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.