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.”