“After all, McGillivray’s probably over-rated. I never saw an Indian yet who could plan a campaign and stick to it,” he hopefully said. Sevier smiled ruefully. “You don’t know Alexander McGillivray, who calls himself ‘Emperor’ of the Creek Nation. His father was Lachlan McGillivray, a Scotch trader. His half-breed mother was of a powerful family of the Hutalgalgi, or Wind clan. Her father was a French officer. McGillivray was educated at Charleston and studied Latin and Greek as well as the usual branches. He’s a partner in the firm of Panton, Forbes and Leslie in Pensacola. Naturally that firm has a monopoly of the Creek trade. He’s shrewd as a Scotchman, has the polish of a Frenchman and is more cunning than any of his Indians. He is an educated gentleman according to English standards. He lives up to his title of ‘Emperor.’ I must say this for him: he’s kind to captives and honestly tries to do away with the usual Indian cruelties. “Now to return to my petition to show where we fit in. It’s Old Tassel’s deadly fear of the Watauga riflemen as much as his desire for peace that is holding him back. And, if he should die, his three thousand warriors would flock to McGillivray at once. The renegade Cherokees, who call themselves Chickamaugas, are impatient to take the path. As things are turning out, my riflemen aren’t enough. They’ve served without pay. The new settlers demand pay. We must have power to raise and equip militia.” “I begin to understand,” Jackson sadly admitted. “This Polcher? He must be active in anything evil.” “He’s cunning. His tavern is where messages are brought and relayed on. If word comes to Tonpit, it is left at the tavern and sent secretly. Look here, young man! Perhaps I’ve talked more freely than I should. You’re in love with Miss Elsie, and you’d be a fool if you weren’t. But that naturally makes you wish to see things that exonerate the major. Wander round and see and hear for yourself. In a few days, maybe, I’ll feel like telling you something else. Only remember this: Elsie Tonpit hasn’t a better friend west of the Alleghanies than John Sevier. By heavens! I’m a better friend to her than her father is!” He clamped his lips together and began rereading the petition. Jackson studied the strong visage with new interest. Sevier’s face reminded him strongly of Washington’s in its Anglo-Saxon lines of determination. But there was also a certain mobility of expression, a mirroring of emotions, which came from his French blood. He was a Virginian, and the young ranger had heard his fame echoing up and down the lonely Ohio. As Nolichucky Jack—usually clipped to Chucky Jack—his name was reputed to be worth a thousand rifles when he took the field against the red men.