“I have a talk for the Cherokee Nation. It is a very old talk. It is as old as the first war-wampum. So long as we raised the ax and gave blow for blow, we were respected by the whites. Since we have put down white paths we have been crowded from our own trails and thrown into the briars and on the rocks, and the white men have filled those trails. In the old days we suffered, for we had bows and arrows against guns. Today it is not so. Spain, through the Creek Nation, will supply us with many guns and much powder. Already she has given us much. “We will not have to run from the white man’s gun or dodge his bullets to get within arrow-shot. We are men. This is our country and we will hold it. There was a time when our land reached to the Ohio and the Great Kanawha and the Catawba, and to the west as far as our young men cared to hunt. Now we do not touch the Cumberland, except on its upper waters, while the French Broad holds us back if we go toward the rising sun. “Brothers, we are like an old man, once tall and good to look upon, but now bent and withered. There is but one medicine that will make us young and strong and straight. It is a red medicine—the blood of the whites. The all-powerful Red Spirits of the East do not love those who give up their lands without a fight. I speak with the voice of the five lower towns. I speak for war, war, war!” The speaker’s fervour exploded whatever restraint his hearers had been practising, and in a frenzy of martial emotion brawny arms waved axes and many voices thundered: “War! War! War!” Even Old Tassel’s eyes gleamed with savagery, suggesting new fires blooming through dead ashes. Then returned the old killing doubt: Could the white man be driven out? His gaze once more became dull and lifeless; and more for the sake of restoring a formal atmosphere to the council than because he wished to prolong the sitting he asked— “Is there any one else who brings a talk to us before we follow the shamans?” There was a bustling about at the entrance and a swirl of confusion as a man heavily blanketed unceremoniously pushed his way into the room and stood before the chief. Throwing back the blanket from his head and figure, he addressed Old Tassel, saying— “I bring you a talk, Utsidsata.” “Tsan-usdi!” croaked Old Tassel, his jaw dropping in amazement. The assemblage, stunned to silence at beholding the man their redoubtable chief and the Creeks were seeking, glared incredulously. Then broke forth a storm of guttural execrations, and brown hands stretched forward to grasp the impudent intruder. Even in their rage, however, all remembered the kind of man Chucky Jack was. His daring to venture into the council while being hunted by the fighting-men of the two nations was a mighty check to homicidal impulses. And no hand touched him.