“I am an American. Say what you will about the Watauga, about Carolina. But, by the white man’s God, another black word against the Thirteen Fires and I’ll empty your flesh of blood!”
They stood breast to breast, their eyes fighting the old, old battle, with no warrior daring to move for fear of precipitating a tragedy. Nor was there any cowardice in Watts’ bearing when he finally broke the tense silence by saying:
“Little John of the Nolichucky is a brave man. The Great Spirit has caused him to be so.”
Sevier stepped back and, holding the knife by the tip, extended it, saying:
“My medicine is strong without this. John Watts would be a great man if he did not listen to the evil talks sent him by Alexander McGillivray.”
“You would not say these things to McGillivray of the Creeks.”
“All, and more. Now I demand to see the man Polcher, who killed a white man.”
“You shall see him,” quietly promised the chief.
And with a deep bow Watts dropped the knife in his belt and led his warriors from the room.
Sevier knew enough of the Indian character to realize that never had he stood as high in Chief Watts’ estimation as now. This knowledge deceived him none as to his danger, however. Even if Polcher should fail to erase this last impression, the chief would persist in believing the future of his race depended on the elimination of all white settlements west of the Alleghanies. To preserve his people he would use whatever tools came at hand, whether furnished by Creek, Spaniard or the Evil One himself.