The tavern-keeper glanced about and paled as he beheld the muzzle of a long rifle creep in over the sill and bear upon him.
“If you’d said three, it would have been your last word on earth.”
Polcher lowered his weapon but protested:
“Look here, Sevier, this stranger has assaulted one of my patrons. I propose to see they fight it out man-fashion.”
“A man-fashion fight is a bit beyond your imagination,” was the grim reply. “Have that door opened and see the stranger’s rifle is stood outside. Be quick!”
Polcher nodded to Old Thatch, who threw back the door and passed the rifle and the belt. Jackson tingled with a fresh shock as he glimpsed a slim brown hand receiving the weapons. Then Sevier commanded:
“Now, young man, come out. If you want to be murdered, there’s a rare chance for you anywhere along the border without entering this hell-hole. Remember, Polcher, you’re a dead man if a hand is raised against this guest of yours.”
Jackson sprang through the door and closed it after him. The girl he had seen passing the tavern at the inception of the brawl was waiting for him.
“Elsie!” he whispered, relieving her of his weapons. “I’ve just come from Charlotte, where I went to find you.”
She was as fair as he was dark, and her blue eyes glistened as he addressed her. Then she sighed, and an expression of sadness overclouded her small face.