Watts glared in speechless rage, then sank back helpless. Polcher slyly drew a pistol, only to find his arm seized by the frightened shaman and the weapon twisted from his hand. The warriors gritted their teeth but offered no violence. It was the law. Human blood must never be spilled in a white town. It was also the law among the Creeks and, if old memories were to be trusted, among the Senecas of the Long House. Superstition cowed those who would have scant regard for some other tribal laws.

Sevier was still flushed with victory when Watts drew himself erect and smiled coldly on the borderer and in a mocking voice said:

“So be it. Woe to the Cherokee who breaks the law!” And he paused to dart a warning glance at the enraged tavern-keeper. “But listen, Little John; the law says you shall receive no hurt so long as you stay here. So long as you stay here.”

Sevier winced. Time was all precious. He must overtake the Tonpits and turn them back. The man’s mad ambitions unfitted him for cool-headed scheming, and it might result that his zeal would embarrass the cause of Spain. Yet, such as he was, he was essential in binding McGillivray to the Cherokees and to the white malcontents back in the Watauga country. Could he and the Emperor of the Creeks be kept apart? McGillivray’s formidable plans might easily go amiss, or at least be delayed until the border riflemen could prepare for the war.

Sevier appreciated Tonpit’s erratic nature and yet did not underestimate him. He came from a proud family. He was austere in personality but could surely gather a following among the recent arrivals over the mountains. Old-timers would stick by Sevier and blindly follow his lead. Many of the newcomers and the lawless element—the last as a unit—would huzza for Tonpit. The Indians only asked for two hostile factions among the settlers. Aided by the Creeks, they would side with Tonpit.

So Sevier had reason for dismay as he considered the trap he was in. Just so long as he remained within the limits of the town, all trails would be white and he would be treated courteously. Not even Polcher, now he had been taught his lesson, would raise a hand against him. But let him step over the line, and he became legitimate game for any ax.

Chief Watts gauged his thoughts correctly and motioned for Polcher to withdraw. After the tavern-keeper had departed, the chief with mock gravity said—

“My new brother, who has come to live with us, understands where he can walk and where he must not walk?”

“He understands,” was the cheerful reply. “As he is weary, he will be glad to rest here until the next Green Corn Dance wipes out the crime he never committed.”

“When new fire is given to take the place of the old, he will be free to go unharmed,” admitted Watts, well satisfied, to hold Sevier a prisoner until the corn was ready for harvesting, or about the middle of August. Watts believed the die would be cast inside of thirty days and that, without Sevier to stiffen their morale, the settlers would be conquered.

Watts was the last of the warriors to leave. At the door he called out a command, and a man handed him in Sevier’s rifle and a belt. Presenting these to the borderer, the chief gravely said:

“These are yours. No one shall say the Cherokees are thieves even if the whites have stolen their land.”

“I shall feel easier for having them so long as Polcher is in the village.”

“You need have no fear of Polcher. He will not think of harming a hair of your head. He showed anger while here, but that is because he has lived long among whites and forgets the law. Now he knows; he will not reach for his knife again—in Great Hiwassee.”

“If I choose to try to escape, can I have my horse?”

“Your horse is at the edge of the village with the others. Take him any time. It is your horse. If you care to take the risk, you shall set out in as good condition as you were in when my young men brought you here.”

“I will remember it in your favour when next I have you under my rifle,” said Sevier, his eyes sparkling as he examined his rifle and pistol and found they had not been tampered with. “You stay here?”

“I have work to do in my lower towns,” was the enigmatic reply, illuminated somewhat by the peculiar smile accompanying the words.

“Preparing for war while I wait for the corn to be harvested. On coming here I saw a war-eagle flying away. What was it a sign of? Your defeat?”

Watts looked sober. More progressive in his ideas than the bulk of his people, yet he could not discard many of the superstitions. Secretly he was alarmed that Polcher had killed an eagle out of season, yet that was a fault that did not necessarily spell disaster. To make light of the disquieting suggestion he indifferently said:

“We have shamans to read signs. It is enough for you to know that all crimes die out and are forgotten when old fires die and are replaced by the new. You have your choice, Little John. Stay and live, or step over the line and have an ax stuck in your head. Ku!”

“I have heard you,” was the quiet reply.

Free to come and go, Sevier quit the council-house and wandered about the village. Feeling hungry, he entered a cabin and found the little girl playing with the mirror. He was promptly provided with beans and venison. The father of the child eyed him stealthily. The child boldly ran to him and climbed on his knee. Sevier knew these were his friends insofar as they could be such without betraying their people.

