“Mr. Zane,” she cried with a great effort. “Come back.”

  Jonathan kept slowly on.

  “Come back, Jonathan, please.”

  The borderman retraced his steps.

  “Please take me home,” she said, lifting a fair face all flushed, tear-stained, and marked with traces of storm. “I was foolish, and silly to come into the woods, and so glad to see you! But you spoke to me — in — in a way no one ever used before. I’m sure I deserved it. Please take me home. Papa will be worried.”

  Softer eyes and voice than hers never entreated man.

  “Come,” he said gently, and, taking her by the hand, he led her up the ridge.

  Thus they passed through the darkening forest, hand in hand, like a dusky redman and his bride. He helped her over stones and logs, but still held her hand when there was no need of it. She looked up to see him walking, so dark and calm beside her, his eyes ever roving among the trees. Deepest remorse came upon her because of what she had said. There was no sentiment for him in this walk under the dark canopy of the leaves. He realized the responsibility. Any tree might hide a treacherous foe. She would atone for her sarcasm, she promised herself, while walking, ever conscious of her hand in his, her bosom heaving with the sweet, undeniable emotion which came knocking at her heart.

  Soon they were out of the thicket, and on the dusty lane. A few moments of rapid walking brought them within sight of the twinkling lights of the village, and a moment later they were at the lane leading to Helen’s home. Releasing her hand, she stopped him with a light touch and said:

  “Please don’t tell papa or Colonel Zane.”

  “Child, I ought. Some one should make you stay at home.”

  “I’ll stay. Please don’t tell. It will worry papa.”

  Jonathan Zane looked down into her great, dark, wonderful eyes with an unaccountable feeling. He really did not hear what she asked. Something about that upturned face brought to his mind a rare and perfect flower which grew in far-off rocky fastnesses. The feeling he had was intangible, like no more than a breath of fragrant western wind, faint with tidings of some beautiful field.

  “Promise me you won’t tell.”

  “Well, lass, have it your own way,” replied Jonathan, wonderingly conscious that it was the first pledge ever asked of him by a woman.

  “Thank you. Now we have two secrets, haven’t we?” she laughed, with eyes like stars.

  “Run home now, lass. Be careful hereafter. I do fear for you with such spirit an’ temper. I’d rather be scalped by Shawnees than have Bing Legget so much as set eyes on you.”

  “You would? Why?” Her voice was like low, soft music.

  “Why?” he mused. “It’d seem like a buzzard about to light on a doe.”

  “Good-night,” said Helen abruptly, and, wheeling, she hurried down the lane.

  CHAPTER VIII

  “JACK,” SAID COLONEL Zane to his brother next morning, “to-day is Saturday and all the men will be in. There was high jinks over at Metzar’s place yesterday, and I’m looking for more to-day. The two fellows Alex Bennet told me about, came on day-before-yesterday’s boat. Sure enough, one’s a lordly Englishman, and the other, the cussedest-looking little chap I ever saw. They started trouble immediately. The Englishman, his name is Mordaunt, hunted up the Sheppards and as near as I can make out from George’s story, Helen spoke her mind very plainly. Mordaunt and Case, that’s his servant, the little cuss, got drunk and raised hell down at Metzar’s where they’re staying. Brandt and Williams are drinking hard, too, which is something unusual for Brandt. They got chummy at once with the Englishman, who seems to have plenty of gold and is fond of gambling. This Mordaunt is a gentleman, or I never saw one. I feel sorry for him. He appears to be a ruined man. If he lasts a week out here I’ll be surprised. Case looks ugly, as if he were spoiling to cut somebody. I want you to keep your eye peeled. The day may pass off as many other days of drinking bouts have, without anything serious, and on the other hand there’s liable to be trouble.”

  Jonathan’s preparations were characteristic of the borderman. He laid aside his rifle, and, removing his short coat, buckled on a second belt containing a heavier tomahawk and knife than those he had been wearing. Then he put on his hunting frock, or shirt, and wore it loose with the belts underneath, instead of on the outside. Unfastened, the frock was rather full, and gave him the appearance of a man unarmed and careless.

