Sevier’s lead in the race for freedom depended largely on the length of time McGillivray’s plight should remain undiscovered. The dogs would balk at going south and their keepers would soon realize the fugitive’s trail lay not in that direction. Given the sunlight, the borderer’s fleet mount would cover miles before a pursuit to the north could be organized. But night reduced the pace of all horses to a mediocre plane. Sevier entered the trail on the gallop but was quickly compelled to rein in and proceed cautiously.

He rode with his ears tuned to catch the first note of alarm behind him. He had advanced but a short distance when he came to a shallow stream. He turned his horse into this and followed it slowly toward the east. He believed it was the same water Jackson had taken to in hiding his trail. On leaving it he swung back to strike into the Great War-Path, going by the map he carried in his mind. As he broke through a patch of broom-sage on the side of a low hill and entered the hard-packed path the sinister sound he had been anxiously anticipating floated to him on the evening air; a long-drawn bell-like note.

“Sooner than I had expected,” he grimly muttered, shaking the reins.

Now he rode recklessly, bending low to escape the clawing boughs and trusting to his horse to keep to the path. The animal soon splashed into running water. Reining in with some difficulty, he forced the animal to ascend the stream for a quarter of a mile, this time travelling due west. Then followed a repetition of his first manoeuvre of beating back to the main trail. He planned to follow the Coosa until he had crossed into the Cherokee country when he would leave it below Turkey Town. Riding across country, he could pick up the river again and follow its headwaters until in the neighbourhood of the Hiwassee.

On re-entering the trail he had covered but a short distance when he was startled again to hear the baying of the dogs. He had counted on the animals being delayed on reaching the two streams. Not knowing whether he had followed the streams west or east, the pack would have to course the streams in both directions before correcting the fault.

“Sharp devils, those Creeks!” he grumbled. “Outguessed me, or learned a lesson from trying to catch Jackson. They either divided the pack, half searching the creeks while the other kept straight ahead, or else they’ve paid no attention to the water and are holding all the brutes to the path.”

This suspicion impelled him to ignore the next stream. The two detours already made had cost him time and distance. He could tell by the increased volume of the baying that the chase was closing in. Then followed a short period of silence so far as the chase was concerned, only to be snapped by a frantic, exulting chorus close behind him.

“They’ve let them loose!” he gritted, driving his heels into the quivering flanks.

To be overhauled and dragged from the saddle was not on Sevier’s program. He pushed ahead until the trail opened into a strip of meadow land bounded by the waters of the Coosa and a sharp slope of a rock-littered ridge. Here it was possible to distinguish form. Dismounting, he led the horse up the rocky slope and tied him to a tree. Stumbling on, he came to what he was searching for, several boulders so arranged as to afford protection on three sides. To get at him the dogs must enter the pocket by the one mouth.

Placing his rifle and pistols before him, he slipped off his hunting-shirt and wrapped it about his left arm. Sticking his two knives into the ground, he settled on his heels to wait. Somewhere in the night a whippoorwill—waguli the Cherokees call it because of its song—was monotonously reiterating its plaintive cluster of notes. From deeper in the forest came the screech-owl’s wa-huhu; but of human and four-footed enemies there was never a sound.

When the crisis broke it was so close at hand as to seem to be in his very face; a triumphant chorus of the bloodthirsty trackers. Sevier’s wide gaze made out several vague forms racing up the slope to where reared the frightened horse. He counted five, one running behind the other, their undulating bodies suggesting the approach of a monster serpent.

The horse shrilly voiced his terror; the pack swerved aside and came for the rocks. Raising his rifle, the borderer carefully covered the leader and fired. Down crashed the brute, its mates leaping over the dead form and dashing onward. Dropping the rifle, he snatched up the two pistols and held his fire for a brace of seconds. He caught one a dozen feet from the opening between the rocks and disabled a third when it was almost upon him. Seizing the knives, he rested on one knee and plunged a blade through the heart of the fourth as it leaped against him. The impact of the huge body bore him backward but he managed to regain something of his balance as the remaining animal closed in and grabbed for his throat and instead caught the bandaged arm.

Stabbing and slashing, Sevier pressed the fighting, and after a few moments of convulsive struggling the beast suddenly relaxed, his teeth still locked through the tough folds of the hunting-shirt. It required much effort to release the shirt from the ferocious jaws. Having succeeded, he ended the misery of the wounded beast. He was bruised and battered and bore some slight abrasions on the left arm, but otherwise was uninjured. Recovering his weapons, he took time to reload them, then limped to his horse and climbed into the saddle.

