“No, John,” he said before the other could speak; “I decided not to risk it. For a bit I believed it could be done; then I saw tsiskwaya, the little sparrow, fly upward, afraid of something on the ground.”
“Tsiskwaya saw a snake,” suggested Watts.
“He wore Cherokee paint,” smiled Sevier.
The chief lowered at him evilly, a heavy scowl distorting his dark face. The borderer knew something had gone wrong with his enemy and philosophically decided he ought to be benefitted by whatever had displeased the chief.
“My brother is angry because I did not ride down the trail,” he said.
Watts snarled like a tree-cat, then forced his face to composure and said:
“I am angry at your narrow escape. If you had gone down the trail, the snake might have bitten you. Who knows? Bad dreams would have come to me if you had been harmed.”
“Just what does that mean?” Sevier suspiciously asked.
Watts pointed to the end of the village, where warriors were filing in between the first cabins.
“Old Tassel comes, and with him is the Tall Runner, the man of the Wolf, who Polcher said was dead.”