a brave man. The Great Spirit has caused him to be so.”

Sevier stepped back and, holding the knife by the tip, extended it, saying:

“My medicine is strong without this. John Watts would be a great man if he did not listen to the evil talks sent him by Alexander McGillivray.”

“You would not say these things to McGillivray of the Creeks.”

“All, and more. Now I demand to see the man Polcher, who killed a white man.”

“You shall see him,” quietly promised the chief.

And with a deep bow Watts dropped the knife in his belt and led his warriors from the room.

Sevier knew enough of the Indian character to realize that never had he stood as high in Chief Watts’ estimation as now. This knowledge deceived him none as to his danger, however. Even if Polcher should fail to erase this last impression, the chief would persist in believing the future of his race depended on the elimination of all white settlements west of the Alleghanies. To preserve his people he would use whatever tools came at hand, whether furnished by Creek, Spaniard or the Evil One himself.

Now that the over-mountain men were disowned and told to find a guardian in the handicapped central Government, the wily leader realized the Cherokee Nation stood at the threshold of its destiny. Sevier represented the element opposing the red man’s ascendancy; therefore, he must be removed. No man had ever been more highly esteemed by the Indians as a fighter, and the full measure of praise would be given him even while the sentence of death was being carried out. Sevier had found this recognition of merit to be a characteristic of every Indian tribe with which he had had dealings. Torture and the torments of hell would be accompanied by the sincere acknowledgment of the victim’s virtues.

Sevier stepped to a window and noticed the guard on that side had been withdrawn. A similar inspection on the other three sides revealed the same negligence. But the borderer was not to be decoyed into imagining he could escape to the forest by a sudden rush. He knew he was circled about by sharp weapons and sharper eyes and that, should he attempt to escape, he would be despatched off-hand. Such an ending of his captivity would relieve Watts from any censure on the part of Old Tassel and his faction.

Leaning from an open window, Sevier found the invitation to attempt an escape was accented by the absence of even the women and children. The village appeared to be deserted. He smiled grimly at such a transparent ruse. He had fought too many times with the nation, had whipped it too often, to imagine the warriors would neglect any oversight that would insure his captivity. And yet the manoeuvre made him think more kindly of Watts. The chief fought for the future of his people; he preferred to remove the stumbling-block in the council-house without brutality.

There was something in the drowsy atmosphere of the village that was reminiscent of James Robertson’s last visit to his home on the Nolichucky. The fancy was absurd and yet persisted; something that now thrilled him with a promise of succour, and yet too vaguely remembered to take a tangible form in his thoughts. He forced his recollections over the back trail. He recalled the evening. He could see Robertson at the table, talking. Then there flashed across the sensitive screen of his memory the words:

Then Moses severed three cities on this side Jordan toward the sunrising; that the slayer might flee thither, which should kill his neighbour unawares, and hated him not in times past; and that fleeing unto one of these cities he might live.

Now he had it through the seeming irrelevancy of some passages of Scripture. Robertson had been to Echota, and had spoken of it as a “white,” or “peace” town. Sevier had summoned it back to mind through the association of ideas. The Cherokees had degenerated in other matters, but they still held strictly to their ancient law and vouchsafed a refuge to the murderer which was even more liberal than that set forth in Deuteronomy. For, while Moses had stipulated that wilful or premeditated homicide placed the offender outside the pale of sanctuary on the east side of Jordan, the old Cherokee law protected even the wilful slayer once he gained Echota.

Sevier knew a trader, a white man, who had demanded and secured sanctuary at Echota after slaying an Indian in defence of his goods. This man had even been warned by the chiefs that he would be waylaid and killed on his way home unless he first appeased the dead man’s relatives with gifts. Sixteen years back Oconostota, speaking for the Cherokee Nation at Johnson Hall on the Mohawk, in the course of making peace with the Iroquois, had said—

“We come from Chotte, where the white house, the house of peace, is erected.”

But this was not Echota, and yet the vague promise of help persisted in the borderer’s mind. Then there walked through his thoughts the figure of a Frenchman, who had visited him at Jonesboro, having come from the Creek country and passing near the lower towns, and the Frenchman had told of finding rest and security.

“I have it now!” softly exclaimed Sevier, lifting his head and glancing sharply about the village.

