Turning and leading his horse back to them, Sevier complained—
“When a Cherokee brings a talk to Tsan-usdi he is not met with a pointed gun.”
One of the warriors met him as he came out of the river and relieved him of his rifle and belt and significantly replied—
“They say that when a Cherokee went to see Little John he left his scalp.”
Eyes flashed, and bronzed hands played with knife and ax at the speech. Sevier knew Polcher had begun spreading his poisonous tale and that by this time the story was radiating through the wilderness, village after village catching it up and passing it on. Like magic would the news spread throughout the nation.
“By the lips of a Cherokee himself you shall learn that it is a lie. None of your brothers has been harmed in Jonesboro where the Cherokee talks are brought to me,” quietly answered Sevier. “Who commands here?”
“We follow John Watts,” sullenly replied the warrior.
“Chickamaugas, hopelessly hostile,” Sevier inwardly exclaimed. Then aloud, “Where is he? I bring him a talk. I have come fast as the wind to see him.”
“He is near. You shall see him,” was the grim reply.
“Then do not keep me waiting,” was the brusque command. And the borderer leaped on his horse.