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.