“I don’t know. He gave me his torch to hold while he looked under some brush.”
“Every one scatter and look for Polcher!” roared Chucky Jack. “I charge him with killing Thatch. The job was done with a butcher-knife, like what he carries under his apron. Stetson, take three men and follow me on the jump. You others beat the woods toward the settlement and come to the tavern.”
“What’s on your mind?” asked Stetson as he raced beside Sevier up the trail.
“I think he’ll make for the court-house. To get that scalp!”
“He’s lighting out?”
“He’ll be hiding among the Cherokees by morning.”
Nothing more was said until they reached the court-house. Then, as they entered and by the stub of the candle beheld the horn of ink spilled on the table and inky finger-prints on the worthless petition and top of the table, Sevier quietly announced:
“He’s been here and gone.”
“And he took the scalp!” cried Stetson.
Sevier smiled and drew it from his hunting-shirt, saying—