“So the railroads are going to hurt the steamboats?” she presently said.
“No, I didn't say that. I was thinking of the flatboats that have already been hurt by the steamers,” he replied. Now to the western mind the river-men typified all that was reckless and wild. It was their carousals that gave an evil repute to such towns as Natchez. But this particular river-man looked harmless. “Carrington is my name, Miss Malroy,” he added.
No more was said just then, for Betty became reserved and he did not attempt to resume the conversation. A day later they rumbled into Washington, and as Betty descended from the coach, Carrington stepped to her side.
“I suppose you'll stop here, Miss Malroy?” he said, indicating the tavern before which the stage had come to a stand. “Yes,” said Betty briefly.
“If I can be of any service to you—” he began, with just a touch of awkwardness in his manner.
“No, I thank you, Mr. Carrington,” said Betty quickly.
“Good night... good-by,” he turned away, and Betty saw his tall form disappear in the twilight.
CHAPTER VII. THE FIGHT AT SLOSSON'S TAVERN
Murrell had ridden out of the hills some hours back. He now faced the flashing splendors of a June sunset, but along the eastern horizon the mountains rose against a somber sky. Night was creeping into their fastnesses. Already there was twilight in those cool valleys lying within the shadow of mighty hills. A month and more had elapsed since Bob Yancy's trial. Just two days later man and boy disappeared from Scratch Hill. This had served to rouse Murrell to the need of immediate action, but he found, where Yancy was concerned, Scratch Hill could keep a secret, while Crenshaw's mouth was closed on any word that might throw light on the plans of his friend.