Every emotion, unless it be that of love, must have its ebb; and by nightfall the settlers were returning to their old caution. Dale did not relish this outcropping of old habits. Throwing open the door of the Davis cabin after Davis had closed and barred it, he cried: "Let us have air. There is no danger. You're like silly children afraid of the dark. Your scouts have told you there are no Indians near. Yet the minute the sun sets you imagine the woods are full of them. I will go out alone and unarmed and I will shout my name. If any Shawnee who was not in Black Hoof's band hears my voice he will come to me. After he learns I have friends here on Howard's Creek, he will go away. Give me time to act before that scoundrel Connolly can stir up more trouble and I'll make a lasting peace between the Greenbriar, the Clinch and the Holston and the Ohio tribes; and I'll make Dunmore look like a fool." His overpowering personality, his massive way of asserting things made a deep impression on the simple folks. They asked only for a chance to plant and reap. When he went out alone that night he brought them deep under his spell. As he plunged into the forest and stumbled about he took pains to advertise his presence. Unknown to the settlers, I trailed him. I was within ten feet of him when he halted and shouted his name, and in their language called on the Shawnees to come to him. For half an hour he wandered about, proclaiming he was the Pack-Horse-Man, the ancient friend of the Shawnees and Mingos. Let him be a fool according to Jesse Hughes' notion, yet he was a very brave man. He had the courage to attempt proof of his belief in the honesty of the Shawnees. I trailed him back to the cabin door. I saw the girl's radiant face as she proudly threw her arms about his neck. I saw the great pride in his own face as he stood in the middle of the floor and harshly demanded: "Now, who will you believe; Dale, the trader, or Hughes, the killer?" It was all mighty dramatic, and it was not surprising that it should affect the settlers keenly. It shook my skepticism a bit, but only for the moment. If I could not feel a full confidence in John Ward, born white, how could I place a deep and abiding trust in those who were born red? Had not Cornstalk and other chiefs, the best of their breed, sworn friendship to the whites in Virginia in 1759 and during Pontiac's War? Had they not feasted with old friends, and then, catching them off their guard, chopped them down? Black Hoof had drawn off his raiders; so far, so good. But I looked to my flints none the less carefully that night and made the rounds to see that reliable men were on guard. The night passed with nothing to disturb the settlement's rest. CHAPTER VII LOST SISTER