He was satisfied the dogs were far in advance of their keepers and that the rest of the pack were still on the leash. Returning to the trail, he resumed his flight. Far behind him sounded the ominous baying, but he gave it scant heed. The dogs at the creek had picked up his trail, but the fight among the rocks had increased his optimism. His star was in the ascendancy.

For three days and nights Sevier made his way north, each hour bringing him nearer the neck of the bottle through which he must pass. Jackson’s flight undoubtedly had aroused the country. McGillivray’s runners despatched on the heels of the young Virginian must have sent a cloud of Cherokees across all paths. The Creeks in large numbers were beating the country as they advanced. It was obvious to the borderer that McGillivray had been promptly released and had lost no time in calling back the men and dogs from the southern trail. But there had been no sign of the dogs for the last seventy-two hours.

There was a menace in the rear, however, more deadly than the dogs—columns of smoke which warned the Cherokees to be on the watch for a fugitive. He tried to make himself believe that Jackson had won through, but there ever remained a doubt. The young ranger was cunning in woodcraft, else he never would have brought his hair back from the Ohio country. But to run the lines of John Watts’ men demanded a bit of luck along with forest wisdom.

As Sevier drew near the neck of the bottle late in the afternoon of the third day he decided the race was not to the fleet. He would save time and insure his final escape by remaining concealed until the edge of the chase had dulled itself. Once his enemies believed he had broken through the search would broaden and move north to the Hiwassee, leaving him the comparatively easy task of following along behind the hunters.

Possibly his shift in tactics was influenced largely by the nature of the country he was entering. To the east and north stretched an extensive area of swamp land, dotted with hummocks and thick with bog growths. Nearly a mile back in the dismal region a rounded dome, formed by sturdy hardwoods, cut the flat sky-line and marked a low hill. He studied the terrain ahead carefully. His horse was badly fagged for want of rest and pasturage. He, himself, was worn by lack of sleep and food. Behind him were the Creeks, urged on by the ire of their emperor. And he had no doubt that the Cherokees were blocking every path ahead.

Leading his horse, he skirted the edge of the swamp until he found a faint trail where hunters had penetrated in search of wild fowl. Taking his horse by the bridle, he encouraged the weary animal to follow him among the quaking morasses. The path was narrow and barely to be discerned and wound among many death-traps. More than once the borderer passed over only to have the horse flounder deep in the slime. Once under way, however, there was no turning back. He must pass on even if forced to abandon the horse. And King, as the emperor had named him, had grown to trust his new master, and Chucky Jack was not one to leave a friend.

“I’ll stick by you, old fellow, as long as you can keep above the muck,” he promised after extricating the frightened animal from an especially bad bit.

The steaming vegetation masked them from the view of any standing on the edge of the swamp, but if it had not been at the beginning of dusk the occasional flight of startled water-fowl must have betrayed them. As the light faded Sevier renewed his efforts, scarcely pausing to pick and choose. He must reach the low hill before the night blinded him. The last quarter of a mile was a desperate plunge. Several times he believed the horse was lost and pulled his pistol to give a clean death, when the intelligent animal by a super-effort won the right to live.

When he felt firm ground under his soaked moccasins he had no thought of Creek or Cherokee and threw himself down to rest. The horse gladly shifted for himself and found the pasturage rank and rich. Some time during the night Sevier groped his way up the slope and cut boughs and indulged in the luxury of a bed. But he did this as one in a dream and had scant recollection of it when he awoke in the morning.

With the new sun to warm him he worked the stiffness out of his joints and succeeded in knocking over a water-fowl with a stick. Selecting some dry sticks that would give a minimum of smoke, he lighted a tiny fire inside a dense clump of swamp-cedar and ate his first full meal since leaving Little Talassee. He saw that the food problem would cause him no worry; the swamp was carpeted by game birds. Water remained to be found.

Hunting up his horse, he followed his trail to a spring. With thirst and hunger satisfied, he proceeded to examine the low hill, or knoll, and as he had expected discovered it was surrounded by the swamp. Toward the north, however, the signs indicated an easier escape than that afforded by the route he had taken in gaining his refuge. He could see occasional groups of deciduous trees that demanded a stout soil.

Ascending to the top of the knoll, he climbed an oak and obtained a wider survey of the country. In the east the lowlands met the sky-line. The extent of the swamp to the south, his back track, was much less but so hazardous to contemplate that he wondered how he ever managed to cross it with the horse. The Great War-Path skirted the swamp on the west, and the solid forest wall in that direction was quite close, not more than half a mile away, but was barred by open expanses of water.

The path to the north was the way out. Now that he possessed a high coign of vantage he could trace the course most desirable to follow. For many minutes he examined the country, jotting down in his mind certain landmarks to go by.