  Jonathan Zane was not so reckless as to court danger, nor, like many frontiersmen, fond of fighting for its own sake. Colonel Zane was commandant of the fort, and, in a land where there was no law, tried to maintain a semblance of it. For years he had kept thieves, renegades and outlaws away from his little settlement by dealing out stern justice. His word was law, and his bordermen executed it as such. Therefore Jonathan and Wetzel made it their duty to have a keen eye on all that was happening. They kept the colonel posted, and never interfered in any case without orders.

  The morning passed quietly. Jonathan strolled here or loitered there; but saw none of the roisterers. He believed they were sleeping off the effects of their orgy on the previous evening. After dinner he smoked his pipe. Betty and Helen passed, and Helen smiled. It struck him suddenly that she had never looked at him in such a way before. There was meaning in that warm, radiant flash. A little sense of vexation, the source of which he did not understand, stirred in him against this girl; but with it came the realization that her white face and big, dark eyes had risen before him often since the night before. He wished, for the first time, that he could understand women better.

  “Everything quiet?” asked Colonel Zane, coming out on the steps.

  “All quiet,” answered Jonathan.

  “They’ll open up later, I suspect. I’m going over to Sheppard’s for a while, and, later, will drop into Metzar’s. I’ll make him haul in a yard or two. I don’t like things I hear about his selling the youngsters rum. I’d like you to be within call.”

  The borderman strolled down the bluff and along the path which overhung the river. He disliked Metzar more than his brother suspected, and with more weighty reason than that of selling rum to minors. Jonathan threw himself at length on the ground and mused over the situation.

  “We never had any peace in this settlement, an’ never will in our day. Eb is hopeful an’ looks at the bright side, always expectin’ to-morrow will be different. What have the past sixteen years been? One long bloody fight, an’ the next sixteen won’t be any better. I make out that we’ll have a mix-up soon. Metzar an’ Brandt with their allies, whoever they are, will be in it, an’ if Bing Legget’s in the gang, we’ve got, as Wetzel said, a long, hard trail, which may be our last. More’n that, there’ll be trouble about this chain-lightnin’ girl, as Wetzel predicted. Women make trouble anyways; an’ when they’re winsome an’ pretty they cause more; but if they’re beautiful an’ fiery, bent on havin’ their way, as this new lass is, all hell couldn’t hold a candle to them. We don’t need the Shawnees an’ Girtys, an’ hoss thieves round this here settlement to stir up excitin’ times, now we’ve got this dark-eyed lass. An’ yet any fool could see she’s sweet, an’ good, an’ true as gold.”

  Toward the middle of the afternoon Jonathan sauntered in the direction of Metzar’s inn. It lay on the front of the bluff, with its main doors looking into the road. A long, one-story log structure with two doors, answered as a bar-room. The inn proper was a building more pretentious, and joined the smaller one at its western end. Several horses were hitched outside, and two great oxen yoked to a cumbersome mud-crusted wagon stood patiently by.

  Jonathan bent his tall head as he entered the noisy bar-room. The dingy place reeked with tobacco smoke and the fumes of vile liquor. It was crowded with men. The lawlessness of the time and place was evident. Gaunt, red-faced frontiersmen reeled to and fro across the sawdust floor; hunters and fur-traders, raftsmen and farmers, swelled the motley crowd; young men, honest-faced, but flushed and wild with drink, hung over the bar; a group of sullen-visaged, serpent-eyed Indians held one corner. The black-bearded proprietor dealt out the rum.

  From beyond the bar-room, through a door entering upon the back porch, came the rattling of dice. Jonathan crossed the bar-room apparently oblivious to the keen glance Metzar shot at him, and went out upon the porch. This also was crowded, but there was more room because of greater space. At one table sat some pioneers drinking and laughing; at another were three men playing with dice. Colonel Zane, Silas, and Sheppard were among the lookers-on at the game. Jonathan joined them, and gazed at the gamesters.

