With that she swerved the horse about, kicked her feet into his ribs and dashed away, the man clinging on behind her, his dark features devoid of expression. An oath brought my head about. Crabtree was on his feet, his hand drawing his ax, his face livid with rage. "Curse you!" he stuttered. "Ye sp'iled my baggin' the three of 'em!" "You've bagged Cherokee Billy, the brother of Oconostota, the great chief of the Cherokees," I wrathfully retorted. "It would have been well for the frontier if I could have arrived in time to bag you before you did it. The Cherokees have kept out of the war, but it'll be a wonder if they don't swarm up this creek when they hear of this murder." "Let 'em come!" he yelled. "That's what we want. It'll take more'n you, Basdel Morris, to keep my paws clear of the critters once I git a bead on one of 'em. Git out of my way so's I can git my rifle. I'll have the three of 'em yet." "If you make a move to follow them I'll shoot you," I promised. By this time men were crashing through the bushes. Then came a louder noise and Baby Kirst, mounted on his big horse, his broad face bedaubed with molasses, burst on the scene. A dozen settlers crowded into the spot behind him. Hacker and Runner were the first to see the dead Indian. With a whoop they drew their knives and rushed in to get the scalp. I drove them back with my horse and loudly informed them: "It's Cherokee Billy, brother of Oconostota, who can send the whole Cherokee nation against you, or hold it back." "I don't care what Injun it is," howled Hacker. "Hair's hair. Git out the way, or you'll git acquainted with my ax. I'll have that scalp." "Not so fast," I warned. "The hair belongs to Crabtree here. Kill your own scalps. Crabtree doesn't care to take that scalp. He knows Oconostota has a long memory." And I swung about, my rifle across the saddle and in a direct line with the murderer's chin. "It's my kill," growled Crabtree. "Morris held me up with his gun, or I'd bagged t'other two of 'em." "I'd like to see him hold me up when there's red meat to be run down!" snarled Runner. There were four killers present in addition to the irresponsible Kirst. I was helpless against them, I could not shoot a man down for proposing to follow two Indians, let the reds be ever so friendly toward the whites. But Patrick Davis had come to Howard's Creek to stay, and it was a problem he could handle. It at once developed that he did not fancy the prospect of a Cherokee reprisal. He stepped in front of Runner and in a low ugly voice said: "You fellows quit this talk. 'Nough mischief has been done. Unless Oconostota can be smoothed down there'll be trouble from Rye Cove to Tygart's Valley. As for following t'other two, you'll reckon with me and my neighbors first." "A dead Injun ain't worth quarreling over," spoke up Widow McCabe from the edge of the group; and her eyes glowed as they rested on Cherokee Billy.