“——! Sevier, you must speak now. Polcher either has hung himself or you,” McGillivray bitterly exclaimed. “My messenger has not returned. I have thought nothing of his absence because he was to guide the Tonpits here and the woman would prevent a quick journey. Now answer the charge.”
“A scalp of a Creek was placed on my table in the court-house by Polcher,” the borderer slowly informed. “I had never seen it until it was placed there by Polcher. The Creek would not have been killed if you had sent him openly to Jonesboro. I knew nothing about him until he was dead. You sent him by stealth—”
“You admit he was slain?” hissed McGillivray.
“Certainly. But not by Kirk Jackson, as this dog says. The scalp was taken to Polcher by an old man crazy with drink. The old man was to get a jug of whisky if he brought a Cherokee scalp—to Polcher.”
“He lies. —— him! He lies!” gritted Polcher.
McGillivray glanced from the flushed face to the composed one. Sevier coolly continued:
“Your common sense will tell you there can be no question of veracity between me and your tool. The old man who took the scalp did not, however, kill the Creek. I am frank to admit that, although he was a tool of Polcher’s and did as Polcher commanded—as he believed.”
“A Cherokee scalp,” mumbled McGillivray, his anger subsiding for the moment as he recognized the advantage to his cause had a Cherokee been killed and scalped by a Western settler.
“He lies—” began Polcher, but Sevier came to his feet and grasped a decanter, warning—
“You say that again and I shall brain you; no matter how much I dislike to make a scene in the home of McGillivray of the Creeks.”