“John Sevier—”
“No, no. Calm yourself! Miss Elsie will be safe in McGillivray’s town. But, if it’s known a peaceful Cherokee has been murdered, we’ll have Old Tassel’s three thousand savages joining with Watts without waiting for any help from the Creeks. That will be the chance McGillivray has been waiting for—and the Lord help the Watauga, the Holston and the French Broad and poor John Robertson down on the Cumberland!”
“But no Cherokee will be missing, let alone be dead. It’s a Creek that furnishes the scalp,” reminded Jackson.
“And we can’t afford to have the Creek’s murder known any better than we could a Cherokee’s,” cried Sevier. “McGillivray would never forgive the slaying of his messenger. The office is almost sacred. —— Hubbard for getting us into such a mess! Oh, why didn’t I examine the brush-pile when down there! I found it easy enough but thought it could wait till I had more time. Time? Every second fights against us!”
“If Major Hubbard hadn’t killed the Creek, then Thatch would have wiped out a Cherokee. It’s six of one and half a dozen of the other.”
“Not so. You would have stopped Thatch. But we’re wasting time. Make for the tavern. If Thatch isn’t in Polcher’s room in the back end toward the garden, he hasn’t arrived. You must hold him up and take the scalp from him.”
“And you?”
“I’m off to do what I should have done before—bury the Creek where none will find him. Report to me here. Remember what is at stake!”
“I’m an American,” growled Jackson, snatching up his rifle and gliding from the room.
The tap-room of the tavern contained half a dozen patrons, who sat along the walls in silence, as if waiting. A mulatto boy presided over the bar. There were none of the usual loungers outside the door, and the door was closed. By these signs Jackson knew Polcher had dismissed all but a trusty few so as to leave a clear path for Old Thatch. Pausing only long enough to make sure Hester was not in the tap-room, the ranger skirted the zone of light and gained the garden at the rear.