For three days and nights Sevier made his way north, each hour bringing him nearer the neck of the bottle through which he must pass. Jackson’s flight undoubtedly had aroused the country. McGillivray’s runners despatched on the heels of the young Virginian must have sent a cloud of Cherokees across all paths. The Creeks in large numbers were beating the country as they advanced. It was obvious to the borderer that McGillivray had been promptly released and had lost no time in calling back the men and dogs from the southern trail. But there had been no sign of the dogs for the last seventy-two hours.
There was a menace in the rear, however, more deadly than the dogs—columns of smoke which warned the Cherokees to be on the watch for a fugitive. He tried to make himself believe that Jackson had won through, but there ever remained a doubt. The young ranger was cunning in woodcraft, else he never would have brought his hair back from the Ohio country. But to run the lines of John Watts’ men demanded a bit of luck along with forest wisdom.
As Sevier drew near the neck of the bottle late in the afternoon of the third day he decided the race was not to the fleet. He would save time and insure his final escape by remaining concealed until the edge of the chase had dulled itself. Once his enemies believed he had broken through the search would broaden and move north to the Hiwassee, leaving him the comparatively easy task of following along behind the hunters.
Possibly his shift in tactics was influenced largely by the nature of the country he was entering. To the east and north stretched an extensive area of swamp land, dotted with hummocks and thick with bog growths. Nearly a mile back in the dismal region a rounded dome, formed by sturdy hardwoods, cut the flat sky-line and marked a low hill. He studied the terrain ahead carefully. His horse was badly fagged for want of rest and pasturage. He, himself, was worn by lack of sleep and food. Behind him were the Creeks, urged on by the ire of their emperor. And he had no doubt that the Cherokees were blocking every path ahead.
Leading his horse, he skirted the edge of the swamp until he found a faint trail where hunters had penetrated in search of wild fowl. Taking his horse by the bridle, he encouraged the weary animal to follow him among the quaking morasses. The path was narrow and barely to be discerned and wound among many death-traps. More than once the borderer passed over only to have the horse flounder deep in the slime. Once under way, however, there was no turning back. He must pass on even if forced to abandon the horse. And King, as the emperor had named him, had grown to trust his new master, and Chucky Jack was not one to leave a friend.
“I’ll stick by you, old fellow, as long as you can keep above the muck,” he promised after extricating the frightened animal from an especially bad bit.
The steaming vegetation masked them from the view of any standing on the edge of the swamp, but if it had not been at the beginning of dusk the occasional flight of startled water-fowl must have betrayed them. As the light faded Sevier renewed his efforts, scarcely pausing to pick and choose. He must reach the low hill before the night blinded him. The last quarter of a mile was a desperate plunge. Several times he believed the horse was lost and pulled his pistol to give a clean death, when the intelligent animal by a super-effort won the right to live.
When he felt firm ground under his soaked moccasins he had no thought of Creek or Cherokee and threw himself down to rest. The horse gladly shifted for himself and found the pasturage rank and rich. Some time during the night Sevier groped his way up the slope and cut boughs and indulged in the luxury of a bed. But he did this as one in a dream and had scant recollection of it when he awoke in the morning.
With the new sun to warm him he worked the stiffness out of his joints and succeeded in knocking over a water-fowl with a stick. Selecting some dry sticks that would give a minimum of smoke, he lighted a tiny fire inside a dense clump of swamp-cedar and ate his first full meal since leaving Little Talassee. He saw that the food problem would cause him no worry; the swamp was carpeted by game birds. Water remained to be found.
Hunting up his horse, he followed his trail to a spring. With thirst and hunger satisfied, he proceeded to examine the low hill, or knoll, and as he had expected discovered it was surrounded by the swamp. Toward the north, however, the signs indicated an easier escape than that afforded by the route he had taken in gaining his refuge. He could see occasional groups of deciduous trees that demanded a stout soil.