  Brandt he knew well enough; he had seen that set, wolfish expression in the riverman’s face before. He observed, however, that the man had flushed cheeks and trembling hands, indications of hard drinking. The player sitting next to Brandt was Williams, one of the garrison, and a good-natured fellow, but garrulous and wickedly disposed when drunk. The remaining player Jonathan at once saw was the Englishman, Mordaunt. He was a handsome man, with fair skin, and long, silken, blond mustache. Heavy lines, and purple shades under his blue eyes, were die unmistakable stamp of dissipation. Reckless, dissolute, bad as he looked, there yet clung something favorable about the man. Perhaps it was his cool, devil-may-care way as he pushed over gold piece after gold piece from the fast diminishing pile before him. His velvet frock and silken doublet had once been elegant; but were now sadly the worse for border roughing.

  Behind the Englishman’s chair Jonathan saw a short man with a face resembling that of a jackal. The grizzled, stubbly beard, the protruding, vicious mouth, the broad, flat nose, and deep-set, small, glittering eyes made a bad impression on the observer. This man, Jonathan concluded, was the servant, Case, who was so eager with his knife. The borderman made the reflection, that if knife-play was the little man’s pastime, he was not likely to go short of sport in that vicinity.

  Colonel Zane attracted Jonathan’s attention at this moment. The pioneers had vacated the other table, and Silas and Sheppard now sat by it. The colonel wanted his brother to join them.

  “Here, Johnny, bring drinks,” he said to the serving boy. “Tell Metzar who they’re for.” Then turning to Sheppard he continued: “He keeps good whiskey; but few of these poor devils ever see it.” At the same time Colonel Zane pressed his foot upon that of Jonathan’s.

  The borderman understood that the signal was intended to call attention to Brandt. The latter had leaned forward, as Jonathan passed by to take a seat with his brother, and said something in a low tone to Mordaunt and Case. Jonathan knew by the way the Englishman and his man quickly glanced up at him, that he had been the subject of the remark.

  Suddenly Williams jumped to his feet with an oath.

  “I’m cleaned out,” he cried.

  “Shall we play alone?” asked Brandt of Mordaunt.

  “As you like,” replied the Englishman, in a tone which showed he cared not a whit whether he played or not.

  “I’ve got work to do. Let’s have some more drinks, and play another time,” said Brandt.

  The liquor was served and drank. Brandt pocketed his pile of Spanish and English gold, and rose to his feet. He was a trifle unsteady; but not drunk.

  “Will you gentlemen have a glass with me?” Mordaunt asked of Colonel Zane’s party.

  “Thank you, some other time, with pleasure. We have our drink now,” Colonel Zane said courteously.

  Meantime Brandt had been whispering in Case’s ear. The little man laughed at something the riverman said. Then he shuffled from behind the table. He was short, his compact build gave promise of unusual strength and agility.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Mordaunt, rising also. He looked hard at Case.

  “Shiver my sides, cap’n, if I don’t need another drink,” replied the sailor.

  “You have had enough. Come upstairs with me,” said Mordaunt.

  “Easy with your hatch, cap’n,” grinned Case. “I want to drink with that ther’ Injun killer. I’ve had drinks with buccaneers, and bad men all over the world, and I’m not going to miss this chance.”

  “Come on; you will get into trouble. You must not annoy these gentlemen,” said Mordaunt.

  “Trouble is the name of my ship, and she’s a trim, fast craft,” replied the man.

  His loud voice had put an end to the convention. Men began to crowd in from the bar-room. Metzar himself came to see what had caused the excitement.

  The little man threw up his cap, whooped, and addressed himself to Jonathan:

  “Injun-killer, bad man of the border, will you drink with a jolly old tar from England?”

  Suddenly a silence reigned, like that in the depths of the forest. To those who knew the borderman, and few did not know him, the invitation was nothing less than an insult. But it did not appear to them, as to him, like a pre-arranged plot to provoke a fight.

  “Will you drink, redskin-hunter?” bawled the sailor.

  “No,” said Jonathan in his quiet voice.

  “Maybe you mean that against old England?” demanded Case fiercely.

  The borderman eyed him steadily, inscrutable as to feeling or intent, and was silent.

  “Go out there and I’ll see the color of your insides quicker than I’d take a drink,” hissed the sailor, with his brick-red face distorted and hideous to look upon. He pointed with a long-bladed knife that no one had seen him draw, to the green sward beyond the porch.

