Though the party was received well enough by the older chiefs, it was late that afternoon before any sort of formal meeting could take place. After a meal that consisted mostly of roasted venison, the chiefs arranged themselves in front of a large fire the young braves had built up, and a small, unimpressive Cherokee rose to make the welcoming speech.
“That's Chief Attacullaculla,” Sequatchie whispered. He was sitting between James and Hawk and kept his voice only loud enough to be understood by these two and John, who was next to Robertson.
“The one they call the Little Carpenter?” Bean asked quickly.
“Yes. They call him that because he fits together peace treaties as a carpenter fits pieces of wood together. He is a wise man, and I'm hoping that he will be able to keep the wild young braves from violence.”
The preliminaries took some time, for it included the smoking of the peace pipe and long speeches by several of the older chiefs.
All the time this was going on, however, Hawk was watching a fierce-looking warrior who sat directly across from him. He was very tall, and his muscular arms and powerful torso revealed a brute strength that must have been phenomenal. His smoky eyes were narrowed to slits, and as the Little Carpenter and others spoke of peace, the grim look on his face clearly showed he was opposed to it.
“Who's that? The big man right across from me?” Hawk whispered to Sequatchie.
“That is Akando.”
“He looks like a firebrand.”
“He is the strongest among the Cherokee, and the one most likely to cause trouble.”
“What does he want?”
Sequatchie hesitated for only a moment, then said, “He wants all the white men in this country dead.”
“Why does he hate white men so much?”
“Because, my friend, the maiden he wished to marry chose a white man who was traveling through. He took her back to his people to live. Her name was Awinita.”
“He's got an unforgiving look about him,” Hawk whispered.
The negotiations dragged on for some time, but finally a fierce argument broke out between Little Carpenter and Akando.
Neither Bean nor Robertson understood the language of the Cherokee enough to follow it all, but it did not take a language expert to understand that Akando was in favor of war and the Little Carpenter's caution was for peace. At one point Akando jumped to his feet, yanked a glittering tomahawk from his belt, and glared across the fire at the two white men. Hawk's hand went to his knife and he felt Sequatchie stiffen, for there was a maniacal gleam in the eyes of the tall warrior.
Little Carpenter leaped between Akando and the white men, speaking rapidly, and was soon joined by two of the older chiefs.
The visitors watched, almost holding their breath, and finally Sequatchie breathed more easily. “It will be all right. Little Carpenter has persuaded enough of the chiefs to go along with the white men.”
“What will they agree to?” Robertson asked.
“The land will be leased for ten years. Little Carpenter will go to Watauga shortly to work out the final terms and the final payment.”
“Akando, will he go along with the decision of the chiefs?” Hawk demanded.
“Until he is strong enough, he will.”
“I'd just as soon leave here in the morning,” Robertson said. “I'd like to get back. William says we need to make some decisions.”
“Yes, we will not linger,” Sequatchie agreed at once, knowing that it would be dangerous to keep his white friends in the village.
As the four left at dawn the next morning, they saw no sign of Akando or his faction, but as they left Chota all were firmly convinced that the tall Cherokee would not accept the decision made by the older chiefs. Hawk remembered the fierce look of hatred in the brilliant eyes of Akando, and his eyes moved ceaselessly as they pulled out of Chota and drove their horses at a fast gallop until the village was far behind them.
****
For two days the party traveled hard. The horses were tired, and finally they had to slow down to a more reasonable gait. As they moved along on the third day, Hawk finally turned and stared back at the trail, his eyes drawn down to narrow slits. “Sequatchie, I feel that we're being followed.” He waited, but Sequatchie only shook his head, saying nothing.
“Maybe we're just being escorted,” Robertson offered. “Just to make sure we leave the area.”
“No. Hawk is right. We are being followed.”
“You think we'll be attacked?” Bean shot back quickly.
Once again Sequatchie did not answer, but his silence was enough to make the other three men more alert. All day they moved as quickly as the tired horses would carry them. Finally, they pulled up and made camp that night, and it was Sequatchie who said, “A cold camp. No fire.”
