“You played foul!” roared Polcher, his suave mask dropping and leaving his dark face openly hideous. “Shut that door, boys!” The men at the upper end of the bar rushed to the door and not only closed it but appropriated Jackson’s rifle and belt. There was a stir behind him, and Jackson leaped to the end of the bar just vacated by the men. Here he wheeled and snatched a five-gallon jug of brandy from the bar and swung it high above his head. Then planting a foot on Hester’s chest he warned: “The first move made means I’ll brain this dog at my feet and then damage the rest of you as much as I can.” Polcher and his henchmen stood motionless, wrathfully regarding the man at bay. “You broke the rules by kicking,” said Polcher. “Rules, you miserable liar and scoundrel!” hissed Jackson. Then in a loud voice, “Open that door and stand clear, or I’ll smash this punkin at my feet and rush you.” “One minute!” softly said Polcher. And he whipped a long pistol from under the bar and levelled it at Jackson. “You set that jug on the bar and do it soft-like. You’ve played foul with my friend. He’s going to have a fair shake at you.” “Just let me git at him!” sobbed Hester from the floor. “That’s all I ask, boys.” “Before you can move that jug an inch, I’ll shoot your head off,” warned Polcher. “Put the jug down and step to the middle of the floor. No one will meddle while Mr. Hester has a fair chance.” “Fair chance? You low-down murderers! Shoot and be——!” “I’ll count three—then I’ll shoot. There’s witnesses here to say you come in drunk and hellin’ for a row and got it. One—two—” “Drop that pistol, Polcher!” called a voice at the window. The tavern-keeper glanced about and paled as he beheld the muzzle of a long rifle creep in over the sill and bear upon him. “If you’d said three, it would have been your last word on earth.” Polcher lowered his weapon but protested: “Look here, Sevier, this stranger has assaulted one of my patrons. I propose to see they fight it out man-fashion.” “A man-fashion fight is a bit beyond your imagination,” was the grim reply. “Have that door opened and see the stranger’s rifle is stood outside. Be quick!” Polcher nodded to Old Thatch, who threw back the door and passed the rifle and the belt. Jackson tingled with a fresh shock as he glimpsed a slim brown hand receiving the weapons. Then Sevier commanded: “Now, young man, come out. If you want to be murdered, there’s a rare chance for you anywhere along the border without entering this hell-hole. Remember, Polcher, you’re a dead man if a hand is raised against this guest of yours.” Jackson sprang through the door and closed it after him. The girl he had seen passing the tavern at the inception of the brawl was waiting for him. “Elsie!” he whispered, relieving her of his weapons. “I’ve just come from Charlotte, where I went to find you.”