The newcomer paused and waited for the sunshine to leave his eyes before entering the long and dimly lighted room. His hunting-shirt was fringed and tasseled and encircled by a bead-embroidered belt. From this hung a war-ax, severe in design and bespeaking English make. His long dark hair was topped with a cap of mink-skin. In his hand he carried the small-bore rifle of the Kentuckians. The loungers drew aside to both ends of the bar, leaving an open space for him. He took in the room and its occupants with one wide, sweeping glance; hesitated, then advanced. It maddened Hester to observe how servilely Polcher leaned forward to take the stranger’s order. The other men, seemingly intent on their drink, quickly summed up the newcomer. A forest-ranger fresh from Kentucky. He stood nearly six feet in his moccasins and carried his head high as his grey eyes ranged deliberately over the two groups before returning to meet the bland gaze of Polcher. In a drawling voice he informed— “A little whisky.” “You’ve travelled far, sir,” genially observed Polcher, his Indian blood prompting him to deduce a long, hard trail from the stained and worn garments. “That beadwork is Shawnee, I take it.” “It was once worn by a Shawnee,” grimly replied the stranger. “Lost my horse a few miles back and had to hoof it afoot.” “Virginy-born,” murmured Polcher. “Yes, I’m from old Virginy,” proudly retorted the stranger, tossing up his head. “A mighty fine State.” “Quite a number of ye Virginians seem keen to git clear of her mighty fine State an’ come down here to squat on North Car’lina land,” spoke up Hester, his insolent half-closed eyes advertising mischief. The newcomer slowly turned and eyed him curiously and smiled faintly as he noted the cock’s feather. And he quietly reminded: “The first settlers on the Watauga were Virginians. When they came here fourteen years ago, they reckoned they was on soil owned by Virginy. I don’t reckon North Car’lina lost anything by their mistake.” He threw off his drink and proceeded to deliver himself of the sting he had held in reserve. “From what I hear, the Sand-hillers didn’t care to come over the mountains and face the Indians till after the Virginians had made the country safe.” The two groups of men shifted nervously. Hester’s eyes flew open in amazement, then half-closed in satisfaction. “The——they had to wait for Virginy to blaze a trail!” he growled, slowly straightening up his long form and tipping his hat and its belligerent feather down over one eye. “An’ where was ye, mister, when the first brave Virginians kindly come over here to make things safe for North Car’lina?” “I was eleven years old, shooting squirrels in Virginy,” chuckled the stranger. “An’ wearin’ a Shawnee belt! Who give it to ye?” “The warrior who was through with it when I got through with him. It happened up on the Ohio,” was the smiling response. “Anything else you’d like to ask?”