“These are yours. No one shall say the Cherokees are thieves even if the whites have stolen their land.”
“I shall feel easier for having them so long as Polcher is in the village.”
“You need have no fear of Polcher. He will not think of harming a hair of your head. He showed anger while here, but that is because he has lived long among whites and forgets the law. Now he knows; he will not reach for his knife again—in Great Hiwassee.”
“If I choose to try to escape, can I have my horse?”
“Your horse is at the edge of the village with the others. Take him any time. It is your horse. If you care to take the risk, you shall set out in as good condition as you were in when my young men brought you here.”
“I will remember it in your favour when next I have you under my rifle,” said Sevier, his eyes sparkling as he examined his rifle and pistol and found they had not been tampered with. “You stay here?”
“I have work to do in my lower towns,” was the enigmatic reply, illuminated somewhat by the peculiar smile accompanying the words.
“Preparing for war while I wait for the corn to be harvested. On coming here I saw a war-eagle flying away. What was it a sign of? Your defeat?”
Watts looked sober. More progressive in his ideas than the bulk of his people, yet he could not discard many of the superstitions. Secretly he was alarmed that Polcher had killed an eagle out of season, yet that was a fault that did not necessarily spell disaster. To make light of the disquieting suggestion he indifferently said:
“We have shamans to read signs. It is enough for you to know that all crimes die out and are forgotten when old fires die and are replaced by the new. You have your choice, Little John. Stay and live, or step over the line and have an ax stuck in your head. Ku!”