Being of cheap fibre, Hester had but one mental resource to fall back upon: the burning lust to re-establish himself in his own self-respect by killing Polcher. He had been grossly deceived. He had been permitted to believe—nay, even encouraged to believe—the breed was only the vintner to the elect. It was while wallowing in the depths of this black mood that the sunlight was blocked from the doorway by the arrival of the stranger Polcher had glimpsed up the trail.
The newcomer paused and waited for the sunshine to leave his eyes before entering the long and dimly lighted room. His hunting-shirt was fringed and tasseled and encircled by a bead-embroidered belt. From this hung a war-ax, severe in design and bespeaking English make. His long dark hair was topped with a cap of mink-skin. In his hand he carried the small-bore rifle of the Kentuckians. The loungers drew aside to both ends of the bar, leaving an open space for him. He took in the room and its occupants with one wide, sweeping glance; hesitated, then advanced.
It maddened Hester to observe how servilely Polcher leaned forward to take the stranger’s order. The other men, seemingly intent on their drink, quickly summed up the newcomer. A forest-ranger fresh from Kentucky. He stood nearly six feet in his moccasins and carried his head high as his grey eyes ranged deliberately over the two groups before returning to meet the bland gaze of Polcher.
In a drawling voice he informed—
“A little whisky.”
“You’ve travelled far, sir,” genially observed Polcher, his Indian blood prompting him to deduce a long, hard trail from the stained and worn garments. “That beadwork is Shawnee, I take it.”
“It was once worn by a Shawnee,” grimly replied the stranger. “Lost my horse a few miles back and had to hoof it afoot.”
“Virginy-born,” murmured Polcher.
“Yes, I’m from old Virginy,” proudly retorted the stranger, tossing up his head. “A mighty fine State.”
“Quite a number of ye Virginians seem keen to git clear of her mighty fine State an’ come down here to squat on North Car’lina land,” spoke up Hester, his insolent half-closed eyes advertising mischief.