  The borderman neither spoke, nor relaxed a muscle.

  “Ho! ho! my brave pirate of the plains!” cried Case, and he leered with braggart sneer into the faces of Jonathan and his companions.

  It so happened that Sheppard sat nearest to him, and got the full effect of the sailor’s hot, rum-soaked breath. He arose with a pale face.

  “Colonel, I can’t stand this,” he said hastily. “Let’s get away from that drunken ruffian.”

  “Who’s a drunken ruffian?” yelled Case, more angry than ever. “I’m not drunk; but I’m going to be, and cut some of you white-livered border mates. Here, you old masthead, drink this to my health, damn you!”

  The ruffian had seized a tumbler of liquor from the table, and held it toward Sheppard while he brandished his long knife.

  White as snow, Sheppard backed against the wall; but did not take the drink.

  The sailor had the floor; no one save him spoke a word. The action had been so rapid that there had hardly been time. Colonel Zane and Silas were as quiet and tense as the borderman.

  “Drink!” hoarsely cried the sailor, advancing his knife toward Sheppard’s body.

  When the sharp point all but pressed against the old man, a bright object twinkled through the air. It struck Case’s wrist, knocked the knife from his fingers, and, bounding against the wall, fell upon the floor. It was a tomahawk.

  The borderman sprang over the table like a huge catamount, and with movement equally quick, knocked Case with a crash against the wall; closed on him before he could move a hand, and flung him like a sack of meal over the bluff.

  The tension relieved, some of the crowd laughed, others looked over the embankment to see how Case had fared, and others remarked that for some reason he had gotten off better than they expected.

  The borderman remained silent. He leaned against a post, with broad breast gently heaving, but his eyes sparkled as they watched Brandt, Williams, Mordaunt and Metzar. The Englishman alone spoke.

  “Handily done,” he said, cool and suave. “Sir, yours is an iron hand. I apologize for this unpleasant affair. My man is quarrelsome when under the influence of liquor.”

  “Metzar, a word with you,” cried Colonel Zane curtly.

  “Come inside, kunnel,” said the innkeeper, plainly ill at ease.

  “No; listen here. I’ll speak to the point. You’ve got to stop running this kind of a place. No words, now, you’ve got to stop. Understand? You know as well as I, perhaps better, the character of your so-called inn. You’ll get but one more chance.”

  “Wal, kunnel, this is a free country,” growled Metzar. “I can’t help these fellars comin’ here lookin’ fer blood. I runs an honest place. The men want to drink an’ gamble. What’s law here? What can you do?”

  “You know me, Metzar,” Colonel Zane said grimly. “I don’t waste words. ‘To hell with law!’ so you say. I can say that, too. Remember, the next drunken boy I see, or shady deal, or gambling spree, out you go for good.”

  Metzar lowered his shaggy head and left the porch. Brandt and his friends, with serious faces, withdrew into the bar-room.

  The borderman walked around the corner of the inn, and up the lane. The colonel, with Silas and Sheppard, followed in more leisurely fashion. At a shout from some one they turned to see a dusty, bloody figure, with ragged clothes, stagger up from the bluff.

  “There’s that blamed sailor now,” said Sheppard. “He’s a tough nut. My! What a knock on the head Jonathan gave him. Strikes me, too, that tomahawk came almost at the right time to save me a whole skin.”

  “I was furious, but not at all alarmed,” rejoined Colonel Zane.

  “I wondered what made you so quiet.”

  “I was waiting. Jonathan never acts until the right moment, and then — well, you saw him. The little villain deserved killing. I could have shot him with pleasure. Do you know, Sheppard, Jonathan’s aversion to shedding blood is a singular thing. He’d never kill the worst kind of a white man until driven to it.”

  “That’s commendable. How about Wetzel?”

  “Well, Lew is different,” replied Colonel Zane with a shudder. “If I told him to take an ax and clean out Metzar’s place — God! what a wreck he’d make of it. Maybe I’ll have to tell him, and if I do, you’ll see something you can never forget.”