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. But Thatch, sober, possessed an animal’s instinct and smelled the trap. “That Lon Hester’s a derned fool. Wish some one would comb him,” he growled. “See how he choked me this mornin’? By Gawdfrey! Take it a few years back an’ he wouldn’t be wearin’ no rooster’s feathers round this yere settlement. Almost wish we’d let the stranger muss him up. Reckon the new feller could do it, at that.” “I mean, about what he said to me,” quietly corrected Polcher, drawing a step nearer, both hands under his apron now. “Lawd, he didn’t go for to give ye any lip, did he?” cried Thatch. “If he did, ye was a fool to take it. Lem’me tell ye something Polcher, that mebbe ye don’t know. Lon Hester’s fightin’ nerve is mighty poor quality. He’s low-down. If ever he gives ye any lip, jest ye comb him. Why, if I was a bit younger, I’d mount him in a second. Makes me feel wolfish round the head an’ shoulders to see that feller carry on so an’ make his betters step aside. Now, ’cause ye keep a tavern, he ’lows he can bully ye. But if ye’ll jest swing a bottle ag’in his chuckle-head he’ll be as meek as a rabbit.” He ran out of breath and paused. Polcher frowned slightly, withdrew one hand and rubbed his chin doubtfully. Jackson hugely admired the old man’s dissimulation and lowered his rifle.