Watts clicked his strong teeth and whispered: “McGillivray will keep you safe there. You will not get in his trail again.” Then turning to the curious warriors he cried out, “Ho! A brave man goes to Little Talassee. You will not harm him. But, if you see white man turning back before reaching McGillivray’s town, you may know he is a coward and treat him as such.” Ignoring the hostile glances, Sevier glided from the council-house and made for his horse. He now had his chance to go to McGillivray on the Coosa, and a fringe of Cherokee warriors would see to it that he did not turn back alive. Hurrying to the corral, he saddled his horse and mounted and confided: “Well, old fellow, that’s where I reckon to go, to Little Talassee. But I’d rather go alone instead of being chased there. Coming back will be harder.” As he rode down the white path, he kept his eyes opened for signs of Polcher. He did not anticipate any attack from the tavern-keeper until he left the vicinity of the village, for Watts must have warned that no blood was to be shed so long as the path was white. When he struck into the main trail leading southwest, then he would be traversing a red way, and there would be no ancient law holding Polcher back. However, that was a detail to be attended to when encountered. What worried him considerably was not the tavern-keeper, sure to be in ambush somewhere ahead, but Kirk Jackson and the Tonpits. He had barely cleared the outskirts of the village when he discovered some one was following him. He reined in, expecting to behold the van of the Cherokees coming to make sure he did not double back to the north. But there was but one man, and he ran with no efforts at concealment. To the contrary he now began calling Sevier by his Cherokee name, “Tsan-usdi.” “I am here,” called out Sevier. As the Cherokee burst into view, the borderer recognized him as the father of the little girl who prayed to the beaver. “You want me?” Sevier asked. “I go with you. Old Tassel has spoken it.” “How far do you go with me?” “Until we reach the land of the Creeks.” “To see that I do not turn back,” sneered Sevier. “To see no bad Indians cross your path,” was the grave correction. Sevier’s hostility vanished. Old Tassel feared his promise of safe passage might be violated by some of the younger men and wished to shift all responsibility of the borderer’s fate on to the Creeks. Still half a measure of solicitude was decent of him, and Sevier knew he had him won from thoughts of war for the time being at least. “You are?” “The Jumper, of the Ani-Kawi.” “A man of the Deer clan should know the trails. We will go on, Little Brother. Tell me when the white path turns red.” “I will tell you,” grunted the Indian. “Tell me where is the man called Polcher?” “In the forest. Somewhere along the red path.”