The sun was just nesting on the horizon when he spotted a grove of trees and veered off the road in their direction. The horses pulled themselves up as the dry limbs and leaves at the edge of the grove began to crackle beneath their hooves.

He jumped down from his seat and took a few minutes surveying the area. Then he grabbed Dolly's bridle and led the team into the dull shadows beneath the tree limbs. After removing their harness and gear he picketed them on a patch of grass where they immediately began their evening feed.

His mind was on security and the possibility that the road bandits might follow on foot. So he took out his long knife, cut a branch off a scrub oak and used it as a rake-broom to scratch out the wagon tracks between the road and the wood.

Once he got back to the wagon he retrieved extra weapons and loaded them. Then he spotted each one in a different location. Not wise to make a fire, he thought, so he dug amongst the provisions and retrieved a piece of dried beef and a hard biscuit.

As he chewed on his meager rations he walked the grounds and worked out a strategy in case he was found and attacked before dawn. His hands trembled and he couldn't seem to shake off that feeling of guilt that began to overshadow reason. Was it his fault? Was he somehow responsible for the ambush and Davy's death?

He finally settled down on a large mossy area and took the best part of an hour sorting things out. He tossed and turned on his forest bed as night sounds became prominent and apprehension began to distort reason. The crack of a limb, the sound of a cricket, or the hoot of an owl would add to his fear. Then as he began to relax a picture of their house on the hill came to mind. That was his boyhood home and it overlooked the waters of the Ocmulgee River in Central Georgia, Creek Indian country. Papa Cahill was Scots, kilt and all, and Mama Sue a full blood Creek Indian. The schoolyard bullies called him "half-breed." Those hateful words and taunting slurs caused most of his boyhood fights. Looking back, he knew that many of those encounters could have been avoided had he chosen to use his first name, Robert, rather than Tungee. But that was not his way. He was proud of his Creek name and wore it like a badge out of respect for his mother. And although thoughts of those early years kept intruding on his conscious mind, his tired body finally relaxed and he fell into a deep sleep.