Thatch remained motionless until Polcher was out of sight and hearing; then with a muttered curse he picked up his rifle and shuffled toward the ancient Indian trail which led to the south. Jackson followed to prevent the murder. The prospective victim must live near by, according to Thatch’s words. He would be one of Old Tassel’s warriors, friendly to the whites and willing to dwell on the edge of their civilization. Mumbling under his breath, Thatch followed the trail only a short distance before leaving it for the forest. Jackson was now at his heels, wondering if he were fully decided to commit the crime. The old man stopped close to the trail and sat down on a log and rested his rifle on some dead brush and stared intently at his feet. Jackson watched his face and saw his great weakness gradually conquer. Thatch was picturing the endless procession of jugs one scalp would buy. By degrees his aged eyes grew bright with resolution, and the lips under the beard ceased trembling. “What’s a Injun more or less?” he grunted, stooping for his rifle and slipping and plunging both arms deep into the brush. He began mouthing profanity but suddenly desisted and stared as if death-struck. Jackson was greatly puzzled at this extraordinary behaviour. From a decision to do murder he had inexplicably dropped into the depths of terror. The watery eyes were round and fixed; the arms, still buried nearly to the shoulders, were rigid and straining. Then, very slowly, the arms were withdrawn, while the eyes, as if pulled by a magnet, slowly turned downward. Jackson nearly betrayed himself when three hands instead of only two emerged from the brush. “He’s stumbled on to the dead Creek—McGillivray’s messenger!” gasped Jackson under his breath. Incredulously the old man glared at the dead hand his living hands had found under the brush. For nearly a minute he remained with his gaze fixed; then a cunning expression crept over his base face, and he turned his head in all directions to make sure he was unobserved. Satisfied he was alone with the dead brave, he grunted and growled like an animal worrying its prey and drew his knife and reaching deep into the brush, worked with feverish haste. It lacked an hour of ten o’clock when Jackson finished trailing Thatch to his lonely cabin. After completing his horrid business, Thatch had proceeded to an isolated Indian hut and hung about near the clearing waiting for an opportunity to steal the furs. Polcher had told him the furs were not necessary, but possibly the old man planned to palm off the scalp as having belonged to the owner of the pelts and thus doubly insure his supply of strong drink. But the Indian owner had remained near his cabin door, and as the shadows gathered the old man sought his cabin.