At times he avoided small bands of Cherokees, but these were not overwatchful as none dreamed of a white man so far within their country. When near the Hiwassee, the borderer drew aside and sought a ford farther to the west of the regular crossing. River-crossings were the favourite haunts of those younger Cherokees who refused to heed the council of pacific elders.
Now, too, each mile of the way brought Sevier that much nearer to the lower towns on the Tennessee, where the motley hordes of white refugees, Shawnee outcasts, Creeks fleeing tribal punishment, as well as turbulent Cherokees, held the towns of Nickajack, Crow Town, Long Island, Lookout Mountain and Running Water. Implacable hatred for the whites was the occasion of these villages, and from them radiated an atmosphere of hostility that no number of peace talks could soften.
It was while seeking a ford that Sevier came upon something that furrowed his brows and caused him to examine his weapons. It was a soiled apron, thrown on a bush. It marked the passing of Polcher, and it openly advertised his identity to any passing savage. Its presence west of the regular ford told Sevier the man was hastening to the lower towns, where the Chickamaugas under Watts and Dragging Canoe would respond promptly to his urging for immediate war.
It revealed the cunning of the man, for, had he paused to win over Old Tassel’s people in the eastern villages, he would have lost valuable time and laid himself open to discovery by a pursuing posse of settlers.
“He strikes for headquarters of the war faction,” Sevier told himself. “Let him go. They can do nothing without the aid of the Creeks. My path lies south of Lookout Mountain town to the Coosa. All I ask is that I may overtake the Tonpits.”
His rapid, stealthy flight, his evasion of all villages minimized his chances of picking up Tonpit’s trail. But, knowing the couple were safe in the Cherokee country and convinced they were making for McGillivray’s town on the Coosa, he had planned to press forward with all speed to the head of the river below the Chickamauga towns and there endeavour to intercept the two. If luck were with him, he would accomplish this before Polcher had finished his talk with Watts.
Dismounting, he studied the faint trail left by Polcher’s horse and decided it was at least twenty-four hours old. This lead was in part represented by the tavern-keeper’s hurried flight from Jonesboro and in part by his freedom to ride posthaste by the shortest route regardless of villages. On the whole Sevier was much pleased with his own progress, for he had been compelled to make detours and to dodge roving bands of savages.
He followed the trail to the river and studied the opposite side with care. There was no sign of life except a huhu, or yellow mocking-bird. High in the heavens floated the awahili, the great sacred bird of the Cherokees, the war-eagle. The superstitious would have found an ill omen in the eagle’s course toward the Chickamauga towns.
Its white tail-feathers tipped with black would buy the best horse in any village. It could be killed only after the crops had been gathered and the snakes had denned for Winter, just as the eagle songs must not be sung until the snakes were asleep. But Sevier was not superstitious, and, if he found any symbol in the great bird’s majestic flight, it prompted him to picture the expansion of a mighty nation toward the western sun.
Taking his horse by the bridle he waded into the ford and the mocking-bird darted away. He was hoping no Indian had seen the songster’s fright when there sounded behind him the click of a rifle being cocked. He stopped with the water swirling about his knees and looked back. A glance sufficed to tell him his plight was hopeless did he offer resistance. Fully a dozen warriors were on the bank with rifles aimed.