“The Cherokees,” he murmured, securing his blanket and stealing from the cedars and making for his horse. “They heard the two shots and are puzzled to know how it came out.”
Wa-huhu came the call, now much nearer. And the notes were tinged with impatience, as if the dead man had promised to answer.
Sevier threw back his head and sent the answer ringing through the forest aisles.
He was now convinced his life would be in peril every mile of the way to the Creek country. Old Tassel had feared he might come to harm while in the Cherokee country and had sought to evade responsibility by sending the Jumper to guard him. What might happen to him after he crossed the southern boundary did not concern the old chief. But Polcher, Watts and Hajason were determined he should never reach Little Talassee. He summed the situation up by telling himself:
“From now on I must push ahead as fast as possible. I can’t be watching for Polcher and at the same time dodge the gang behind me.”
Yet one must sleep and a horse must rest even though two-score Cherokees were stealing like ghouls about the abandoned camp-fire and its dead man. So, shifting his blanket to a deep covert and trusting that his horse would not be found, he slept until sunrise. He sought his horse only after making a circle around the animal; for if other killers were in the vicinity and had stumbled upon the horse they would wait there in ambush, knowing the sun would bring their victim.
But no one was in hiding near the horse; and he threw on the saddle and returned to the main trail without being molested. He rode at a furious gallop and had covered a mile before being reminded of the enemy. A rifle spat at him from the brush and he fancied he felt the wind of the bullet. His only notice of it was to throw himself flat over the saddle-horn and urge his mount to greater efforts.
For several miles he rode at top speed and slowed down only when confronted by a swampy stretch bordering a sluggish creek. Dismounting, he placed his ear to the ground and caught the thud-thud of pursuing hoofs. When standing erect he was unable to hear the hoof-beats, and he knew he had ample time to make the miry ford. Walking ahead to test the footing, he soon waded the creek and helped his mount up the bank and gained firm ground. Springing into the saddle, he rode a few rods up the trail and backed off behind some hemlocks and cocked his rifle.
The minutes passed. Perfect serenity seemed to mark the trail and the surrounding forest. Then wild fowls rose from the creeks and winged away. Peeping from his hiding-place, he beheld a white man afoot leading a horse. The animal was a big black, and a second glance noted the white knees. It was Major Tonpit’s favourite steed. The man halted at the edge of the swamp and studied the tracks. Then, climbing into the saddle, he urged the horse into the muck. As he lifted his head to examine the opposite bank Sevier recognized him as another of the trio who rode with Hajason behind the drove.
Possessed with the notion of making the fellow a captive and learning something from him about his master, Sevier spurred into the open just as his tracker reached the middle of the ford. Sevier flung up his left hand and cried—