“Has a white man and a white woman passed through this village since the little one lost her tooth?” he asked as he ate.

The man turned away, but the woman shook her head, and Chucky Jack knew she answered truthfully. He was disappointed, yet remembered it was very possible he had passed ahead of them. Tonpit would be held back by the girl. It was also possible they had passed the village without entering it. And he persisted—

“Have you heard of a white man and woman travelling to the Coosa?”

Again the man pretended not to have heard the query, and once more the woman silently answered in the negative. He was puzzled. He knew the Tonpits could pass without hindrance once it was known they were bound for McGillivray’s town. And, did they pass, the news would be flashed from village to village with incredible swiftness.

“It must be that I’ve got ahead of them; that Polcher got far ahead of them,” he decided as he finished his meal. “Tonpit would have to stop and give the girl a chance to rest. Even at that it’s queer no word is brought ahead of their coming.”

He went outside, wondering if by any chance Tonpit had changed his plans and struck for Governor Miro’s headquarters at Pensacola. The girl’s hurried scrawl told her lover they were bound for Little Talassee. This substantiated his theory that McGillivray had demanded her as a hostage to bind Tonpit to his bargain. This line of conjecture brought Kirk Jackson to mind, and he speculated on the young man’s whereabouts. How long would he hide from the settlers, thinking a mob was after him to give him short shift?

“Just long enough to feel sure he could find me in the court-house,” was the borderer’s decision on this point. “On learning I’ve gone and that he’s safe in the settlement, he’ll wait just long enough to get a horse and come pounding after the girl. Wish I’d left a note for him to stay there, although that would have no effect on a young man in love.”

Realizing the folly of further speculation, he brought his mind to bear on his immediate surroundings and strolled out to see his horse. The faithful animal ran to him to be petted. To leap on his back and speed down the trail would take but a minute. He had his arms and had eaten. While making much of the horse, he cast his glance about. The woods were quiet, scarcely a breath stirring the foliage. The itching to be off almost tempted him, then he turned away and walked but a few rods toward the cabins when Watts came from behind a bush.

“No, John,” he said before the other could speak; “I decided not to risk it. For a bit I believed it could be done; then I saw tsiskwaya, the little sparrow, fly upward, afraid of something on the ground.”

“Tsiskwaya saw a snake,” suggested Watts.

“He wore Cherokee paint,” smiled Sevier.

The chief lowered at him evilly, a heavy scowl distorting his dark face. The borderer knew something had gone wrong with his enemy and philosophically decided he ought to be benefitted by whatever had displeased the chief.

“My brother is angry because I did not ride down the trail,” he said.

Watts snarled like a tree-cat, then forced his face to composure and said:

“I am angry at your narrow escape. If you had gone down the trail, the snake might have bitten you. Who knows? Bad dreams would have come to me if you had been harmed.”

“Just what does that mean?” Sevier suspiciously asked.

Watts pointed to the end of the village, where warriors were filing in between the first cabins.

“Old Tassel comes, and with him is the Tall Runner, the man of the Wolf, who Polcher said was dead.”

Sevier could scarcely credit his eyes. Old Tassel and Tall Runner rode ahead of the band.

“Then I am free to go. I do not need to wait for the Green Corn Dance to wipe out all sins,” he cried.

“Little John is as free as the birds of the air,” quickly assured Watts. “His horse is waiting. He has his rifle, pistol and ax. He had better go before Old Tassel asks him to stay. If there is a snake in the woods, I will drive him away.” And he raised two fingers to his lips and whistled shrilly. The signal was promptly answered. “The path is open and smooth,” he said to Sevier.

There was a strong possibility that Old Tassel would insist on his remaining in the village. Sevier had learned, however, that he invariably profited by doing the opposite to what hostiles like Watts wished him to do. Now that luck had permitted him to meet Old Tassel, whose pacific inclinations were a thorn in the side of the war-faction, he instantly became determined to win some advantage from the encounter.

“Where is the man Polcher?” he asked.

“He is here somewhere.”

“I think my medicine is telling me to see Old Tassel before I go,” he announced. With that he hastened forward, followed by the chief, and overtook Old Tassel in front of the council-house.

