Weatherford looked at him. “You traitor, speak not to me, or I will put a ball through your heart.” General Jackson heard, and, furious, stalked out with Hawkins at his heels. “How dare you, sir, ride up to my tent, having murdered the women and children of Ft. Mims?” Soldiers near by sprang up with bitter oaths. Not one but would have given an arm for the honor of killing him. A dozen guns leap up in the wild shout and babble for precedence, but Weatherford sits and calmly looks into their muzzles, while Jackson waves his hand and says: “Silence, and let him speak!” “I am not afraid of you, General Jackson—I fear no man, for I am a Creek warrior. I have nothing to ask for myself. Kill me if you wish. I come to plead for the women and children starving in the woods. Their fields are destroyed, their homes gone, their cribs empty. They have nothing to eat. Send out your men and bring them in. I did all I could to stop the massacre at Ft. Mims. I am done fighting. My warriors all are killed. Kill me now, if you wish, but save the remnant of our noble race.” “Kill him! Kill him!” shouted the soldiers, as their guns came up again. But as he spoke Jackson had seen and understood. Over the head of the chief he saw, over the clamoring, cursing troops who begged for his blood, over the past, over Ft. Mims, over all—to Pensacola—to the British sheltered there, waiting to march into his land to plunder and burn; to the Spanish, two-faced and deceitful, urging them on. Instantly he acted. Instantly his great heart, as true for the truth as a hound for the trail, saw the nobility of the savage towering above the littleness and ignominy of the greater race. And there flashed in his broader vision Pensacola and New Orleans. He turned to his troops: “Who’d kill so brave a man as this would rob the dead.” Weatherford then threw his game at his feet. “Take it, my General, for Weatherford is starving.” Jackson seized his hand: “No, by God, you come in and eat with me.” (The next paper will be “The Road to New Orleans.”) Mike Kelley BY BEN MCCULLOCH HORD NOTE—If anything better than this has ever been written about the war I have never seen it. It is worthy of the great masters—of Sterne, of Thackery and Dickens. So pleased is Trotwood’s with this sketch that we have secured the picture of its author, Major Ben M. Hord, one of the best and truest of men and beloved by all who know him. Major Hord has held many positions of trust and confidence, was a gallant soldier in the big unpleasantness and was for a term Commissioner of Agriculture for Tennessee. He is still young, and this sketch shows he is gifted as a writer. We will publish another story from him soon.—Editor.