he
frontier if I could have arrived in time to bag you before you did it. The
Cherokees have kept out of the war, but it'll be a wonder if they don't
swarm up this creek when they hear of this murder."

"Let 'em come!" he yelled. "That's what we want. It'll take more'n you,
Basdel Morris, to keep my paws clear of the critters once I git a bead on
one of 'em. Git out of my way so's I can git my rifle. I'll have the three
of 'em yet."

"If you make a move to follow them I'll shoot you," I promised.

By this time men were crashing through the bushes. Then came a louder
noise and Baby Kirst, mounted on his big horse, his broad face bedaubed
with molasses, burst on the scene. A dozen settlers crowded into the spot
behind him. Hacker and Runner were the first to see the dead Indian. With
a whoop they drew their knives and rushed in to get the scalp. I drove
them back with my horse and loudly informed them:

"It's Cherokee Billy, brother of Oconostota, who can send the whole
Cherokee nation against you, or hold it back."

"I don't care what Injun it is," howled Hacker. "Hair's hair. Git out the
way, or you'll git acquainted with my ax. I'll have that scalp."

"Not so fast," I warned. "The hair belongs to Crabtree here. Kill your own
scalps. Crabtree doesn't care to take that scalp. He knows Oconostota has
a long memory." And I swung about, my rifle across the saddle and in a
direct line with the murderer's chin.

"It's my kill," growled Crabtree. "Morris held me up with his gun, or I'd
bagged t'other two of 'em."

"I'd like to see him hold me up when there's red meat to be run down!"
snarled Runner.

There were four killers present in addition to the irresponsible Kirst. I
was helpless against them, I could not shoot a man down for proposing to
follow two Indians, let the reds be ever so friendly toward the whites.
But Patrick Davis had come to Howard's Creek to stay, and it was a problem
he could handle. It at once developed that he did not fancy the prospect
of a Cherokee reprisal. He stepped in front of Runner and in a low ugly
voice said:

"You fellows quit this talk. 'Nough mischief has been done. Unless
Oconostota can be smoothed down there'll be trouble from Rye Cove to
Tygart's Valley. As for following t'other two, you'll reckon with me and
my neighbors first."

"A dead Injun ain't worth quarreling over," spoke up Widow McCabe from the
edge of the group; and her eyes glowed as they rested on Cherokee Billy