Elijah Clarke can raise at least 5,000 in northern Georgia. We are good for 3,000. Tot. 17,000 rifles—if we have time. He studied the list thoughtfully and nodded approval. Give him a few inches of time time before the storm broke, and he would stake his soul on the American manhood of the seventeen thousand riflemen he had listed. If Spain and her tools could be held off for a few months, then the Western door would swing back to allow men in buckskin to file through and take possession. He drummed on the table idly, then tore off a strip of paper containing his notes and fed it to a candle. With the exception of George Rogers Clark, all the men on the list had fought with him, some under his command. “Didn’t know your friend was so keen set ag’in Injuns, Jack,” spoke up a grey-bearded man an honest if simple fellow. “It’s his fightin’ ag’in’ the Shawnees,” declared a tavern lounger. “Kirk Jackson has killed too many Indians in open warfare to have to slay them by murder,” growled Sevier. “We won’t convict till we’ve heard the evidence. We haven’t any proof yet that an Indian has been killed. After that’s shown it will be time enough to name the slayer.” “Polcher’s got the proof. He’ll be here in a second,” cried a voice. Sevier rose and strolled to the door, his manner calm but his nerves inclined to jump. Through the doorway he had glimpsed the face of Major Hubbard, and he feared lest the Indian-hater should enter and boldly announce his bloody coup. Standing so as to block the gaze of those behind him, he caught Hubbard by the shoulder and whispered: “The devil’s to pay! Your one dead Indian may bring death to many women and children. Let no one know you did it. You’d better go away until it’s over. I’m hoping I can stave it off—that they won’t find the body.” Hubbard hesitated, then the feeble wail of a child from some cabin struck to his heart, and with a shudder he slipped back into the darkness just in time to avoid being seen by a group of men carrying torches. As the men drew up to the door, Sevier saw they had brought the silent form of Thatch on a stretcher of rifles. Sevier stepped aside and the men filed in and deposited the body on the floor before the table and took their seats. Polcher remained standing until Sevier returned to the table, when he approached and placed the Creek scalp before Sevier. The borderer bowed abstractedly and waited for the tavern-keeper to retire. “We will now open the inquiry into the death of Amos Thatch,” announced Sevier. “Polcher, what do you know about it?”