"Never heerd the name."

"What, hell! never heerd o' Jack Rale! Ol' river man, half hoss, half
alligator; uster tend bar in Saint Louee. He's up yere now, a sellin'
forty-rod ter sojers. Cum up 'long with him frum Beardstown. Got a
shack back yere, an' is a gittin' rich--frien' o' mine. Yer just cum
'long with me--thas all."

I permitted him to lead me, his voice never ceasing as we followed the
dim trail. I made out little of what he said, nor did I question him.
Drunk as the man was, I still thought it best to wait until more
thoroughly assured that we were alone. Besides I could take no chance
now with his garrulous tongue. The trail ended before a two-room log
cabin, so deeply hidden in the woods as to be revealed merely by a
glimmer of light shining out from within through chinks in the walls.
Tim fumbled for the latch and finally opened the door, lurching across
the threshold, dragging me along after him. The room was evidently
kitchen and bar combined, the latter an unplaned board, resting on two
upturned kegs, with a shelf behind containing an array of bottles.
There were two men at a sloppy table, a disreputable looking white
woman stirring the contents of a pot hung over the open fire, and a
fellow behind the bar, attired in a dingy white apron. It was all
sordid enough, and dirty--a typical frontier grogshop; but the thing of
most interest to me was the proprietor. The fellow was the same
red-moustached individual whom I had watched disembark from the steamer
that same afternoon, slipping in the yellow mud as he surmounted the
bank, dragging his valise along after him. So it was this fellow
passenger who had given these fugitives refuge; it was his presence in
these parts which had decided Kirby to make the venture ashore. He
glanced up at our entrance, the glare of light overhead revealing a
deep, ugly scar across his chin, and a pair of deep-set, scowling eyes.

"Back in time fer supper, hey, Kennedy," he growled, none too
cordially. "Who's yer frien'?"

"A feller whut's goin' ter enlist. He's all right, Jack," the deputy
hiccoughed thickly. "Les' liquor, an' then we'll eat. I'm payin' the
bill--so whut the hell is it ter yer?"

"Nuthin' 'tall; eny frien' o' yers gits ther best I hav'. Corn liquor,
I reckon?"

He set out a squat bottle on the bar, and thinking it best to humor the
both of them I poured out a stiff drink, fully aware that Rale was
observing my features closely.