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ees—the leetle chicken!”
    “I told you not to call me that, Frenchie!” Knox protested, but he was cut off when he was seized around the middle and heaved into the air by the burly halfbreed. Christmas had never seen an arm with more power.
    “Cut that out, you idiot!” Knox yelled.
    Frenchie Doucett was almost as wide as he was tall; and dressed in smoke-blackened buckskins, he made a formidable figure, his bulging muscles rippling with each move. The man’s broad face and dark coloring disclosed his Indian heritage. His wide smile, under a jutting brow and deep-set eyes, flashed yellow teeth large enough to crack walnuts. Hovering over this giant was a smell of sweat and smoke that seemed to permeate the atmosphere around him.
    “Your papa, he say for me to give you thees”—he dashed to the wall and plucked a rifle from the peg it hung on—“and your fine mama—she say give you thees!” Thrusting the rifle into Knox’s hands, the big man grabbed the boy in a bear hug and planted a noisy, smacking kiss right on Knox’s forehead. Then he stood back and roared with laughter at the boy’s embarrassment as a howl rose from the crowd.
    “Ah, leave him be, Frenchie.” Another buckskin-dressed man by the name of Canby stood up and walked across to put his hand on Knox’s shoulder. “This here young coon is full of fuss—looks ready to charge an elephant!”
    “Con!” Knox smiled, pushing aside the flash of angerCanby’s remark had sparked in him. “You look as bad as ever.”
    “Ma health is shot, boy, for a fact. Don’t reckon I’ll last through more’n two or three clean shirts.”
    The man’s mournful words contrasted sharply with his appearance: medium height and lean as a panther. His face had been exposed to the sun so long that his naturally fair complexion was now permanently sunburned, including his long nose. His bright blue eyes were striking against the bronze of his skin.
    Christmas was puzzled. What could be wrong with the man? Greene had warned him that Laurence Conrad was an odd one, and now Chris could see why. Conrad was at least forty-five, Chris knew, for the former seaman had been a shipmate of Greene’s in the days of the Revolution. But the youthful look in his eyes belied his stooped shoulders. And despite his talk of ill health, the man was obviously still strong and hale.
    “Ah, you’ll bury all of us, you old pirate!” Knox grinned. Then he looked down at the gun in his hands. Holding it up, he exclaimed, “Why—it’s Father’s Pennsylvania rifle!”
    “Shore is,” Con nodded, a gleam in his eyes. He looked at Chris. “There’s another one jest like it for you, if you be Christmas Winslow.”
    Chris stood there, stunned. He had not expected anything from his father. Con moved to the wall, took the other rifle and slipped it to his shoulder, sighting down the long barrel. “Same weapon Colonel Morgan’s men carried in the war—’cept these is better. Got them fancy double barrel on ’em.”
    He held the rifle out, and Chris took it, somewhat awkwardly. There was no way he could refuse it, not with the crowd watching him. These weapons, he knew, had been made by William Antes and were highly prized. They carried one hammer, two frizzens, and two sets of sights. This doubled a man’s firepower: after the first barrel was fired, the hammer was drawn back and the second barrel could easilybe swiveled into place. Chris was painfully aware that any man in the room would have loved to own such a handsome rifle. He could not say a word.
    “I say we ’ave a drink on eet!” Frenchie said and moved to the bar and pounded on it with his ham-like hand. Knox had been determined to drink no more, but in the hours that followed he was carried along by Doucett’s breezy manner. Glass after glass of raw whiskey found its way into the young man’s stomach; and in spite of all his good intentions, he was becoming very drunk.
    Soon Knox and Chris were pulled off to a