A dismally wet and cold September day had come early to a close and thick darkness had settled down an hour since, when the horse attached to a heavy, canvas-covered, two-wheeled emigrant wagon stopped, at its driver’s command, before an inhospitable looking house, from one window of which a feeble light was shining. The rain splashed drearily, the wind moaned in a ghostly way about the structure whose dim outlines were just visible, and flapped the canvas over the wagon fitfully.
The barking of a gruff-voiced dog from somewhere near the house gave certain sign that the arrival of the cart had been noticed by that animal, as a tall, broad shouldered boy sprang lightly down from the vehicle and walked briskly toward the door of the gloomy building.
“Now, never mind, Ring,” spoke a young, but full and pleasant voice from the front of the wagon, as a large dog that stood beneath growled deep in its throat in answer to the barking of the other canine. Instantly the dog was quieted and at the same moment came the sound of knocking at the door of the partially lighted house. A full minute passed, and the knocking was vigorously repeated before there was a response.
“This ain’t a tavern any more; we can’t keep ye,” said a man who put his head out, before the caller could speak.
“This is the Eagle tavern, isn’t it?” the boy inquired calmly, and the light through the half-open door showed him to be a muscular youth of probably eighteen years, though the serious look about his eyes and mouth, and his dark hair gave him a somewhat older appearance.
“It used to be the Eagle tavern, but it ain’t now. Is that all?” the man in the doorway replied gruffly.
“Why, no, it is not all,” the lad returned. “There are two of us with a horse and wagon and we want to stay all night. The storm is growing worse, and though we had intended to camp by the roadside, we pushed on through the mud and darkness to reach this place. We expect to pay for our lodging.”
“It don’t make no difference, I tell ye! We ain’t keeping a public house.”
“Come, come, Mr. Tavern-keeper, my friend and I have both been here before, and if we are willing to stay, you should surely be willing to keep us.”
“That’s the talk!” called the one who remained in the wagon, “and let’s have a lantern out here, and lose no further time about it!”
The man in the door moved aside to let the light fall more directly on his caller’s face.
“Yes, I rec’lect ye,” he said slowly. And then, his face brightening suddenly, he added more pleasantly, “Wait a jiffy.”
He closed the door and a murmur of voices sounded for a short time from within. Presently, however, the man reappeared with a tallow candle set in a round tin box full of small holes, which he carried by a ring in its top, as a lantern, and followed the young men who had summoned him, to the cart drawn up by the roadside.
“The Eagle tavern’s been closed all summer and we hadn’t ought to keep ye,” the man explained, standing by while the two boys unhitched their horse and led the animal into the log barn across the road from the house. “Ye kin pull yer cart under this shed out o’ the rain,” he went on, indicating a lean-to beside the barn.
In a few minutes the horse had been fed and the host led the way into the house, entering a long, low room, where, in a fireplace, a smoky, cheerless blaze was flickering. On a table set against the wall opposite the fireplace, a candle was burning, and toward the farther end of the dingy apartment two men were seated, their chairs tilted back in careless attitudes.
“There ain’t much here to eat,” the landlord said, as he motioned his guests to a settle in the chimney corner. “My wife died an’ I quit keepin’ a tavern. I’ll git ye what I kin.”
The two boys he thus ushered in did not sit down, but stood before the blaze to allow their clothes to dry; the one who had remained in the wagon while the other went to the door, turning about after a minute or two and stirring the fire till it burned more brightly. He was seventeen years old or thereabout, more slender than his companion and not so tall. His brown hair grew long, and about his blue eyes there was a twinkle of merriment, as he said: “Wood is cheap; we may as well have enough fire to do some good.”
“Right you are, young man,” spoke one of the two strangers still sitting in the semi-darkness. “It’s a nasty night.”
“Right you are,” said the lad, still stirring the fire, adopting the stranger’s own words.
One of the two men arose and stepping up to the blaze seated himself on the settle. He was a villainous looking fellow, his curly black hair cut short, his nose very large, red and sharp pointed, his chin unnaturally prominent, his eyes small, black, and deep-set, marks of smallpox adding further to make his face an unpleasant one. His age was not less than forty-five years.
So disagreeable, indeed, did the two boys find this man’s appearance that instinctively both looked more closely to see what his companion was like. They beheld a man ten years younger than the other, though his hair was turning gray, and his hardened leather-like skin made him seem older than he was. He had fairly honest eyes, however, though he turned them away and looked steadily in another direction when he found that he was observed.
“I was just tellin’ my friends here about Ichabod Nesbit bein’ killed, when you chaps come along,” said the landlord a few minutes later, as he came bringing in some cold meat and a loaf of bread, which he placed on the table. Then asking his young guests to sit down and help themselves, which they proceeded to do, he went on:
“I rec’lect that you boys was sort o’ interested in Nesbit, an’ I heard that it was you two that brought the news East of how he was killed.”
“Yes,” said the older of the two lads in a disinterested way, while the other gave him a quiet pinch under the table.
“Killed by an Indian, you said, didn’t you?” put in the villainous looking man.
“An Injun named Black Eagle,” said the landlord.
Neither boy made any move to join in the conversation and the tavern-keeper took another tack.
“Most forgot how to be polite,” he said. “I don’t rec’lect your names, young men, but make you acquainted with Mr. Samuel Duff and Mr. Lon Dexter, travelers same as you be. My name’s Quilling, ye know that.”
It was to the name Samuel Duff that the villainous looking man answered. His better appearing companion arose as the name Lon Dexter was pronounced.
“My name is Kingdom,” said the older of the two boys, rising to shake hands as the men came forward.
“And mine is Jerome,” said the more slender lad, with none too much friendship in his tones.
“Going West, I take it,” said Duff, trying to speak pleasantly.
“Yes,” said the young man named Kingdom, as both boys reseated themselves and went on with their supper.
“So are we,” he of the evil appearance continued—“Dexter and I.”
“It is a great country—the Ohio country, I mean,” said Kingdom, his keen, dark eyes scrutinizing the fellow who had seemed to suggest that they might travel together, while he mentally decided that he would like no such arrangement.
“Yes, a great country and a big country. We’re just going to look around and see whether there would be a good chance to get hold of first-rate land to settle on when the Indian troubles are over,” Duff answered.
No immediate reply being made to his words, the fellow went on in a careless tone which anyone could have seen was assumed:
“But you won’t catch us staying around long where the Redskins have war paint on. That man Ichabod Nesbit, we were speaking of, would probably have been living yet if he hadn’t gone off to that blasted wilderness. What part of the country was he killed in, anyhow?”
“Beyond Pittsburg. Why?” quickly put in the lad Jerome, his interest aroused. For the thought came to him that Ichabod Nesbit was just such an outlaw as the fellow now inquiring about him looked to be.
“Ho! nothing in particular! You seem to be mighty suspicious, the way you ask ‘Why,’” Duff exclaimed, with anger he tried not to show.
