He paused for rhetorical effect, and the aged chief began to feel the influence of his audacious presence. Swinging about and pointing his extended hand at the astounded and wrathful faces, he defied:
“Did I not say I would return and give a talk to Utsidsata—‘Corn-Tassel’—called Old Tassel by the white men? Then why are the Cherokees surprised to see me? Have I ever broken my word? Then why are hands clawing near my back as if a panther was near?”
Facing the chief again, he rapidly continued:
“I have always kept my word with you. Who else of those you count as friends have done the same? Is he a Creek? Does McGillivray always keep his word? Or does he first build for McGillivray and ask you to help him, and then tell you he is too tired to help you build, but some other time. Hayi!”
“My men want war, Little John, for the wrongs the white men have done them,” weakly retorted Old Tassel, still scarcely able to believe Chucky Jack had slipped through so many fingers.
“Your men shall have war, Utsidsata. Men shall have the thing they crave; but let them beware lest the thing they seek does not bring death to them.”
“Ha! The white man is a fool to talk of Cherokees dying when he stands alone with his enemies in the war-council at Turkey Town,” passionately cried the orator from the lower towns.
Sevier turned on him and extended a knife, handle first, and challenged:
“So, Little John is a fool to say what he does, to speak of death? Here is a sharp knife; here is my heart. Use the knife; kill my heart. But remember this, and all here remember it—there is one now who is rallying the riflemen of the Watauga. Before my blood can dry they will be riding a hundred miles deep into your country and will be burning your towns and corn and driving your people into the mountains, even as they have done before when you shed the white man’s blood.”
Abashed the warrior refused the knife. Old Tassel cried—