The warriors glanced uneasily at each other and refused to meet the sharp gaze of the white man. Little John was once more establishing his influence. McGillivray was considered to be a mighty war-leader; yet he had been unable to hold Little John or Little John’s friend. If the Emperor of the Creeks could not hold two of the borderers prisoners in his own village, what guarantee did the Cherokees have he could aid them in withstanding the attack of some three thousand riflemen? Old Tassel, greatly alarmed at the prospect of having the northern and eastern towns destroyed, hastily insisted: “McGillivray does not make war for the Cherokees. It is for the Cherokees to say whether they will have war or peace. The Creeks live far from the western settlements. They talk like children at times. This council has not voted for war.” “Not yet voted for war?” scornfully replied Little John. “Then take this talk from me and have done with talking. You can have war. I am not here begging for peace. I am tired trying to remain friendly with the Cherokees. Take your vote and go to water; then chew your sacred root and see if the medicine can stop our bullets. At Great Hiwassee I gave you a friendly talk and asked you to a grand council. And before doing that I sent a talk to you by Tall Runner—a peace talk. “Now I will give you no more peace talks; for you do not like them. You want war. These young warriors from the lower towns want war. You can always have what you want if your medicine is strong. As I stood at the door I heard this warrior shouting for war.” And he turned to Dragging Canoe’s orator and snatched the ax from the nonplussed warrior’s belt. With his knife he slashed his own forearm and allowed the blood to drop on the head of the ax. Before the stupefied circle could more than draw a breath he waved the gory ax above his head and threw it at the feet of Old Tassel, defying— “You, who want red war, pick up that red ax!” Old Tassel drew back as if it were a deadly serpent. Wheeling on the owner of the ax, Sevier invited: “You pick it up for him. He is old and his bones are lame. You are young and strong. You love war. Yours is the voice that raises the red war-whoop. It is your ax and my blood is on it. You pick it up!” The startled warrior glared from the chief to the borderer, then dropped his gaze and folded his blanket about him and drew back. “Ho! Dragging Canoe’s brave cries for the white man’s blood but will not take back his own ax when there is white blood upon it!” jeered Sevier, spurning the weapon with his foot. “Is there any one from the lower towns who wants to pick up the ax? Remember, the Creeks will help you—the Creeks who could not hold two white men prisoners. What Chickamauga wants it? I call on the men from Running Water, from Nickajack, from Long Island, from Crow Town, from Lookout Mountain town. Who wants the red ax?” Old Tassel scrambled to his feet and in a low voice announced: