“Now, —— you, I have you where I want you! There are no white paths here!”
And before Sevier could close in the newcomer thrust a pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. The weapon missed fire. The borderer’s outflung hand caught his assailant’s wrist, the other fumbling for the throat.
“Help! Help! This way!” yelled the man in English.
“Polcher!” roared Sevier, forgetting his danger from the Creeks.
And he redoubled his efforts to get at the man’s throat.
But Polcher was fighting purely on the defensive and evading the groping fingers.
“Look out, Jack!” yelled Jackson at the window.
Sevier glanced about to see whence came the new danger and at first thought the cabin was on fire. This fancy was instantly dispelled by the appearance of several torches round the corner, and before he could think to release Polcher and make a break for it a dozen Creek warriors had penned him in against the cabin. Polcher wrenched himself free and with a howl of rage leaped to an Indian and snatched an ax.
“Stand back there, Polcher!” cried a clear, strong voice using faultless English. “What the devil do you mean by prowling ’round my gaol and raising a riot like this?”
As the newcomer passed through the circle Sevier beheld a tall, slender figure of commanding carriage, and a dark, immovable face. The man was faultlessly dressed after the fashion of the seaboard cities. In his hand he carried a light riding-whip. And Sevier knew he had met Alexander McGillivray, Emperor of the Creeks.