“Stop it, you fool. Pretend to be asleep. Polcher won’t see me.” And, picking up his rifle, he glided into the bushes.
The whistle sounded again, shrilling on the ear most unpleasantly. Jackson manœuvred with the stealth he had acquired in stalking the Shawnees and soon located the tavern-keeper. From behind a tree he saw Polcher, still wearing his soiled apron, slowly advancing toward him, his eyes shifting from side to side and with nothing of a landlord’s urbanity showing in his face. Jackson remained motionless, determined if discovered to see that Polcher did not find the old man. Polcher advanced several feet, then pursed his lips and repeated his signal. Thatch’s voice querulously called out:
“What’n sin ye want now? Can’t a man git a little sleep?”
Turning aside, Polcher strode through the undergrowth and into the glade. Jackson slipped along after him until he saw him stop and stand before Thatch.
“What are you doing here?” gently asked Polcher, studying the old man keenly.
“Tryin’ to forgit ye wouldn’t let me have a leetle rye,” sullenly answered Thatch.
“The stranger, the one called Jackson, walked this way. Have you seen him?”
Old Thatch stupidly blinked his eyes and shook his head.
“Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. Want me to find him?”
“No. Tell me what you thought of Hester’s talk back in the tavern.” This was put in an ingratiating voice, but Jackson noted the hand under the apron was clasping the hilt of a knife, and he insured Thatch against an impolitic answer by drawing a bead on the boniface.