“What the devil does this mean? This ain’t a prime, fresh scalp. It’s more’n a dozen hours old.”
“What ye tryin’ to make out now, Polcher,” choked Thatch, striving in vain to keep his terror from showing.
Polcher maintained his grip on the old man’s arm while he ducked his head for another study of the scalp. Then with a smothered oath he hissed—
“Creek hair! You—”
“Don’t! Don’t!” pleaded Thatch, his voice squealing. And he sought to tear his arm loose.
Polcher held him firmly and stared with lack-luster eyes into the frightened face for nearly a minute. His gaze seemed to exert a hypnotic influence on the wretch, for the struggling ceased, and the pleading stopped.
“Now tell me where you got a Creek scalp,” gently commanded Polcher.
Mumblingly and often inaudible to the eavesdropper behind the currant bushes, Thatch blurted out his story of having found a warrior buried under some brush. The man had been dead only a few hours, and he supposed it was a Cherokee.
“It was atween the three black oaks an’ a clump of poplars,” he explained. “An’ I couldn’t see why his sculp wasn’t jest as good as if I’d done for him.”
“It’s just as good,” slowly replied Polcher. “It’s much better. And the Watauga will pay the price when McGillivray hears of it. His messenger killed by the settlers! By the Almighty, but won’t he rage! And I know who killed him and scalped him, and we’ll prove it.”