They took turns sleeping, leaving one to keep guard throughout the night. When they pulled out the next morning at daybreak, all of them felt a sinister quality in the silence that hung heavy in the woods.
They had not gone more than a half mile from their camp when the trail led between a gap formed by two masses of rock. Sequatchie was in the front and his alert eyes suddenly caught a flash of movement. At once he pulled his horse up and cried out something in the Cherokee language that neither Robertson nor Bean caught.
Even as his warning was in the air a shot rang out, and Hawk felt the wind from a musket ball on his cheek. At once he jerked his horse to the left, shouting, “There's cover over there! We can make a stand!”
The four men drove their horses toward a rise of ground that was capped by a grove of towering walnut trees. Hawk said, “James, give me your musket! John, tie up the horses in the grove. We'll need them to get away from here.”
“You have chosen well, my brother,” Sequatchie said, coming to stand behind a tree with Hawk. He glanced at the wall of rock at their backs and nodded with satisfaction. “They can only come at us from this direction.”
At that moment a series of wild cries broke the air, and the Cherokee began advancing, waving their muskets in the air. Hawk drew a bead on one of them but paused to say, “If we kill them, it may kill the treaty as well.”
“No, shoot to kill!” Sequatchie said sternly.
At his word, Hawk pulled the trigger, and a short, heavyset Indian was driven off the back of his horse. He cartwheeled, fell to the dust, and his legs kicked spasmodically, then slowly grew still.
Hawk picked up Robertson's weapon and without hesitation took another shot. This time the Indian was not killed, but he let out a yelp. As he did, Sequatchie's musket exploded and the horse of the leader, whom they all recognized as Akando, suddenly collapsed. Akando was thrown to the ground and dropped his weapon. He was unhurt, however, and shouting commands, he drew the warriors of the small band off.
“They'll be back,” Hawk said as he rammed a musket ball in on the charge. “You load, James, and let Sequatchie and me do the shooting.”
Knowing the deadly accuracy of his two companions, Robertson obeyed. Soon the firing began to die down. The Indians were not particularly good shots, and although their musket balls came close, none of the men were touched.
The unerring fire of Hawk and Sequatchie, however, was more potent. More than one of the renegade Cherokee were struck by the two who fired carefully until the battle settled down and no sign of the enemy was seen.
“They'll be waiting for night,” Sequatchie said. “Then they can come in with knives and tomahawks. Muskets won't help us then.”
“Then we'll have to make our break as soon as it gets dark,” Hawk said.
“Yes, that's our only hope.”
The four men settled down for a siege. Fortunately they had water in their canteens. As the hot sun rose, they portioned it out sparingly.
As the afternoon sun began to fall, Hawk, who was watching the land below carefully, asked, “What do you think, Sequatchie?”
“About what?”
“About our chances of getting out of here.”
“That is as God wills. If He wants us to get away, we shall. If it is our time to die, then so be it.”
Hawk turned and grinned at his friend. “That puts it on pretty plain terms,” he said. There was a relaxation in Hawk's strong form, despite the danger. He had learned to live with danger, mostly beside this tall Cherokee who stood a few feet away from him. “I feel a little bit differently now,” he said. “Always before, when we were in a spot like this, I was pretty scared of dyingâbecause of what might come after.”
“I knew that, but now you will be in the hands of Jesus if we die here. But I do not think we shall. Do you hear something?”
Hawk turned his head to one side and listened. “No. What is it?”
“Horses coming.”
Robertson and Bean grew more alert then, and finally Hawk said, “I hear them.”
“It's from over there. Many horses.”
Five minutes later Hawk exclaimed, “It's Little Carpenter!”
It was indeed the Cherokee chief, Attacullaculla! He was accompanied by a band of some thirty warriors, and from their vantage point, the four men could see that he had surrounded the smaller band of Akando.
“Let us go down. I think we will be all right now,” Sequatchie said.
Quickly the four men piled on their horses, rode down the hill, and sat quietly as the Little Carpenter and Akando had a violent conversation. Once again neither Bean nor Robertson understood enough of the language, but it was clear that the Little Carpenter had the upper hand. He spoke harshly, and Akando clamped his lips together. His eyes were filled with rage, but the party of armed warriors surrounding him and his followers clearly outnumbered them.
