Norton's private opinion had been that Blacknose was a renegade who led a band of Indians and kept in touch with some one at Louisville for information. That opinion was sorely shaken by what the Taylors had said, however. He began to think the whole affair was engineered by river pirates alone, and so rode slowly into town, lost in thought. Nor did he forget the horn plug which now reposed in his pocket. Sooner or later he would find the man who wore Shawnee moccasins and whose powder-horn was mottled with a red streak, and he promised himself that something unpleasant would happen to the gentleman in question.
As he splashed through the mud in front of the courthouse, he saw the figure of Duval going up the steps. The lawyer had not observed him, however, and Norton watched him disappear inside. For the Far West the courthouse was a stately building, with its two stories, ornate cupola, and handsome pillars.
The Louisianian rode slowly on down the one principal street toward the lower end of town, and so came to the "Steuben Arms", whose host had once served under the fiery baron in the late war. Indeed, it was for this reason alone that Norton had chosen the place, for it was none of the best; he had been disappointed in finding Bower an infirm, mumbling old veteran.
Dismounting, he gave his reins to the waiting negro, nodded to old Bower as he passed through the public room, and sought his own chambers. He had no desire to hang about below-stairs, since the inn seemed frequented by rivermen.
The morning was well advanced when, in response to a knock, Norton opened the door and admitted Colonel Boone and a stranger. This stranger was a peculiar individual, even for a time when the border was crowded with peculiar personages. He was dressed in a dirty shirt with dirty ruffles, an ancient beaver, ancient scarlet velvet breeches, shoes which had burst at the toes, and a greatcoat of reddish fustian. Below a greasy and dishevelled wig, his face was small and pinched, yet very ruddy and healthy; he seemed to Norton an odd little old man, and his black eyes twinkled perpetually.
"Captain Norton, my friend, Mr. Elisha Ayres, Gent.," declaimed Boone with something like a grin. "Ayres, young Norton's the likeliest feller I've seen in a coon's age."
"That, sir," averred Mr. Ayres in a slow and precise tone, "is a truer knighthood than any which could be bestowed by the crowned heads of the Old World! I trust you appreciate the honour, Mr. Norton, sir! I am yours to command."
"You can trust Mr. Ayres, Norton," continued Boone. "Now, I'm goin' to git home. Pow'ful glad I met ye, Norton, and if ye need to do a little shootin', go find Red Hugh. Ye can trust Elisha——"
"You're not starting for Missouri—now?" inquired the astonished Norton.
"Not yet—goin' to crack a bowl o' punch at Doc Gault's first." And Boone shook hands with both men, then turned to the door. Norton had a last glimpse of the barrel-like chest, grey hair, and keen eyes; then Boone was gone with a final wave of the hand.