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promptly snatched it.
    “ Nasty little thing,” said the man, looking at the gun. “Shouldn’t go waving these in public; they often misfire.”
    The stranger’s quip as well as his exploits will readily identify him to all who have already made his acquaintance – the interloper was none other than Lieutenant Colonel Jake Stewart Gibbs, having stopped here for a bit of lunch after riding all morning and most of the previous night.
    The proprietor of the inn appeared in the doorway, wearing the universal look of dread innkeepers all over the world put on when they ask the question: Who will pay for this mess?
    Van Clynne went to the keeper and whispered an answer so eloquent that the man promptly escorted his two assailants to the door.
    “ I hate to resort to violence,” complained van Clynne to the man who saved his life. “But I will not be called a cur, even by a fellow countryman. It will cost me seventy skins, but – well, had they been any good, undoubtedly he would have sold them much earlier; the season in truth is gone. Frankly, I deal with him only because I’ve a soft spot for his wife and children. It’s a disease, compassion; it robs a businessman of good sense.”
    “ No doubt.”
    “ Your name, sir?”
    “ Jake Gibbs. And yours?”
    “ Claus van Clynne,” said the Dutchman with a flourish. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
    As Jake bowed his head in answer to van Clynne’s gesture, the Dutchman fixed on Jake’s tricornered hat and frowned. Such hats were common among English-bred colonists; surely their creases conformed to some irregularity within the skull. His opinion of the stranger dropped appreciably, though he was careful not to share it.
    “ Thank you, sir, for your assistance,” said van Clynne gracefully. “I am obliged.”
    “ No problem. Always pleased to help a fellow traveler.”
    “ Yes, yes.” Van Clynne harrumphed in the direction of the pocket pistol which Jake still held in his hand.
    “ I think not,” Jake replied, understanding that van Clynne wanted it.
    “ Thieves come in all shapes and sizes these days,” grumbled the Dutchman. “The whole world is going to hell.”
    “ I didn’t say I was keeping it. Just that I wouldn’t give it to you.” He carefully uncocked the miniature lock and unscrewed the barrel to remove the bullet. “Buy me a drink?”
    “ Buy you a drink?”
    “ I did save your life.”
    “ Yes, well, perhaps he would have missed.”
    Jake tapped the belly in front of him but said nothing, motioning to the chair instead and calling over the innkeeper for two ales.
    “ On me,” said Jake. “You’re a trader?”
    Van Clynne made a face immediately. “A trader, sir, is a man only shortly removed from the lowest form of life scuttling about the forest floor. I am a merchant, a freelance proprietor, a good man of business and a man of standing in the world, I daresay.”
    “ I see.”
    “ I deal in commodities and services. At present, I am going north to arrange for the purchase of some good Canadian wood, as well as some other odds and ends. I have many interests. Upon occasion I even consent to handle a few odd furs, although as I have said, it is mostly a matter of charity, vainglorious charity.”
    “ You are going to Canada?”
    “ I may.” Van Clynne eyes his drink cautiously, but then lifted the tankard and drained off a good portion.
    “ You have the papers that will take you past the patrols?”
    “ I have the right to come and go as I please,” said van Clynne haughtily. “I am a businessman. I have rights of passage from both Carleton and Philip Schuyler.”
    “ I’m going that way myself. Perhaps you can guide me.”
    “ Guide? The road is well-marked.”
    “ I’ve never been over it.”
    “ Hmmph.” Van Clynne finished off the rest of the ale, then pushed the tankard forward for a refill. “Twenty crowns,” he said after the girl had taken it off to the kitchen.
    “ For?”
    “ Twenty crowns to