Chief Watts gauged his thoughts correctly and motioned for Polcher to withdraw. After the tavern-keeper had departed, the chief with mock gravity said— “My new brother, who has come to live with us, understands where he can walk and where he must not walk?” “He understands,” was the cheerful reply. “As he is weary, he will be glad to rest here until the next Green Corn Dance wipes out the crime he never committed.” “When new fire is given to take the place of the old, he will be free to go unharmed,” admitted Watts, well satisfied, to hold Sevier a prisoner until the corn was ready for harvesting, or about the middle of August. Watts believed the die would be cast inside of thirty days and that, without Sevier to stiffen their morale, the settlers would be conquered. Watts was the last of the warriors to leave. At the door he called out a command, and a man handed him in Sevier’s rifle and a belt. Presenting these to the borderer, the chief gravely said: “These are yours. No one shall say the Cherokees are thieves even if the whites have stolen their land.” “I shall feel easier for having them so long as Polcher is in the village.” “You need have no fear of Polcher. He will not think of harming a hair of your head. He showed anger while here, but that is because he has lived long among whites and forgets the law. Now he knows; he will not reach for his knife again—in Great Hiwassee.” “If I choose to try to escape, can I have my horse?” “Your horse is at the edge of the village with the others. Take him any time. It is your horse. If you care to take the risk, you shall set out in as good condition as you were in when my young men brought you here.” “I will remember it in your favour when next I have you under my rifle,” said Sevier, his eyes sparkling as he examined his rifle and pistol and found they had not been tampered with. “You stay here?” “I have work to do in my lower towns,” was the enigmatic reply, illuminated somewhat by the peculiar smile accompanying the words. “Preparing for war while I wait for the corn to be harvested. On coming here I saw a war-eagle flying away. What was it a sign of? Your defeat?” Watts looked sober. More progressive in his ideas than the bulk of his people, yet he could not discard many of the superstitions. Secretly he was alarmed that Polcher had killed an eagle out of season, yet that was a fault that did not necessarily spell disaster. To make light of the disquieting suggestion he indifferently said: “We have _shamans_ to read signs. It is enough for you to know that all crimes die out and are forgotten when old fires die and are replaced by the new. You have your choice, Little John. Stay and live, or step over the line and have an ax stuck in your head. _Ku!_” “I have heard you,” was the quiet reply.