Trotting ahead, the Jumper led the way for several miles, and yet Sevier could detect no signs of Cherokees in the rear. He said as much to the Jumper, who drew a half-circle in the air behind him, saying: “They are from there to there. We shall not see them so long as we go toward the Coosa.” “It is well,” said Sevier. The Jumper raised a hand and then threw himself prostrate with his ear to the ground. Sevier quieted his restless horse and listened. He heard nothing. The Indian rose and informed: “Men come. We must leave the trail.” “Why should we hide, Little Brother? What is there to fear along the white path that leads to the white town?” “Nothing to fear from men of my colour,” said the Jumper with a touch of irony. “But I can not answer for the whites.” “White men!” exclaimed Sevier, dismounting and leading his horse aside and into cover. His first thoughts were of Tonpit, the man who, despite his weakness and ambitions, was so necessary to Spain and Charles III’s field representative, Alexander McGillivray. “They bring horses to trade in Great Hiwassee,” the Indian added. Sevier’s hopes fell, then rebounded as he discredited the Indian’s ability to know who was coming and their purpose. Thus far he had been able to detect nothing but the usual forest sounds. “How do you know that?” he demanded. “Some of the horses have no riders.” Sceptical, Sevier composed himself to wait in patience. After what seemed a long time, there came a burst of voices and the trampling of hoofs, and above the confusion roared a coarse voice hurling curses at animals and men. “Hajason!” muttered the Jumper, his face scowling. “Red Hajason!” softly cried Sevier, mechanically shifting his rifle. The Jumper touched his hand as it lay on the gun, and he warned: “You must not think of that. You are still in the white path.” Sevier lowered the rifle and asked— “Does he trade at Hiwassee?” The Indian nodded. Had not Sevier’s errand concerned the fate of the Western settlements, he would have considered his journey well worth the danger just for an opportunity to confront and kill this man whose name was anathema from the Watauga to the French Broad and throughout the Carolinas east of the mountains. Wherever horses were stolen and hurried to hidden forest depots, the name of Red Hajason was known and detested. That he continued to carry on his thievery was due to his practice of sending agents to do the actual work while he remained in his stronghold somewhere at the headwaters of the Hiwassee River in the southwestern corner of North Carolina. When not at this camp, it was said he made his home over the line in South Carolina, “that delight of buccaneers and pyrates,” as the Rev. Hugh Jones, chaplain to the honourable Assembly of Virginia, characterized that commonwealth in 1750.