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to the white traitor within the settlement.
By day there was even less to attract the sharp-eyed watcher. The
clumsy river boats, half raft, half sawn lumber, drifted down the Ohio
on their first and last voyage, discharged their cargoes of grain,
liquor, or merchandise, and were broken up. Their crews came back on
the long overland journey to Fort Pitt, there to man another craft.
The garrison at the fort performed their customary duties; the
pioneers tilled the fields; the blacksmith scattered sparks, the
wheelwright worked industriously at his bench, and the housewives
attended to their many cares. No strangers arrived at Fort Henry. The
quiet life of the village was uninterrupted.
    Near sunset of a long day Jonathan strolled down the sandy,
well-trodden path toward Metzar's inn. He did not drink, and
consequently seldom visited the rude, dark, ill-smelling bar-room.
When occasion demanded his presence there, he was evidently not
welcome. The original owner, a sturdy soldier and pioneer, came to
Fort Henry when Colonel Zane founded the settlement, and had been
killed during Girty's last attack. His successor, another Metzar, was,
according to Jonathan's belief, as bad as the whiskey he dispensed.
More than one murder had been committed at the inn; countless fatal
knife and tomahawk fights had stained red the hard clay floor; and
more than one desperate character had been harbored there. Once
Colonel Zane sent Wetzel there to invite a thief and outlaw to quit
the settlement, with the not unexpected result that it became
necessary the robber be carried out.
    Jonathan thought of the bad name the place bore all over the frontier,
and wondered if Metzar could tell anything about the horse-thieves.
When the borderman bent his tall frame to enter the low-studded door
he fancied he saw a dark figure disappear into a room just behind the
bar. A roughly-clad, heavily-bearded man turned hastily at the
same moment.
    "Hullo," he said gruffly.
    "H' are you, Metzar. I just dropped in to see if I could make a trade
for your sorrel mare," replied Jonathan. Being well aware that the
innkeeper would not part with his horse, the borderman had made this
announcement as his reason for entering the bar-room.
    "Nope, I'll allow you can't," replied Metzar.
    As he turned to go, Jonathan's eyes roamed around the bar-room.
Several strangers of shiftless aspect bleared at him.
    "They wouldn't steal a pumpkin," muttered Jonathan to himself as he
left the inn. Then he added suspiciously, "Metzar was talkin' to some
one, an' 'peared uneasy. I never liked Metzar. He'll bear watchin'."
    The borderman passed on down the path thinking of what he had heard
against Metzar. The colonel had said that the man was prosperous for
an innkeeper who took pelts, grain or meat in exchange for rum. The
village gossips disliked him because he was unmarried, taciturn, and
did not care for their company. Jonathan reflected also on the fact
that Indians were frequently coming to the inn, and this made him
distrustful of the proprietor. It was true that Colonel Zane had
red-skinned visitors, but there was always good reason for their
coming. Jonathan had seen, during the Revolution, more than one
trusted man proven to be a traitor, and the conviction settled upon
him that some quiet scouting would show up the innkeeper as aiding the
horse-thieves if not actually in league with them.
    "Good evening, Jonathan Zane."
    This greeting in a woman's clear voice brought Jonathan out from his
reveries. He glanced up to see Helen Sheppard standing in the doorway
of her father's cabin.
    "Evenin', miss," he said with a bow, and would have passed on.
    "Wait," she cried, and stepped out of the door.
    He waited by the gate with a manner which showed that such a summons
was novel to him.
    Helen, piqued at his curt greeting, had asked him to wait without any
idea of what she would say. Coming slowly down the path she felt again
a subtle awe of this borderman. Regretting her impulsiveness, she