Polcher lifted the candle for a moment and briefly examined the head and shoulders of the old man, then dropped to the floor again. “Ye’re a —— of a long time payin’ over that jug,” grumbled Thatch. “I want to be gittin’ back to my cabin. Goin’ to make a night of it. Reg’lar old blue devil comes out an’ grins at me—lives in the fireplace. Keeps yappin’ for me to make the fire hotter’n hotter. That is, he does when I have ’nough whisky.” Polcher reappeared above the sill and seized Thatch by the arm and hoarsely accused: “What the devil does this mean? This ain’t a prime, fresh scalp. It’s more’n a dozen hours old.” “What ye tryin’ to make out now, Polcher,” choked Thatch, striving in vain to keep his terror from showing. Polcher maintained his grip on the old man’s arm while he ducked his head for another study of the scalp. Then with a smothered oath he hissed— “Creek hair! You—” “Don’t! Don’t!” pleaded Thatch, his voice squealing. And he sought to tear his arm loose. Polcher held him firmly and stared with lack-luster eyes into the frightened face for nearly a minute. His gaze seemed to exert a hypnotic influence on the wretch, for the struggling ceased, and the pleading stopped. “Now tell me where you got a Creek scalp,” gently commanded Polcher. Mumblingly and often inaudible to the eavesdropper behind the currant bushes, Thatch blurted out his story of having found a warrior buried under some brush. The man had been dead only a few hours, and he supposed it was a Cherokee. “It was atween the three black oaks an’ a clump of poplars,” he explained. “An’ I couldn’t see why his sculp wasn’t jest as good as if I’d done for him.” “It’s just as good,” slowly replied Polcher. “It’s much better. And the Watauga will pay the price when McGillivray hears of it. His messenger killed by the settlers! By the Almighty, but won’t he rage! And I know who killed him and scalped him, and we’ll prove it.” “Polcher! Ye don’t go for to throw me, do ye?” whispered Thatch. Polcher laughed. “None of my friends did this.” Thatch began to understand and faltered. “Chucky Jack?” “Think I’m a fool? No one so high as that.” “Promise me it ain’t me,” groaned Thatch, his fears returning. “No one so low as you, old friend.” “—— an’ brimstone! Spit it out, Polcher. Ye make me think of that big blue devil in my fireplace! What’s the idee?” “I have six witnesses in the tap-room who’ll swear that from a distance they saw you try to stop the murderer from killing the Creek; that, after he had killed and scalped his victim, he chased you into the woods to prevent you from blabbing.” “Good!” ejaculated Thatch, his form straightening. “They’ll swear that they came and told me and that we were about to go out and search for you and the murderer, when you came running here, chased by the scoundrel.” “Hold on!” spluttered Thatch. “What’s that ’bout him tryin’ to ketch me? Of course he didn’t ketch me, did he?”