The old chief was not prepared for the meeting, and his alarmed manner of glancing about suggested an expectation of beholding a band of Chucky Jack’s famous riflemen. His show of perturbation impelled Sevier to wonder what tricks the wily old diplomat was up to. The Tall Runner ignored Sevier’s presence entirely.

“My brother did not think to see me here,” greeted Sevier, grasping the chief by the hand.

“My brother is far from home,” mumbled the chief.

“Not when he is in the home of his friends,” corrected Sevier. “Come, let us open a bag of talk. I sent you a talk by Tall Runner to say I would meet you in council. I am here alone to do so.”

Old Tassel stared in amazement at his audacity. The warriors behind the old man exchanged puzzled glances and tightened their grip on their axes. Sevier noted the hostile demonstration and read the red minds easily. Never before had they been given such an opportunity. Many times Chucky Jack and his mounted riflemen had struck them and wounded them sorely. Now he was in their midst, far from the settlements and seemingly alone. The last fact they could scarcely believe.

As their gaze turned to suspiciously sweep the forest, John Watts spoke up, assuring:

“Little John rides alone. My young men found him and brought him here.”

“To this white town of peace,” added Sevier. “What could be better than to hold our talk in a peace town, where evil thoughts and bloodshed are not known?”

Old Tassel’s braves glanced at Watts, as if asking if that were the reason the borderer was still alive, and found their answer in his gloomy eyes. Old Tassel shook off his confusion and assented:

“We will hear my brother’s talk. The Cherokees do not want war with the whites. My brother would be safe in a peace town or a red town, as safe as he would be on the Holston or the French Broad.”

The sullen countenances of his followers and the half-masked ferocity of Watts left room for doubt as to the unanimity of this sentiment, but no word was spoken as the two chiefs and representative men filed into the council-house and took their places.

After a decorous pause Sevier rose and said:

“Evil birds have whispered to the Cherokees, and the nation now refuses to keep the chain of friendship from dragging on the ground. It lies in the dirt, no matter how high my people lift their arms. It is the end in the Cherokee country that is allowed to drag. This should not be. White men and women and children going to Kentucky have been killed by the Cherokees. This must not be.

“The Cherokees have killed many white settlers who have crossed the Holston and the French Broad. Their bones have not been covered. Our settlers were told by North Carolina they were right in going there. It is too late to call them back. They will hold the land because the bones of their dead have not been covered.

“We hear that the Cherokees now plan to join hands with Alexander McGillivray and his Creeks; that war-talks have been sent back and forth between the two nations. Let the Cherokees beware how they take a red ax from the Creeks.

“Where did the Creeks get their lands? From those they struck in the head. Who filled the Creek cabins with guns and powder? A Spanish King over the big water. How does Spain treat the Indians? Go and ask the old men among your people, among the Creeks and the Seminoles, who have received the stories from the old men behind them. Ask the old men of this nation what their fathers’ fathers told them of De Soto.

“If the Cherokees take the red ax from the Creeks and should break off all the heads of the settlers along the French Broad, the Holston, the Nolichucky and the Watauga, what would they gain? The Creeks as friends. They have never been a true friend to any neighbour. Spain a friend? When you bait a sacred war-eagle with the carcass of a deer and kill it, you pray to it not to take vengeance on you, saying it is no Cherokee that killed it, but Askwani—a Spaniard. Why do you pray to turn the dead eagle’s vengeance against the Spaniards? Because it is burned into your heads from the old, old times how cruelly Spain used your people.

“Hayu! If you do not sound the red war-whoop, the Creeks can do nothing. They can not harm you. If you join with them Spain will see they get your lands. Then Spain will take all the land for herself. If you hold up the chain of friendship so it does not drag on the ground, I will promise you that our settlers shall not go beyond the boundary we agree upon at the grand council.

“The land now held south of the Broad and the Holston must remain ours to cover the dead you have slain. We will cover your dead with presents and will not wander from our land to your land. If you make this treaty and stand to it, I promise I will lead my riflemen against the Creeks should they try to steal any of your lands. I have spoken.”

The boldness of this talk amazed the warriors. At the least they had expected Sevier to be very conciliatory. His blunt reminder of what the Kentucky settlers had suffered, his firm insistence that the settlers below the French Broad would not vacate the land and his calm offer of assistance left them speechless. His magnificent assurance, although isolated from his friends by many miles of enemies, touched their imagination and commanded their deepest respect. Even Watts, although determined to take the red path, could not suppress his admiration. The effect on Old Tassel was very marked.

