“I thought you heard him giving me some lip when you woke up,” mused Polcher. “I intended to ask you about it, but you was gone before I remembered. I want you to promise me you’ll say nothing about it. If the other fellows knew he’d made cheap talk to me, it might set them all doing the same thing. And I have it hard enough as it is.” Old Thatch avoided this trap also and replied: “But I never heard nothin’. But I do still opine ye didn’t treat me very friendly when I only asked for a gallon. I know where a Injun has some furs hid, an’ I’d have fetched ’em to ye tonight. Ye might ’a’ took that chance on a old customer.” Polcher laughed with his lips, making no sound, and slowly withdrew his right hand from the apron and folded his arms. “See here, Thatch,” he softly began, “that gallon is yours and several more if you fetch me the furs—but leave the Injun.” “Leave the Injun?” “Exactly. Leave him so he’ll stay just where you leave him.” “Ye mean for me to kill him?” hoarsely asked Thatch. “Well, I’m quarter-blood, but I don’t like Injuns,” murmured Polcher. “But that would bring a war-party ag’in us,” the old man protested. “What’s that to you, you old coward? You wouldn’t have to do any fighting. You’re afraid,” growled Polcher. “’Fraid of a Injun! Huh! Like ——!” wrathfully retorted Thatch. “Now listen to me. If you blab a word, you’ll never blab another. I’ve changed my mind about the furs. I don’t want them. Bring a scalp and get your jug.” “I ain’t got a tender stomach when it comes to Injuns. But this cuss is a friendly one. Lives near here. It would be like killin’ a neighbour. I—I can’t do it,” cried Thatch, his old face now running sweat. “Then I’ve made a mistake and talked to the wrong man. It’s your hair or the Injun’s before midnight.” “It means war on the Watauga cabins,” whined Thatch. “That’s nothing to you. A single word of this to any one and I’ll first prove you’re a drunken old liar, and then I’ll cut your throat. Now, I’m going back and fill that jug.” With this gruesome warning Polcher made for the settlement. Jackson kept concealed, curious to see what Thatch would do. He knew the old man would have no great compunctions about killing an Indian. It was the after-effects he dreaded, the prospects of his white hair flying from a Cherokee belt. Polcher’s purpose was clear; he wished to precipitate trouble between the Cherokees and the Watauga men. A mighty danger hung over the settlements; it would only require a Cherokee slain by a white man to bring the danger crashing down. Once committed to a campaign of vengeance, the Cherokee Nation would gladly accept the war-belt offered by McGillivray and his Creeks, and Charles III, of Spain, would decide he held winning cards.