The last phrase was rendered more emphatic, by the speaker, as he uttered it, raising the flap of his blanket-coat, and exhibiting a huge bowie-knife stuck through the waistband of his trousers. I understood the hint perfectly. "I am not the sheriff," I answered in an assuring tone. I was in hopes of gaining favour by the declaration: for I had already fancied that my bizarre reception might be owing to some error of this kind. "I am _not_ the sheriff," I repeated, impressively. "Yur not the shariff? One o' his constables, then, I s'pose?" "Neither one nor other," I replied, pocketing the affront. "An' who air ye, anyhow--wi' yur dam glitterin' buttons, an' yur waist drawd in, like a skewered skunk?" This was intolerable; but remembering the advice of my Nashville friend--with some additional counsel I had received over-night--I strove hard to keep down my rising choler. "My name," said I-- "Durn yur name!" exclaimed the giant, interrupting me; "I don't care a dog-gone for yur name: tell me yur bizness--that's what I wanter know." "I have already told you my business: I wish to see Mr Holt--Hick Holt, if you like." "To _see_ Hick Holt? Wal, ef that's all yur bizness, you've _seed_ him; an' now ye kin go." This was rather a literal interpretation of my demand; but, without permitting myself to be _nonplussed_ by it, or paying any heed to the abrupt words of dismissal, I replied, half interrogatively: "You, then, are he? You are Hick Holt, I suppose?" "Who said I ain't--durn your imperence? Now, then, what d'ye want wi' me?" The filthy language, the insulting tone in which it was uttered, the bullying manner of the man--evidently relying upon his giant strength, and formidable aspect--were rapidly producing their effect upon me; but in a manner quite contrary to that anticipated by Master Holt. It was no doubt his design to awe me; but he little knew the man he had to deal with. Whether it might be called courage or not, I was just as reckless of life as he. I had exposed my person too often, both in single combat and on the battle-field, to be cowed by a bully--such as I fancied this fellow to be--and the spirit of resistance was fast rising within me. His dictatorial style was unendurable; and discarding all further prudential considerations, I resolved to submit to it no longer. I did not give way to idle recrimination. Perhaps, thought I, a firm tone may suit my purpose better; and, in my reply, I adopted it. Before I could answer his question, however, he had repeated it in a still more peevish and impatient manner--with an additional epithet of insult. "Wal, Mister Jaybird," said he, "be quick 'bout it! What d'ye want wi' _me_?" "In the first place Mr Hickman Holt, I want civil treatment from you; and secondly--" I was not permitted to finish my speech. I was interrupted by an exclamation--a horrid oath--that came fiercely hissing from the lips of the squatter.