“These men will be dealt with,” Attacullaculla stated flatly. “They have broken the treaty, and they will pay for their actions.”
“I thank you, Chief,” Sequatchie said. “It is bad when brothers cannot be trusted.” He put his hard glance on Akando, who returned it defiantly.
“I will send two of my warriors with you while we take these back to Chota to deal with them.”
Hawk spoke up, thanking the Little Carpenter, and the chief listened and said briefly, “I will see you in Watauga.”
As the Little Carpenter led his men away, surrounding Akando and his band, James Robertson drew a shaky hand across his forehead. “A mite close,” he said rather fearfully. “Let's get back while we still got our scalps.” Glancing at the impassive faces of Hawk and Sequatchie, he looked at John Bean and rolled his eyes as if to say, “These two ain't got any nerves! Wish I didn't . . . !”
Chapter Eleven
The Watauga Association
The bitter winter broke off short, and by May 1772 the entire land was splashed with wild flowers, making the hills garish with color. Mild winds blew and a beneficent sun beamed over all the land so that the settlers' gardens seemed to spring up almost of themselves. It was a time of peace and harmonyâwhich most felt could not last.
Hawk looked up from hoeing his garden to see Jacob and Andrew, who were listening to Sequatchie carefully. He felt a sense of satisfaction as he watched the two boys; they had protested against working, wanting to go fishing instead. Now Sequatchie was explaining something to them in a voice so low that Hawk could not hear it. He thought back over the weeks that had passed since he had returned from Chota, and a sense of apprehension rose in him that had become familiar of late.
The Little Carpenter would indeed come, and the terms for the peace treaty would probably be met, but Hawk had not forgotten the hatred of Akando. He knew the wily and vicious warrior was doing all he could to stir up ill feelings for the white settlers.
Sooner or later he'll break out, and when he does, there'll be blood flowing
. Anxiously he glanced toward the cabin, thinking of Elizabeth and the child that was to come, but then the sound of approaching horses came to him faintly. He turned and waited until three horses appeared, then recognizing Paul and Rhoda, he stuck his hoe in the ground and moved over to greet them. He noted the third rider with surprise and a feeling of pleasure.
“Hello, Hawk!” Paul grinned. He had grown tan and fit from his journeys to the Cherokee, and his teeth flashed whitely against his brown skin. Stepping from the saddle, he turned to help Rhoda, but she slipped off in her own independent way and the two came to stand before him.
“How are you?” Hawk said. “You're looking fit.” He took their greetings, then put his hand out to the man who stood aside watching him with a smile. “Daniel,” he said. “I'm pleased to see you, and a mite surprised.”
“How are you, Hawk?”
Daniel Boone and Hawk were old friends. The famous long hunter was a spare man with light blue eyes that seemed to take in everything. He had a narrow face and now was in need of a shave. He wore the familiar fringed buckskin shirt of a long hunter and moccasins on his feet.
Aware that Sequatchie had approached with the two boys, Hawk said, “You haven't met my son Jacob. Jacob, this is Daniel Boone.”
Jacob blinked with astonishment. Boone's name was famous throughout the seaboard, for he had been one of the first to cross the mountains and bring back word of the rich country that lay beyond. Now, somewhat awkwardly, he put his hand out and found it held firmly by the older man. Boone smiled and said, “You'll never be able to deny this one, Hawk. Spittin' image of you.”
Jacob flushed with pleasure. He was proud that Hawk had introduced him as his son, but then he heard Hawk say, “And this is my other son, Andrew,” and some of the pleasure went out of the moment. He stood there listening as the men talked and could not take his eyes off of Boone.
“What are you doing in this part of the world, Daniel?”
“I heard there was going to be a meeting pretty soon for the Wataugans, and I figured I ought to be there.”
“I'm glad you came,” Sequatchie spoke up. He and Boone were old friends, and he had great respect for this white man's opinions. “What do you think of the treaty?”