Sevier believed that Watts’ eagerness to have him leave the village without meeting the old chief was due to some half-promise on Tassel’s part to favourably consider the Creeks’ request for an alliance in a general war against the whites. If Old Tassel had intimated any such willingness, it was now obvious that Sevier’s plain speaking was impelling him to reconsider and weigh the consequences most carefully.

Watts fumed with impatience to denounce Sevier and his riflemen and to urge his hearers to declare war at once, but etiquette demanded that Old Tassel speak first. The old chief did not relish his task and faltered and hesitated but managed to say:

“My brother’s words have entered my ears. North Carolina has sent me many talks, promising I should have justice and that all new people be moved off my land. I am an old man. The promises must be kept very soon, or I shall not live to see them kept. Now they tell me the Watauga settlements are not a part of North Carolina and that I must send my talk to the Thirteen Fires, to the Great Council of America. So much going about to get justice troubles me.”

Sevier quickly replied:

“I will keep the promises I make in the grand council I am asking you to come to. The Watauga settlements are to become a separate fire and blaze beside the thirteen.”

Unable to restrain his fierce passions longer, Watts leaped to his feet and cried:

“Why should we wait longer to have promises kept? Why should we believe new promises will be remembered better than the old? What power has Little John to make the settlers keep off our lands? Even now the settlements do not know where they belong. North Carolina does not want them. The Great Council of America has not taken them in. Who, then, is to see that the promises are kept?

“Ku! Spain tells these settlers they must not travel on the Mississippi, and the river is closed except to the friends of Spain. Little John is a brave man, but he can not shoot his rifle across the big water. Spain speaks, and her voice comes across the water, and she is obeyed. Let us go to no grand council until the whites have left our lands.” Then whirling on Sevier he cried, “I have said you are a brave man. I meant the days when we fought each other on the border. I do not mean now—today. For you have sneaked through the woods and kept from sight until safe in a peace town. You would talk soft if you were in Little Talassee, face to face with McGillivray.”

Sevier knew Watts was trying to drive him into the wilderness where the paths were red, and he accepted the challenge by retorting:

“I will go to Little Talassee. I will speak face to face with McGillivray, and, after I have finished, go and ask him if I spoke soft.” Turning to Old Tassel he demanded, “What do you say to my talk? Will you come to a grand council on the French Broad or on the Holston after I have returned from McGillivray’s town?”

Old Tassel, beset by his desire for peace, yet feeling the surge of his warriors’ will for fighting, now found a loophole. He gravely replied—

“When you come back from carrying your talk to McGillivray, I will go to a grand council on the French Broad.”

“You have given your promise in the council-house of a peace town. It is to be so,” said Sevier, picking up his rifle and preparing to go.

Watts stepped forward and extended his hand, and, as Sevier grasped it and searched his face, he said:

“Little John is still a brave man. Whether it be peace or war, you are a brave man. And will you go to little Talassee?”

Sevier dropped his hand and coldly replied—

“Unless stopped by a Chickamauga bullet, I shall go there.”

Watts clicked his strong teeth and whispered:

“McGillivray will keep you safe there. You will not get in his trail again.” Then turning to the curious warriors he cried out, “Ho! A brave man goes to Little Talassee. You will not harm him. But, if you see white man turning back before reaching McGillivray’s town, you may know he is a coward and treat him as such.”

Ignoring the hostile glances, Sevier glided from the council-house and made for his horse. He now had his chance to go to McGillivray on the Coosa, and a fringe of Cherokee warriors would see to it that he did not turn back alive.

Hurrying to the corral, he saddled his horse and mounted and confided:

“Well, old fellow, that’s where I reckon to go, to Little Talassee. But I’d rather go alone instead of being chased there. Coming back will be harder.”

As he rode down the white path, he kept his eyes opened for signs of Polcher. He did not anticipate any attack from the tavern-keeper until he left the vicinity of the village, for Watts must have warned that no blood was to be shed so long as the path was white. When he struck into the main trail leading southwest, then he would be traversing a red way, and there would be no ancient law holding Polcher back. However, that was a detail to be attended to when encountered. What worried him considerably was not the tavern-keeper, sure to be in ambush somewhere ahead, but Kirk Jackson and the Tonpits.

He had barely cleared the outskirts of the village when he discovered some one was following him. He reined in, expecting to behold the van of the Cherokees coming to make sure he did not double back to the north. But there was but one man, and he ran with no efforts at concealment. To the contrary he now began calling Sevier by his Cherokee name, “Tsan-usdi.”