A smudge of smoke in the southwest held his gaze, one of the ominous pillars that had followed him for three days. Another column, directly south, was crawling high above the forest crown. A third in the east marked the long line established by the Creeks. As he was about to descend something vague and sombre in the north caught and held his gaze. Now it took shape and ballooned upward, opening like the petals of a black flower. The Cherokees were signalling to the Creeks that they, too, were on guard and waiting for their old foe to be driven into their arms.

“The trap is well set,” mused Chucky Jack.

As he slid down from his perch his attention was attracted by the action of the myriads of water-fowl in the north. They began rising in fan-like formations at the very edge of the swamp; nor did they circle about and return to their feeding-grounds, but flew some distance to the east before descending. He waited and after a time a second flock, much nearer his refuge, took wing and whirred away.

“They’re coming,” he mumbled, beginning to locate the probable path of the advancing enemy.

Dropping to the ground, he hastened to the foot of the knoll and caught King and led him into a thicket and secured him. Then with his rifle ready he stole to the shore of his little “island” and ensconced himself in a thicket of willows. He believed he had been there nearly an hour when directly in front of his position and within a few rods of firm land he observed a violent agitation among the bushes and caught the sound of a guttural voice raised in alarm.

Sevier crept from under the willows.

“Awi-Usdi! Higinalii?”

There was but one voice and it was calling on the Little Deer and asking if the super-spirit were not a friend. Sevier struck into the bog and again heard the frenzied voice crying:

“Little Deer! You are my friend?”

Leaping from rotting stump to decaying log, the borderer found himself committed to a precarious pathway. Often his foot found a transient resting-place only to leave black water behind as it was lifted. Sluggish snakes were disturbed by his passing and swam across slimy pools.

“Awi-Usdi!” Now the voice was filled with despair.

Springing to a long tree-trunk, inches deep in its pile of vivid green mould, Sevier ran to the end and parted the bushes. For a moment he was astounded by the spectacle he beheld. An Indian face was floating on the water, the painted features registering all the horrible anticipation of a hideous death.

Placing his rifle one side, Sevier manoeuvred gingerly until he could reach down and grasp the scalp-lock. Although he could lift the head a trifle and easily drew the submerged body close to the log, he was unable to lift the man from the slime.

“What’s holding you down?” he demanded as a brown arm came from the dark water and clutched frenziedly at his wrist.

“Awi-Usdi heard my prayer! He sent you!” gasped the Indian.

“What’s holding you down?” angrily demanded Sevier.

“My feet are caught in the roots of a water-soaked stump,” groaned the warrior.

“Let go my wrist. I’ll get you out if you do as I say.”

Staring up into the bronzed face with a strange light in his eyes, the Indian released his hold, whereat Sevier dropped in a sitting posture on the end of the log and extended a foot before the imprisoned savage could sink. The hand caught the foot, and as hope brought intelligence the warrior did not make the mistake of pulling his rescuer into the death-trap. Supporting him with his foot, the borderer gathered the tops of several bushes into a bunch and forced them down until the Indian could grasp them.

“Now don’t waste your strength,” quietly commanded Sevier as he slipped off his shirt and bent down a small sapling which he held with his left hand. “You have an ax in your belt?”

The Indian nodded vigorously.

Supporting himself by the sapling, Sevier grimaced and dropped into the slime beside the Indian. He had no trouble in securing the ax, but he grunted loudly in disgust as he shifted his hold on the bowed sapling and allowed his body to sink beneath the stagnant water. He remained long enough to locate one of the imprisoned feet, then pulled himself above the filthy surface. Filling his lungs, he drew the ax from his belt and again descended. He worked cautiously to avoid chopping the foot and after delivering three or four blows was compelled to rise again.

For thirty minutes he repeated the manoeuvre, scoring nothing on some trips down, feeling the blade bite deep into the tenacious root at other times. At last the Indian gave a yelp of joy and kicked one foot free. The release of the other foot was quickly effected as the Indian managed to use the liberated member as a lever.

As the two bedraggled men sat on the log, puffing for breath and staring at each other, Sevier smiled and greeted—

“Jumper of the Deer clan, how did you do a thing like that?”

The Jumper wiped the muck from his face and in a weak voice explained:

“As Tsan-usdi knows, I shot at a wolf. It was bad medicine. It made me jump among the roots, thinking the stump was stout and strong. When my feet hit the roots they caught round my ankles like serpents and the stump sank. Kanati, the Lucky Hunter, is still angry because I shot at his watch-dog.”

“But I came and pulled you out. Kanati must be over his anger,” soothed Sevier.

“The Little Deer sent you when I prayed,” said the Jumper.

“The Little Deer will help no man who is being punished by the Lucky Hunter. The bad medicine has worked itself weak. Kanati forgives you. The Little Deer forgives you. Has the little girl got her new tooth yet?”