The domesticated fowls scratched and pecked before the silent cabins. Pigs grunted and nosed about. Then a small face shyly peeped round the corner of a cabin, and Sevier smiled as he beheld the little maid who had prayed to the beaver for a new tooth. She held up the trade mirror and ventured a few steps toward him. A low admonition from inside the cabin was ignored by the tot. Suddenly making up her mind, she ran to the window and gleefully held up the mirror for him to look in, then gravely opened her mouth and used the glass in seeking the belated gift of Dayi.

Sevier chucked her under the chin. A woman came running from the cabin and seized the child by the arm, perhaps fearing that the white man would bewitch her.

“Listen, woman,” Sevier commanded under his breath. “Is this Ayuhwasi?”

“Ayuhwasi Egwahi,” the woman timidly corrected as she caught up the child and hurried away.

Sevier drew a long breath and turned from the window to conceal his smile. It was the town the French trader had mentioned. And by what a round-about way had the borderer recalled it! A fragment from Deuteronomy, a flash of memory concerning his old friend James Robertson’s talk of Echota —and Chucky Jack was now ready to meet Chief Watts, his head men and the villain, Polcher, and dicker for his life.

The intrusion of the child seemed to be a signal for the deathly quiet to break up. There sounded a hoarse, monotonous chanting of a shaman, the shuffling tread of warriors moving with ceremonial step, and then John Watts, followed by Polcher and a string of warriors, entered the council-house, their faces devoid of expression, their eyes resting on the prisoner as if not seeing him. Watts and Polcher took seats side by side, and, had not Sevier been looking for the tavern-keeper, he would not have recognized him.

Polcher now was all Indian. Gone the smirk and urbanity of his white role. In discarding the garments of the settlements he had taken on the status of the red man. His features were all Indian, and yet three-fourths of his blood was white. What especially served to disguise him was his elaborate head-dress of eagle feathers. Sevier stared at the feathers intently, then began smiling. As the line of warriors scowled blackly at his show of mirth, he threw off all restraint and laughed aloud.

Before he could be interrogated, he pointed a derisive finger at Polcher and demanded:

“Are the Cherokees mad, or are their medicine-men fools, that they allow an eagle to be killed before the snakes have gone to sleep? Have the Cherokee towns lost all their eagle-killers?”

This unexpected outburst caused the warriors to exchange glances of consternation. The twelve feathers on the breed’s head were surely from the tail of the mighty awahili, the great war-eagle, especially sacred and prominent in all rites pertaining to the war-path.

Watts frowned and said something under his breath. Polcher boldly assured:

“My medicine told me to kill the eagle. It was sick and would have died.”

“He has killed the eagle and has taken its feathers without first allowing it to remain four days on the ground!” cried Sevier.

The warriors edged apart from Watts and Polcher, for it was known that the insects on the eagle’s feathers will cause a serious skin disease to any who wears them without first leaving them on the ground four days.

Knowing Sevier had thrown him on to the defensive, Polcher declared—

“My medicine protects me from the eagle-sickness.”

But Sevier was not yet done with him and roundly scored:

“Does your medicine save the Cherokees’ corn? You have killed an eagle out of season. Surely the frost will come and kill the corn.”

This, also, was accepted as an incontrovertible fact, and Chief Watts realized the council would be thrown into confusion unless Chucky Jack were headed off. Bringing his two hands together for silence, he cried out:

“That business can wait. Little John need not worry about Cherokee corn. He has asked to see the man who says he killed Tall Runner. The man is here and will speak.”

Polcher rose, and a smile twisted his evil face for a moment as he met Sevier’s eyes. Then the red man’s immobility returned, and he began:

“Tall Runner of the Wolf was killed in Jonesboro. I did not see him killed, but my white friends did. I did see his scalp in the court-house. It was placed on the table before Little John. I tried to get the scalp to bring to you, but Little John destroyed it.”

He sat down and indulged in another smile of hate as the line of warriors grunted in unison. Sevier addressed Watts and said:

“This man murdered an old white man. I have followed him here. Will you give him up, or must I come with my riflemen?”

Chief Watts smiled in keen enjoyment at the borderer’s boldness. His voice was low and almost gentle as he replied:

“Little John, Little John! Your white law does not reach here. A Cherokee has killed an old white man. What of it? It were better if he had killed a young white man. You ask if you shall come with your riflemen. If you can find them in the ever-darkening land, and your medicine will let you come back, we can not stop you. You have asked to see the man you hunted. He is here. He is one of your judges. Listen now to what this council shall decide.

