Sevier chucked her under the chin. A woman came running from the cabin and seized the child by the arm, perhaps fearing that the white man would bewitch her. “Listen, woman,” Sevier commanded under his breath. “Is this Ayuhwasi?” “Ayuhwasi Egwahi,” the woman timidly corrected as she caught up the child and hurried away. Sevier drew a long breath and turned from the window to conceal his smile. It was the town the French trader had mentioned. And by what a round-about way had the borderer recalled it! A fragment from Deuteronomy, a flash of memory concerning his old friend James Robertson’s talk of Echota —and Chucky Jack was now ready to meet Chief Watts, his head men and the villain, Polcher, and dicker for his life. The intrusion of the child seemed to be a signal for the deathly quiet to break up. There sounded a hoarse, monotonous chanting of a _shaman_, the shuffling tread of warriors moving with ceremonial step, and then John Watts, followed by Polcher and a string of warriors, entered the council-house, their faces devoid of expression, their eyes resting on the prisoner as if not seeing him. Watts and Polcher took seats side by side, and, had not Sevier been looking for the tavern-keeper, he would not have recognized him. Polcher now was all Indian. Gone the smirk and urbanity of his white role. In discarding the garments of the settlements he had taken on the status of the red man. His features were all Indian, and yet three-fourths of his blood was white. What especially served to disguise him was his elaborate head-dress of eagle feathers. Sevier stared at the feathers intently, then began smiling. As the line of warriors scowled blackly at his show of mirth, he threw off all restraint and laughed aloud. Before he could be interrogated, he pointed a derisive finger at Polcher and demanded: “Are the Cherokees mad, or are their medicine-men fools, that they allow an eagle to be killed before the snakes have gone to sleep? Have the Cherokee towns lost all their eagle-killers?” This unexpected outburst caused the warriors to exchange glances of consternation. The twelve feathers on the breed’s head were surely from the tail of the mighty _awahili_, the great war-eagle, especially sacred and prominent in all rites pertaining to the war-path. Watts frowned and said something under his breath. Polcher boldly assured: “My medicine told me to kill the eagle. It was sick and would have died.” “He has killed the eagle and has taken its feathers without first allowing it to remain four days on the ground!” cried Sevier. The warriors edged apart from Watts and Polcher, for it was known that the insects on the eagle’s feathers will cause a serious skin disease to any who wears them without first leaving them on the ground four days. Knowing Sevier had thrown him on to the defensive, Polcher declared— “My medicine protects me from the eagle-sickness.” But Sevier was not yet done with him and roundly scored: