“It means war on the Watauga cabins,” whined Thatch.
“That’s nothing to you. A single word of this to any one and I’ll first prove you’re a drunken old liar, and then I’ll cut your throat. Now, I’m going back and fill that jug.”
With this gruesome warning Polcher made for the settlement. Jackson kept concealed, curious to see what Thatch would do. He knew the old man would have no great compunctions about killing an Indian. It was the after-effects he dreaded, the prospects of his white hair flying from a Cherokee belt.
Polcher’s purpose was clear; he wished to precipitate trouble between the Cherokees and the Watauga men. A mighty danger hung over the settlements; it would only require a Cherokee slain by a white man to bring the danger crashing down. Once committed to a campaign of vengeance, the Cherokee Nation would gladly accept the war-belt offered by McGillivray and his Creeks, and Charles III, of Spain, would decide he held winning cards.
Thatch remained motionless until Polcher was out of sight and hearing; then with a muttered curse he picked up his rifle and shuffled toward the ancient Indian trail which led to the south. Jackson followed to prevent the murder. The prospective victim must live near by, according to Thatch’s words. He would be one of Old Tassel’s warriors, friendly to the whites and willing to dwell on the edge of their civilization. Mumbling under his breath, Thatch followed the trail only a short distance before leaving it for the forest. Jackson was now at his heels, wondering if he were fully decided to commit the crime.
The old man stopped close to the trail and sat down on a log and rested his rifle on some dead brush and stared intently at his feet. Jackson watched his face and saw his great weakness gradually conquer. Thatch was picturing the endless procession of jugs one scalp would buy. By degrees his aged eyes grew bright with resolution, and the lips under the beard ceased trembling.
“What’s a Injun more or less?” he grunted, stooping for his rifle and slipping and plunging both arms deep into the brush.
He began mouthing profanity but suddenly desisted and stared as if death-struck. Jackson was greatly puzzled at this extraordinary behaviour. From a decision to do murder he had inexplicably dropped into the depths of terror. The watery eyes were round and fixed; the arms, still buried nearly to the shoulders, were rigid and straining. Then, very slowly, the arms were withdrawn, while the eyes, as if pulled by a magnet, slowly turned downward.
Jackson nearly betrayed himself when three hands instead of only two emerged from the brush.
“He’s stumbled on to the dead Creek—McGillivray’s messenger!” gasped Jackson under his breath.