While the fugitives clambered upon the backs of the horses, the lads finished reloading. Again the pieces cracked and once more the great Cherokee bow twanged. Amid the death yells of the fallen braves and the ruins of Fort Mims blazing behind them, the fugitives, with Jack and Frank and Running Elk riding behind as a rear guard, dashed away with the news toward the settlements. CHAPTER VIII OLD HICKORY APPEARS The news of the deed of blood at Fort Mims swept along the border like fire; swift riders carried it to the hamlets of Georgia and Tennessee; and in the wake of the tidings went up a cry of vengeance. Nowhere did the dreadful story have more effect than in West Tennessee. Governor Blount at once called for three thousand volunteers to move against the Creeks, and the hardy backwoodsmen flocked from all points to enlist. Frank Lawrence, Jack Davis and the young Cherokee hunter, Running Elk, had ridden through the perils of the hostile Indian country and forced their way north by sheer pluck after leaving the fugitives of Fort Mims at a stockade some dozen miles away and making sure that the troops at Fort Stoddart had been notified. And now, when the borderers were pouring in to enlist in the force which was to strike a blow against the Creeks, these three young men were in the thick of the movement. “A friend of my father, a lawyer named Andrew Jackson, is leader of the state militia,” said Jack. “Suppose we go see him; he’ll tell us what’s best to do.” But first they consulted the elder Davis, a stout, hardy man who had, like the other farmers, rode into the city to see what was to be done. He shook his head when Jack told him of their idea. “Of course,” said he, “you lads ought to volunteer. It’s the duty of every youngster on the border to do so. But as for Andy Jackson’s doing anything for you, I don’t think he’ll be able.” “Why, how’s that?” asked Jack, surprised. “He’s still general of the militia, isn’t he?” “Yes,” replied the farmer, “but just now he’s ill; in bed with the doctors attending him. A few weeks ago he engaged in a desperate personal affray with the Bentons, and was shot in the shoulder. And I hear the wound is a bad one, and he’s not mending very fast.” However, the lads, after some consultation with Mr. Davis, made up their minds that it would be a good idea to go on to Nashville anyway. “It may be,” admitted Mr. Davis, “that he’s taken a turn for the better since I heard from him. News travels slowly, you know.”