Zane Grey by The Last Trail

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,