“I am here,” called out Sevier.

As the Cherokee burst into view, the borderer recognized him as the father of the little girl who prayed to the beaver.

“You want me?” Sevier asked.

“I go with you. Old Tassel has spoken it.”

“How far do you go with me?”

“Until we reach the land of the Creeks.”

“To see that I do not turn back,” sneered Sevier.

“To see no bad Indians cross your path,” was the grave correction.

Sevier’s hostility vanished. Old Tassel feared his promise of safe passage might be violated by some of the younger men and wished to shift all responsibility of the borderer’s fate on to the Creeks. Still half a measure of solicitude was decent of him, and Sevier knew he had him won from thoughts of war for the time being at least.

“You are?”

“The Jumper, of the Ani-Kawi.”

“A man of the Deer clan should know the trails. We will go on, Little Brother. Tell me when the white path turns red.”

“I will tell you,” grunted the Indian.

“Tell me where is the man called Polcher?”

“In the forest. Somewhere along the red path.”

Trotting ahead, the Jumper led the way for several miles, and yet Sevier could detect no signs of Cherokees in the rear. He said as much to the Jumper, who drew a half-circle in the air behind him, saying:

“They are from there to there. We shall not see them so long as we go toward the Coosa.”

“It is well,” said Sevier.

The Jumper raised a hand and then threw himself prostrate with his ear to the ground. Sevier quieted his restless horse and listened. He heard nothing. The Indian rose and informed:

“Men come. We must leave the trail.”

“Why should we hide, Little Brother? What is there to fear along the white path that leads to the white town?”

“Nothing to fear from men of my colour,” said the Jumper with a touch of irony. “But I can not answer for the whites.”

“White men!” exclaimed Sevier, dismounting and leading his horse aside and into cover.

His first thoughts were of Tonpit, the man who, despite his weakness and ambitions, was so necessary to Spain and Charles III’s field representative, Alexander McGillivray.

“They bring horses to trade in Great Hiwassee,” the Indian added.

Sevier’s hopes fell, then rebounded as he discredited the Indian’s ability to know who was coming and their purpose. Thus far he had been able to detect nothing but the usual forest sounds.

“How do you know that?” he demanded.

“Some of the horses have no riders.”

Sceptical, Sevier composed himself to wait in patience. After what seemed a long time, there came a burst of voices and the trampling of hoofs, and above the confusion roared a coarse voice hurling curses at animals and men.

“Hajason!” muttered the Jumper, his face scowling.

“Red Hajason!” softly cried Sevier, mechanically shifting his rifle.

The Jumper touched his hand as it lay on the gun, and he warned:

“You must not think of that. You are still in the white path.”

Sevier lowered the rifle and asked—

“Does he trade at Hiwassee?”

The Indian nodded. Had not Sevier’s errand concerned the fate of the Western settlements, he would have considered his journey well worth the danger just for an opportunity to confront and kill this man whose name was anathema from the Watauga to the French Broad and throughout the Carolinas east of the mountains.

Wherever horses were stolen and hurried to hidden forest depots, the name of Red Hajason was known and detested. That he continued to carry on his thievery was due to his practice of sending agents to do the actual work while he remained in his stronghold somewhere at the headwaters of the Hiwassee River in the southwestern corner of North Carolina. When not at this camp, it was said he made his home over the line in South Carolina, “that delight of buccaneers and pyrates,” as the Rev. Hugh Jones, chaplain to the honourable Assembly of Virginia, characterized that commonwealth in 1750.

Border-folks, however, denied that Red Hajason was compelled to shuttle back and forth between the Hiwassee and the Tugalo rivers and openly charged he had been seen in the capital of North Carolina, seemingly on excellent terms with some of those who pretended to safeguard the destiny of the State. This would not be surprising, as in formative periods the devil takes advantage of chaos to walk close to saints.

But the over-mountain country was closed ground to the king of horse-thieves; there was no doubting that fact. A bullet on sight was what he would receive did he venture forth where he sent his men. Thus it had happened that Sevier, while having had the pleasure of hanging several of Red Hajason’s tools, had never looked on his face.

The Jumper increased his vigilance and cunningly took Sevier’s horse by the nose to prevent a whinney.

“We must go deeper into the woods,” he urged.

“Listen, Little Brother, I must see this Red Hajason,” whispered Sevier, dismounting. “Take the horse back. I will stay here.”

“This path is white,” frantically protested the Indian, anticipating from Sevier’s frowning visage a bloody settlement with the outlaw.

“My eyes can not shed blood,” soothed Sevier. “He shall pass unharmed—this time. But I must see him.”

The Jumper reluctantly led the horse deeper into the cover, and Sevier hid himself and waited. The Cherokees owned many horses, excellent animals. A brisk trade was carried on between the friendly Indians and the settlers. And there was much trading between Cherokee and Creek, only it was the white man’s horse that sometimes went to the Southern nation. And Hajason traded stolen nags for honest ones and through unsuspected agents sold the latter to the whites.

Hajason was not dubbed “Red” because of rufescent hair or complexion. He was Red because of his deeds, his readiness to spill the blood of the weaker. Only affairs of great importance had restrained Sevier from taking a posse of his swift-riding riflemen and running down the scourge long before this.

The cavalcade now drew near, and he could easily make out the oaths and commands being shouted in English by Hajason, sprinkled with orders in the Cherokee tongue. Now they burst into view, two half-breeds riding ahead, a dozen horses following them. Bringing up the rear were three white men. Sevier had eyes for only one of the trio, a giant of a man, whose features were an amazing mass of brutality and evil passions, whose bearded lips opened seldom except to permit the escape of a blasphemy.

His companions cowered under his tongue-lashings, while his thunderous epithets hurled at the head of the drove kept the breeds jumping convulsively. He passed within a dozen feet of Sevier, and the borderer had ample opportunity to study him in detail and time to regret that his hands were tied by the ancient law. With his pistol he could have obliterated a great evil, and he was powerless to act.

So intent was he on scanning the outlaw’s burly body and repulsive face that he all but overlooked the horse he was riding. The moment he noticed the big black his interest in Red Hajason became a minor matter. There was no mistaking the animal. Not another horse on the border that showed those white knees, for all the world like two bandages. The horse was Tonpit’s favourite mount. Staring incredulously, Sevier darted his gaze over the rest of the animals and found the small bay Miss Elsie always rode.

“By all the red gods in the East, he’s got the major’s and the girl’s nags!” gasped the borderer, craning his neck and risking discovery to watch the cavalcade move up the trail.

Tonpit and his daughter had disappeared from home the night of Old Thatch’s death. Their departure was, presumably, the result of the Creek’s message from McGillivray. Lon Hester had disappeared the same night.

“They were bound for Little Talassee,” he mused. “They rode in haste, or I should have overtaken them. And yet the girl had to have time to rest. Polcher and Hester are free to come and go among the Cherokees. I know Polcher is ahead, waiting for me. Hester is just the man to dicker with Hajason for fresh animals for the major and the girl. But their horses appeared to be fresh. Why change them?”

He stared longingly up the trail, fighting down his impulse to pursue Red Hajason and kill him, if need be, to get the truth. To shed blood would be a violation of the law he had invoked to save his own life. He heard Hajason shouting a boisterous greeting in the Cherokee tongue and knew he had glimpsed some of the warriors advancing on either side of the trail. To go after the outlaw and scare the truth from him would mean an encounter with the Indians, who had been ordered to treat him as a coward did they catch him turning back. They would not slay him on the white path, but they surely would make him a prisoner.

He almost wished he had delayed his departure until Hajason had arrived. And yet, had Fate worked that way, new complications would have arisen and the trail to the south might not have been open to him. Next rose the puzzling point: why should Hajason come in person to superintend the sale or exchange of a dozen horses? The outlaw was a villain of large activities. He was well known and hospitably received in Great Hiwassee. His immunity to danger consisted in leaving details to his subordinates.

“No!” growled Sevier. “He never came just to get rid of the horses. He has had many deals with this town. He could have sent a boy and a talk and made the trade. He came for a purpose. The nags happened to be on hand, and he fetched them.”

The Jumper pressed through the bushes behind him and touched his shoulder and anxiously insisted:

“Little John loses much time. The medicine of the Deer tells me Death creeps down the trail, even though it be a white trail.”

And he nervously fumbled a small bag hanging round his neck and rolled his eyes in alarm toward the village.

“I am ready,” Sevier said, springing into the saddle. “Death ever lurks where Red Hajason is.”

“Chief Watts’ Chickamaugas are very close,” warned the Jumper.

“Let them come,” was the careless reply. “We have not turned back, not so much as a foot.” And, shaking the reins, he rode down the trail with his guide at his stirrup.