“Now listen; I know you. I see your hand in the death of Old Thatch. I understand how gladly you’d hear that the Cherokees have gone to water as a nation. I can picture your joy when you hear Creek and Cherokee have taken the red path together. Now this will surely happen: I shall kill you if I can prove you’re working to throw the Western settlements into the lap of Spain. I know you’re doing it, and, when I can prove it to the satisfaction of a dozen men like Stetson, you’ll swing.” “You talk big about killing folks,” snarled Polcher. “Any more threats?” “Only this: you spoke of Piomingo’s friendship for Jim Robertson. The minute I hear Piomingo is dead I start out on your trail. And don’t figure on your Cherokee blood providing you a hiding-place in that nation. I’d dig you out even if you were hid in the white peace town of Echota. I have spoken.” “Here we are!” called out Stetson. “Light extry torches.” This was speedily done, and, as the three black oaks and the clump of poplars sprang into the light, the men took up their search for the dead Indian. Polcher was most zealous in the task, and Sevier kept close by him. But, although the men scattered and hunted carefully, and although the glare of the torches attracted those men who had been seeking Jackson, no trace of the murdered Creek could be found. “It’s mighty queer,” mused Stetson, rubbing his head in perplexity. “If the Injun was killed, he wasn’t et up or burned up. But where’s the body?” “If!” snarled Polcher in great disgust. “Didn’t you see his scalp?” “I’ve seen lots of Injun hair,” Stetson quietly replied. “I’m beginning to think that partic’lar hair is older’n even I thought it was. One thing’s sartain: there ain’t no dead Injun in this neck of the woods.” “Of course the murderer hid the body,” cried Polcher, now prepared to play his trump card, and his gaze shifted for a second to the pile of brush, under which, as Thatch had told him, the Indian was concealed. “Not if he chased Thatch, as the old man claimed,” said one of the searchers. “He had plenty of time while Thatch was hiding in the hollow tree,” Polcher returned. “Ah! I wonder if this hides anything!” And he ran to the pile of brush and cast a triumphant glance at Sevier. “Now perhaps it does,” agreed Sevier. “It’s so exposed one wouldn’t think to look in it. The murderer probably thought of that.” And he vied with Polcher in tearing the mound to pieces. They came to the forest floor without finding any trace of a corpse. Polcher bit his lips to hide his rage. He knew that some one had forestalled him; he wondered if it could be Sevier. He began to feel uneasy at Sevier’s way of always keeping at his side. Chucky Jack’s threat to hang him if he caught him in overt treachery suddenly became very real, and he mechanically felt of his throat. Sevier would not abandon the quest, however, and insisted: