Too late he saw the trap he had been led into, and with a terrified stare at the ominous-eyed tavern-keeper he halted and bit his lips, then glared helplessly at Sevier. “Without a knife he couldn’t take any scalps,” completed Sevier. “In spots, Twill, you’re an honest witness. You speak the truth when you forget. Kirk Jackson carried no knife when he came to Jonesboro. What is more, he always fought honourably and did not scalp. Polcher made a mistake in thinking he recognized him. Amos Thatch was killed with a knife, a broad-bladed knife, not a hunting-knife. Jackson never killed him. Now, Twill. No, no; look at me. Now, sir, you dare tell Nolichucky Jack Sevier that you and Hester and Price saw Jackson shoot an Indian? Be careful. I’ve hung horse-thieves in Jonesboro. I’ll hang you for a liar before morning if you don’t tell the truth.” Twill turned a ghastly white and licked his lips frantically. In the blazing eyes of Sevier he saw the noose if he were caught bearing false witness. He knew Polcher’s cruel gaze was warning him his days were numbered unless he persisted in his story. But Sevier had meted border justice to several of Twill’s cronies. “I—I may have been mistook,” he faltered, gulping out the words with difficulty and knowing he must leave the Watauga country before morning if he valued his life. “It was a right smart distance off. Mebbe it wa’n’t Jackson. I’d—I’d been drinkin’ hard.” “Maybe you didn’t see anything. Just dreamed it?” suggested Sevier. With a low groan Twill made complete surrender before the compelling gaze and desperately cried out: “I reckon so. Jest dreamed it. An’ I want to git out of here.” Sevier nodded toward the door. As Twill made for it, Polcher sprang to his feet as if to follow him. Sevier raised the pistol and warned: “Not another step, Polcher.” Then humorously, “I’ll have no tampering with the witness.” Polcher returned to his seat and quietly promised— “The red war-club will be lifted up for this, Sevier.” “_Hayi! Yu!_” sneered Sevier, using the introduction of the sacred formula for going to war. “I know your heart well. You wait and long to hear the red war-whoop, but your soul shall become blue. So shall it be.” Then to the others, “It’s time now, my friends, to visit the spot where this Indian is said to have been killed.” “Said to have been killed?” choked Polcher. “And the poor devil’s scalp is before you on that table.” Sevier picked it up and examined it curiously and invited: “Stetson, you know scalps and Indians. Come up here.” The settler advanced and bowed his broad shoulders over the table and held the scalp up to the candle and examined it closely. Then in surprise: