McGillivray could not suppress a flash of admiration. With a short laugh he said:
“After all, we may be able to remain friends. You make people like you, even those who try to hate you. I thought I hated you during the night. This morning I was positive of it. But I can’t. —— me! You are a man. Still, I shall send you to your death in cold blood if I decide your death is necessary for my plans.”
“I understand you perfectly,” was the cheery reply. “There are times when a liking for a man goes only so far. Don Estephan Miro has a genuine liking for Jim Robertson, yet he’d cut his throat if he had the chance and his royal master should command it.”
And the borderer attacked the deer venison with much gusto.
McGillivray had no appetite and was content to play with his food while his gaze wandered to the window, watching for a messenger to bring good news. Suddenly he pushed back his chair and leaped to the window. Several Indians were emerging from the mouth of the trail and a white man rode in their midst.
“—— me! But they’ve got him!” he triumphantly cried.
“Where are your Creek eyes?” Sevier contemptuously demanded. “The white man is much too large for Jackson. He wears a beard. Great Injuns! It’s Red Hajason!”
McGillivray’s exultation changed to bitter disappointment. The newcomer certainly was not Kirk Jackson; nor did he bear himself as a prisoner, although surrounded by warriors. He still carried weapons in his belt and held his head high. As the emperor stared Polcher ran across the open ground and intercepted the cavalcade. He exchanged a few words with Hajason, then turned and ran toward the big house.
“The rascal has courage, but he shall hang if any harm has come to the Tonpits,” muttered McGillivray.
“Your man Polcher seems to be acquainted with him,” murmured Sevier between mouthfuls.