Behind the Englishman’s chair Jonathan saw a short man with a face resembling that of a jackal. The grizzled, stubbly beard, the protruding, vicious mouth, the broad, flat nose, and deep-set, small, glittering eyes made a bad impression on the observer. This man, Jonathan concluded, was the servant, Case, who was so eager with his knife. The borderman made the reflection, that if knife-play was the little man’s pastime, he was not likely to go short of sport in that vicinity.
Colonel Zane attracted Jonathan’s attention at this moment. The pioneers had vacated the other table, and Silas and Sheppard now sat by it. The colonel wanted his brother to join them.
“Here, Johnny, bring drinks,” he said to the serving boy. “Tell Metzar who they’re for.” Then turning to Sheppard he continued: “He keeps good whiskey; but few of these poor devils ever see it.” At the same time Colonel Zane pressed his foot upon that of Jonathan’s.
The borderman understood that the signal was intended to call attention to Brandt. The latter had leaned forward, as Jonathan passed by to take a seat with his brother, and said something in a low tone to Mordaunt and Case. Jonathan knew by the way the Englishman and his man quickly glanced up at him, that he had been the subject of the remark.
Suddenly Williams jumped to his feet with an oath.
“I’m cleaned out,” he cried.
“Shall we play alone?” asked Brandt of Mordaunt.
“As you like,” replied the Englishman, in a tone which showed he cared not a whit whether he played or not.
“I’ve got work to do. Let’s have some more drinks, and play another time,” said Brandt.
The liquor was served and drank. Brandt pocketed his pile of Spanish and English gold, and rose to his feet. He was a trifle unsteady; but not drunk.
“Will you gentlemen have a glass with me?” Mordaunt asked of Colonel Zane’s party.
“Thank you, some other time, with pleasure. We have our drink now,” Colonel Zane said courteously.
Meantime Brandt had been whispering in Case’s ear. The little man laughed at something the riverman said. Then he shuffled from behind the table. He was short, his compact build gave promise of unusual strength and agility.
“What are you going to do now?” asked Mordaunt, rising also. He looked hard at Case.
“Shiver my sides, cap’n, if I don’t need another drink,” replied the sailor.
“You have had enough. Come upstairs with me,” said Mordaunt.
“Easy with your hatch, cap’n,” grinned Case. “I want to drink with that ther’ Injun killer. I’ve had drinks with buccaneers, and bad men all over the world, and I’m not going to miss this chance.”
“Come on; you will get into trouble. You must not annoy these gentlemen,” said Mordaunt.
“Trouble is the name of my ship, and she’s a trim, fast craft,” replied the man.
His loud voice had put an end to the convention. Men began to crowd in from the bar-room. Metzar himself came to see what had caused the excitement.
The little man threw up his cap, whooped, and addressed himself to Jonathan:
“Injun-killer, bad man of the border, will you drink with a jolly old tar from England?”
Suddenly a silence reigned, like that in the depths of the forest. To those who knew the borderman, and few did not know him, the invitation was nothing less than an insult. But it did not appear to them, as to him, like a pre-arranged plot to provoke a fight.
“Will you drink, redskin-hunter?” bawled the sailor.
“No,” said Jonathan in his quiet voice.
“Maybe you mean that against old England?” demanded Case fiercely.
The borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent, and was silent.
“Go out there and I’ll see the color of your insides quicker than I’d take a drink,” hissed the sailor, with his brick-red face distorted and hideous to look upon. He pointed with a long-bladed knife that no one had seen him draw, to the green sward beyond the porch.
The borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed a muscle.
“Ho! ho! my brave pirate of the plains!” cried Case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of Jonathan and his companions.
It so happened that Sheppard sat nearest to him, and got the full effect of the sailor’s hot, rum-soaked breath. He arose with a pale face.
“Colonel, I can’t stand this,” he said hastily. “Let’s get away from that drunken ruffian.”
“Who’s a drunken ruffian?” yelled Case, more angry than ever. “I’m not drunk; but I’m going to be, and cut some of you white-livered border mates. Here, you old masthead, drink this to my health, damn you!”
The ruffian had seized a tumbler of liquor from the table, and held it toward Sheppard while he brandished his long knife.
White as snow, Sheppard backed against the wall; but did not take the drink.
The sailor had the floor; no one save him spoke a word. The action had been so rapid that there had hardly been time. Colonel Zane and Silas were as quiet and tense as the borderman.
“Drink!” hoarsely cried the sailor, advancing his knife toward Sheppard’s body.
When the sharp point all but pressed against the old man, a bright object twinkled through the air. It struck Case’s wrist, knocked the knife from his fingers, and, bounding against the wall, fell upon the floor. It was a tomahawk.
The borderman sprang over the table like a huge catamount, and with movement equally quick, knocked Case with a crash against the wall; closed on him before he could move a hand, and flung him like a sack of meal over the bluff.
The tension relieved, some of the crowd laughed, others looked over the embankment to see how Case had fared, and others remarked that for some reason he had gotten off better than they expected.
The borderman remained silent. He leaned against a post, with broad breast gently heaving, but his eyes sparkled as they watched Brandt, Williams, Mordaunt and Metzar. The Englishman alone spoke.
“Handily done,” he said, cool and suave. “Sir, yours is an iron hand. I apologize for this unpleasant affair. My man is quarrelsome when under the influence of liquor.”
“Metzar, a word with you,” cried Colonel Zane curtly.
“Come inside, kunnel,” said the innkeeper, plainly ill at ease.
“No; listen here. I’ll speak to the point. You’ve got to stop running this kind of a place. No words, now, you’ve got to stop. Understand? You know as well as I, perhaps better, the character of your so-called inn. You’ll get but one more chance.”
“Wal, kunnel, this is a free country,” growled Metzar. “I can’t help these fellars comin’ here lookin’ fer blood. I runs an honest place. The men want to drink an’ gamble. What’s law here? What can you do?”
“You know me, Metzar,” Colonel Zane said grimly. “I don’t waste words. ‘To hell with law!’ so you say. I can say that, too. Remember, the next drunken boy I see, or shady deal, or gambling spree, out you go for good.”
Metzar lowered his shaggy head and left the porch. Brandt and his friends, with serious faces, withdrew into