“Thank your luck I ain’t wrecked you,” growled Jukes. “Pick up that gun and hold these fellers to the corner.” He slouched toward the door, bent on retrieving the dragoon who had fled. But there was no need of that. For there he lay, in the patch of snow just beyond the doorsill. And beside him, one arm still gripping a pistol, was the squire, St. Louis Cotton, of Cotton Hall and member of the Pennsylvania Assembly. Jukes bent over, moved by a sudden, generous pity. The squire’s plump face was turned upward and his lips twitched. “My boy,” he whispered, “if you’re a straggler, go back before it’s too late. No matter how you feel--go back. ’Tis not the time to desert the country. The act will haunt you later, and your sons will hate you. Go back.” “Aye,” muttered Jukes, “it’s somethin’ I’d most made my mind to this minute.” But St. Louis Cotton never heard that, for he was dead, carrying on his ruddy countenance that same pride of place. Jukes stared somberly. At last he turned back to the room. “Alva Jukes wa’n’t born to run off,” he muttered. “They’ll be changin’ guards at this minute--and who’s to help those poor devils to keep the fire goin’?” He thought of the old gentleman with admiration. “A plucky old cock. Maybe he’s right.” The tavern keeper gave up his gun. “I had better look after the squire.” “Get help to bury ’em all,” replied Jukes gruffly. “Now, fat-face, bring out somethin’ to eat an’ tally it to the account o’ Pennsylvania.” A half-hour later he was bound back to Valley Forge with two prisoners and six horses, the saddle of each one bearing the king’s crown. Jukes smiled dourly as he plodded through the dark, swirling night. After all, they could not do much to a straggler who returned in that royal fashion. [Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.]