With a raucous laugh Hester openly jeered him, crying: “It’s ye’n me, eh? When I quit here, it was ‘Ye do this’ an’ ‘Ye do that.’ Now we must keep things away from the boys, eh? ——! When I git ready to talk to ye, I’ll let ye know. An’, when I bring my talk to ye, mebbe it won’t be me that’ll be takin’ the orders.” “I’ve got some old apple brandy you never tasted,” murmured Polcher, trying to decoy him inside. “Ye’re a master hand to keep things to yerself,” retorted Hester, readjusting a long feather in his hat. “But mebbe, now I’ve made this last trip, the brandy will be ’bout the only thing ye can hoot ’bout as bein’ all yer own.” Several of the group grinned broadly, finding only enjoyment in the scene. The majority, however, eyed the reckless speaker askance. They knew his runaway tongue might easily involve them all in a most unwholesome fashion. Polcher’s saturnine face suddenly became all Indian in its malevolent expression, but by a mighty effort he controlled himself and turned back into the tavern. Hester glanced after him and laughed sneeringly. As he missed the expected applause from his mates, his mirth vanished, and dull rage filled his bloodshot eyes as he stared at the silent men and saw by their downcast gaze that he was rebuked. Standing with hands on his hips, he wagged his head until the feather in his hat fell over one ear. In the heraldry of the border the cock’s feather advertised his prowess as a man-beater, insignia he would retain until a better man bested him in the rough-and-tumble style of fighting that had left him cock-of-the-walk. “What’s the matter with ye all?” he growled, thrusting out his under lip. “Don’t like my talk, eh? Ye’re lowin’ I oughter be takin’ orders from that sand-hiller in there? Well, I reckon I’m ’bout done takin’ any lip from him. Ye’ll find it’s me what will be givin’ orders along the Watauga mighty soon if—” “For Gawd’s sake, Lonny, stop!” gasped a white-bearded man. “Who’ll stop me?” roared Hester, leaping from the doorway and catching the speaker by the throat. “Mebbe ye ’low it’s ye who’ll do the stoppin’, Amos Thatch, with yer sly tricks at forest-runnin’. Who ye workin’ for, anyhow? Who gives ye orders? —— yer old hide, I reckon ye’re tryin’ to carry watter on both shoulders.” “Don’t, Lonny!” gasped Thatch, but making no effort to escape or resent the cruel clutch on his throat. “Ye’re funnin’, I know. Ye know I’m workin’ same’s ye be.” “Workin’ same as ye be, eh? Ye old rip! Fiddlin’ round in the same class that ye be, eh?” “Don’t choke me! Let’s go inside an’ have a drink. Too many ears round here. Too near the court-house.” With a wild laugh Hester threw him aside and derisively mocked: “Too near the court-house, is it? Who cares for the court-house?”