“Brothers, it is said a Cherokee was killed in or near Jonesboro. What do we find?”

“A Cherokee was killed,” came the answer.

“It is said he is Tall Runner of the Wolf. What do we find?”

“Tall Runner was killed.”

“It is said a white man killed him. What is the colour of the slayer?”

“He is a white man.”

The chief paused and cast a glance at Sevier. The borderer knew the climax was about to be sprung but concealed any concern he might have felt by staring at the eagle’s feathers and smiling sardonically.

“Brothers, it is said Little John of the Nolichucky killed Tall Runner. What do we find?”

“Tsan-usdi killed Tall Runner.”

Chief Watts rose and stared gravely at the prisoner. Polcher leaned forward and grinned in open malevolence.

“There is but one more vote to take, my brothers,” slowly said the chief, speaking almost sadly. “What is your answer, brothers?”

“Death to Little John!” chorused the council.

Polcher laughed aloud. The chief scowled at him.

As Watts resumed his seat, Sevier leisurely smoothed out his hunting-shirt, brushed back his brown hair and calmly fixed his blue eyes on the chief. His first words were a question, an unlooked for and astounding query.

“How long since John Watts, leader of the renegade Cherokees who live in the five lower towns on the Tennessee, gives the law in Great Hiwassee? How long since the hostiles, calling themselves ‘Chickamaugas,’ can leave their five towns and come here to Ayuhwasi Egwahi—Great Hiwassee—a white town and a peace town, and pronounce the sentence of death?”

Watts started convulsively and bared his teeth in a wolfish snarl. Polcher yelled a white man’s curse and grabbed at his belt. Watts seized the breed’s hand and flung it down, then became wooden of face. His followers grunted aloud. Polcher passionately cried:

“The white man lies. Echota is the white town. Ayuhwasi Egwahi is a red town and the path to it is red.”

“Dog of a mixed-breed!” thundered Sevier, levelling a finger at him. “Your soul shall curl up and become as nothing. Killer of great war-eagle out of season, your bones shall rattle in blackness! You dare deny the law of the Cherokees!”

The one shaman present shivered, his eyes glistening with fear, and, unable to witness the blazing scorn the blue eyes were pouring into Polcher, drew his blanket over his head. Watts could not entirely cover up his concern, and, turning to the shaman, he asked—

“What does our father say as to the law?”

The shaman’s figure trembled, for he had great fear of Chief Watts’ anger, even though he were a medicine-man. In a quavering voice he informed—

“A long time ago, when all the old things were new, when water-bears lived at the bottom of the Oconaluftee River, this village of Ayuhwasi Egwahi was a white town.”

“It has not been used as such in three lives,” cried Polcher.

“A man-slayer has never been refused refuge,” said Sevier.

Motioning them to be still, Watts fixed his gleaming gaze on the shaman and said:

“I have given many bales of black and red cloth to our medicine-men. Now, my father, when was the law changed?”

And he leaned forward and sought to catch the shaman’s eye. But the medicine-man’s fear of physical violence was as nothing compared with his fear of witches, blue and black spirits and dreams that sapped one’s soul away.

Keeping his face in the blanket, he answered—

“It can not be changed so long as the town stands.”

“Yu!” cried Sevier in triumph. “And now, John Watts, how dare you come from your renegade towns, from your outcast Shawnees and Creeks, your runaway Cherokees and white dogs, and try to break the law of the Cherokees? How dare you bring this creature, neither white nor red, and let him enter a council and vote for death while he is wearing the feathers of the sacred awahili? You say I murdered a Cherokee or had him murdered. I say you and that mongrel dog lie. You say Tall Runner was killed in Jonesboro. I say he lives and goes to find Old Tassel, unless he was killed by that white-Indian after returning to his own people.

“But believe me to be a murderer, or pretend to believe me a murderer. Believe what you will, and still I laugh at you and the man called Polcher. For I appeal to the ancient law of the Cherokees, the law that has never been set aside and can not be set aside so long as a single white town stands on Cherokee soil! I demand my life so long as I stay here in Great Hiwassee. And, by the living God, who is God of both white and red, do you break that ancient law at your peril!”