“Does your medicine save the Cherokees’ corn? You have killed an eagle out of season. Surely the frost will come and kill the corn.” This, also, was accepted as an incontrovertible fact, and Chief Watts realized the council would be thrown into confusion unless Chucky Jack were headed off. Bringing his two hands together for silence, he cried out: “That business can wait. Little John need not worry about Cherokee corn. He has asked to see the man who says he killed Tall Runner. The man is here and will speak.” Polcher rose, and a smile twisted his evil face for a moment as he met Sevier’s eyes. Then the red man’s immobility returned, and he began: “Tall Runner of the Wolf was killed in Jonesboro. I did not see him killed, but my white friends did. I did see his scalp in the court-house. It was placed on the table before Little John. I tried to get the scalp to bring to you, but Little John destroyed it.” He sat down and indulged in another smile of hate as the line of warriors grunted in unison. Sevier addressed Watts and said: “This man murdered an old white man. I have followed him here. Will you give him up, or must I come with my riflemen?” Chief Watts smiled in keen enjoyment at the borderer’s boldness. His voice was low and almost gentle as he replied: “Little John, Little John! Your white law does not reach here. A Cherokee has killed an old white man. What of it? It were better if he had killed a young white man. You ask if you shall come with your riflemen. If you can find them in the ever-darkening land, and your medicine will let you come back, we can not stop you. You have asked to see the man you hunted. He is here. He is one of your judges. Listen now to what this council shall decide. “Brothers, it is said a Cherokee was killed in or near Jonesboro. What do we find?” “A Cherokee was killed,” came the answer. “It is said he is Tall Runner of the Wolf. What do we find?” “Tall Runner was killed.” “It is said a white man killed him. What is the colour of the slayer?” “He is a white man.” The chief paused and cast a glance at Sevier. The borderer knew the climax was about to be sprung but concealed any concern he might have felt by staring at the eagle’s feathers and smiling sardonically. “Brothers, it is said Little John of the Nolichucky killed Tall Runner. What do we find?” “Tsan-usdi killed Tall Runner.” Chief Watts rose and stared gravely at the prisoner. Polcher leaned forward and grinned in open malevolence. “There is but one more vote to take, my brothers,” slowly said the chief, speaking almost sadly. “What is your answer, brothers?” “Death to Little John!” chorused the council. Polcher laughed aloud. The chief scowled at him. As Watts resumed his seat, Sevier leisurely smoothed out his hunting-shirt, brushed back his brown hair and calmly fixed his blue eyes on the chief. His first words were a question, an unlooked for and astounding query.