“Killed a Injun, eh?” jeered Hester. “That’s easy to tell. Sure ye ain’t the feller that licked the Iroquois all to thunder? No one here to prove ye didn’t, ye know.” Toying with his empty glass, the stranger again surveyed Hester, much as if the bully were some strange kind of insect. He grimaced in disgust as he observed the long, pointed finger-nails. “One thing’s certain,” he drawled, “you never fought no Iroquois, or they’d have them talons and that hair of yours made into a necklace for some squaw to wear. Just what is your fighting record, anyway?” “I ain’t never been licked yet by anything on two kickers atween here an’ the French Broad,” bellowed Hester, slouching forward, his hands held half open before him. Then he flapped his arms and gave the sharp challenge of a gamecock. “I’m Lon Hester, what trims ’em down when they’re too big an’ pulls ’em out when they’re too short.” And again he sounded his chanticleer’s note. “I’m Kirk Jackson, from the Shawnee country, and I reckon it’s high time your comb was out,” was the even retort. “Just a minute, gentlemen,” purred Polcher, with a wink at Hester. “Fun’s fun, but, when you’re armed with deadly weapons, you might carry a joke too far. Before you start fooling, let’s put all weapons one side.” Jackson’s brows contracted, but, as Hester promptly threw a knife and pistol on the bar, the Virginian reluctantly stood his rifle against the wall and hung his belt on it. It was obvious he was regretting the situation. Hester read in it a sign of cowardice and crowed exultingly. For a moment Jackson stood with his gaze directed through the open door. Hester believed he contemplated bolting and edged forward to intercept him. What had attracted Jackson’s gaze, however, was the slim figure of a girl on horseback, and, as he stared, she turned and glanced toward the tavern, and his grey eyes lighted up with delighted recognition. “Take yer last peep on natur’, ’cause I’m goin’ to have both of ’em,” warned Hester, hitching forward stiff-legged, his hands held wide for a blinding gouge. “You dirty dog!” gritted Jackson, his soul boiling with fury at the brutality of the threat. With a spring Hester leaped forward, his right hand hooking murderously close to the grey eyes. Jackson gave ground and found himself with his back dangerously close to the group at the end of the room. He could feel the men stiffening behind him, and he believed they would play foul if Hester needed assistance. As Hester made his second rush, Jackson worked with both elbows and knocked two men away from his back, sending one reeling against the wall, the other against the bar. Then he leaped high, his legs working like scissors, feinting with his left foot and planting the right under the bully’s chin, smashing the long teeth through the protruding tongue and hurling him an inert mass against the base of the bar. “No kickin’!” yelled Old Thatch, pulling a knife.