The Jumper’s doleful features lighted up. Hope gleamed in his small eyes, and his strong chest expanded as he began to feel himself a warrior once more, a man of the Deer, unafraid because the gods were smiling. The reference to his child caused him to fairly beam with gratitude.

“She looks many times in the glass Tsan-usdi gave her. She know it will bring a big, strong tooth. Ah! It is good to know the Lucky Hunter is no longer angry.”

“Then suppose we get to dry land and clean up,” Sevier suggested, taking his rifle and rising. “And why did the Jumper come out here alone?”

“I was sent to kill a bad white man.”

“But I am the only white man here.”

“I was told a bad white man was between our warriors and the smoke signals of the Creeks. I saw birds flying away when the sun went down yesterday. I believed the bad white was here. I waited till sunrise and came. I found—my friend.”

Sevier led the way to the spring where they cleaned themselves and the borderer’s garments. This done Sevier inquired—

“Where is Old Tassel?”

“At Turkey Town.”

“I thought he was at Great Hiwassee. Have the Cherokees caught a white man called Jackson?”

The Jumper shook his head, saying:

“Creek runners came and our warriors went out; but he must be very cunning. He was not seen. His trail was not found.”

This was the best of news for Sevier. With Jackson beyond the barrier and speeding on to the settlements there was a chance he might raise the riflemen and sweep down on Hajason’s stronghold in time to prevent the departure of the Tonpits for Little Talassee.

“Have you seen Red Hajason?”

“He got fresh horses at Turkey Town and rode fast for his home three days ago,” the Jumper replied.

This news was not so pleasant.

“Where is John Watts?”

The Jumper waved a hand toward the line of smoke signals in the north.

“Waiting to catch me?”

The Indian nodded.

“What does Old Tassel do at Turkey Town?”

The Jumper hesitated, loyalty to his people vieing with gratitude to his rescuer.

“The shamans perform the sacred rites very soon,” he slowly retorted.

“For going to war?” sharply demanded Sevier, his gaze contracting.

“They have looked in the great crystal and found war floating in it.”

“When did they go to water?”

“They do not begin the rites till two days from now.”

Sevier leaped to his feet and glared eagerly toward the north. Wheeling about, he caught the Jumper by the arm and said—

“Little Brother, you owe me a life.”

“Take it!” proudly answered the Jumper, holding out his war-ax.

“You shall pay me another way. I must give a talk to Old Tassel before the Cherokees go to water. You must take me through John Watts’ Chickamaugas. You must take me to Turkey Town unseen. You shall leave me near the town and no one shall know you brought me.”

“I can do that, Tsan-usdi,” quietly agreed the Jumper.

Sevier’s face grew troubled.

“It will be hard to see Old Tassel alone. Watts’ Chickamaugas will go there to perform the rites.”

“The Chickamaugas went to water before you reached the Creek country.”

“Good! I remember Major Hubbard said that back in Jonesboro, only he’s always hearing of war-parties to excuse his killings.” Then to himself, “—— those hostiles. They’ve been on the red path for years. They don’t count if the rest of the nation can be held back.”

“If we are to reach Turkey Town in time we must travel all night. We must cross that before dark.” And with a shiver the Jumper pointed north across the traps of the slime-covered swamp.

“It shall be done. I must take my horse out.”

“Then Little John’s horse must grow wings like awahili, the war-eagle.”

Sevier replied:

“But I brought him in here, and from the south. The trail to the north is not so bad.”

“Little John’s medicine is very strong,” conceded the Jumper.

Moving by night with the stealth of phantoms, with the Jumper leading the way; following little-travelled side-paths, sometimes doubling back, often making wide detours to avoid the Cherokees hastening south to be in at the killing of the white man, the two edged their way toward Turkey Town. The first day they covered but a short distance, satisfied to work to the east and taking time to rest; for it was the Jumper’s plan to make a dash round the left of the Cherokee line and cover the distance with a rush during the last twenty-four hours of grace.

The second night they made notable progress, escaping detection by inches when they stole between two large groups of warriors. With the morning sun they found themselves above the smoke signals. They had passed through the barrier and would now have to guard against stragglers only. Sevier was impatient to make an open ride for it, as he feared he might be too late. Did he arrive after the warriors had gone to water Old Tassel would consider himself hopelessly committed to a program of war and, being surrounded by men of the belligerent lower towns, he would be too weak to resist the pressure.

The Jumper insisted, however:

“They do not begin the rites until tomorrow. The ceremony takes four days. We must move cunningly until dark. If I am seen by Watts’ Chickamaugas——”

“You shall not be seen. We will move cunningly,” agreed Sevier.