Jack Davis shook the rein of his black horse; and so the three rode toward the stream, which was perhaps a quarter of a mile away. It was late autumn and the year was 1812. The Muscogee country, as the state of Alabama was then called, was green with mighty forests, and in places almost untrodden by the foot of the white man; game was to be met on every hand; and the red huntsmen ranged the hills and valleys, seeking not only food, but their foes as well.
The young Cherokee warrior led a packhorse which bore upon its back provisions and camp equipment. The youthful savage was a handsome, supple fellow, attired in the picturesque dress of his nation, and carrying a bow and quiver of arrows; also a tomahawk and knife hung at his belt.
Jack Davis was about eighteen years of age; he had been born and reared upon the Tennessee border, and had the keen, hardy look which comes of facing nature in her most rugged aspects. Frank Lawrence, on the other hand, was a product of civilization; he was fresh from Richmond; and while he had little of the bronze and none of the woodcraft of the other lad, still, ounce for ounce, it would have been a cunning choice to select the one who would have endured the greater fatigue.
Both wore fringed leggings, hunting shirts and coonskin caps; from the shoulders of each hung a long rifle, powder horn and bullet pouch; in their belts were thrust broad bladed hunting knives and keen edged hatchets.
“Since we got down into this country I’ve noticed a great number of small streams much like the one ahead,” remarked Frank. “It’s as though there were a sort of network of them.”
Jack laughed.
“I noticed that, too, first time I got down this far,” replied he. “Those streams gave the redskins of this region their name. They call themselves Muscogees; but the whites call them Creeks.”
“It seems to me I’ve heard Running Elk speak of them by another name,” said Frank, with a glance at the Cherokee.
“Oh, yes, Red Sticks,” said Jack. “They get that name from the war club they carry, which is always colored red.”
“Red Stick no good,” spoke Running Elk, calmly. “Much bad medicine. Cherokee hate ’um.”