Part 2

“I can plainly see,” snorted the old gentleman, “that you are a malcontent. You say you are on leave? Where is your paper to show it?”

“I’ll show no papers,” said Jukes, stoutly.

“Then you are a deserter. ----, sir, I’ve a notion to clap a pistol at your head and turn you around for the provost guards.”

Jukes slipped the musket from his shoulders.

“Mind your business, old fellow, or I’ll knock you off that perch.”

They came to a halt, facing each other as the dusk gave way to darkness and the snow fell about them in redoubled thickness. Jukes laughed grimly.

“Stick to your debatin’, old man. You c’n do better at it. Leave the guns to a fightin’ man. Le’s go, now. I ain’t got time to waste on a fat old turkey-cock like you.”

St. Louis Cotton swore softly, putting his horse in motion.

“You _are_ a renegade--a desperate ruffian, better out of the army than in it.”

“Good enough to kill Englishmen though, ain’t I? Good enough to believe in your fine promises when everything looked mighty black. Now you an’ your blue-blood friends c’n fight fer your own necks. I’m through!”

They turned a curve of the road and had sight of a tavern hidden amongst trees, not a hundred yards away. Jukes bit his words in two and came to a halt. A door of the tavern stood wide open, with the yellow light making a lane in the snow. And up that lane filed a squad of men dressed in the uniform of British dragoons. The door closed behind them, leaving Jukes with dry lips and a question on his tongue.

“There a camp o’ those animals hereabouts, old feller?”

“My eyes, they’re ---- poor,” said the squire. “What did you see?”

“British dragoons,” muttered Jukes, peering through the darkness. “Saw six go inside. Wonder--”

The squire was swearing.

“That patrol again! Sweeps this part of the country frequently. No camp this side of Philadelphia. ----, I’d like to put a stop to it! If I had another man or two.”

“Hold on, old feller,” interrupted Jukes, surprized at the former’s warlike speech. “You ain’t the one to do any fightin’. If they’d ketch you usin’ a gun an’ wearin’ civilian clothes they’d hang you.”

“Tut,” said the squire. “I bear a colonel’s commission in the militia.”

“Milisher, huh? Well, anybody could be an officer in the milisher. It’s no-count.”

Jukes was on his knee, head thrust forward, as if trying to penetrate the darkness. The squire dismounted from his horse, muttering.

“If you weren’t such a rascally fellow and we had another one or two--”

“Old man,” broke in Jukes, “I’m goin’ to do a little scoutin’. Stand fast till I come back.”

He slipped his knapsack to the ground and swiftly advanced, the aggressive Scotch-Irish spirit rousing at the proximity of the enemy and a daring plan working through his canny head. Within ten yards of the place he stopped, hearing the champing of a bit. After some moments of intent observation he decided no guard had been left with the animals and moved around the corner of the tavern to a window. The light sparkled through the frosted panes. Jukes removed his hat, raised himself cautiously and commanded a clear view of the interior.

His count had been right. Six of them, headed by a sergeant, were seated around a table; six solid looking fellows with vests loosened to the heat of the room, saber points clanking on the floor. The tavern keeper moved across the boards with steaming cups and disappeared in the kitchen a moment, reappearing with a platter of meat. Jukes located the inner kitchen door and ducked down, grinning dourly.

“They’ll be feedin’ some minutes,” he muttered, working his way back. “Well, we’ll give ’em time to hang themselves.”

He cruised around the yard and reassured himself there was no guard with the horses, going so far as to put his hands upon the hitching rack and take another knot in each of the tied reins. If any of them wished to get away in a hurry they’d find unexpected difficulties. He moved back to the squire’s position.

“Six of ’em,” said Jukes. “Mr. Milisher Colonel, you got any weapons?”

“My pistols. D’you mean you’ve got spirit enough to flush ’em?”

“Well, fightin’s my trade. You talk loud but I ain’t sure you’ll stand fire. Milisher never do. Howsoever, if there’s any gimp in that fat skin o’ yourn come along. I want you to go to the front door an’ wait until you hear me shout. Then you shout--as loud as you can, breakin’ in. I’ll be comin’ through the back way. Le’s go.”

The squire tied his horse to a fence and followed Jukes until they were within a few paces of the tavern.

“Wait until you hear me,” admonished the latter, “then make all the noise you can.”

He turned away. Another furtive glance through the window showed him the dragoons had turned to industrious trenchermen and he skirted the wall of the house until he saw a crack of light coming through a rear door. He tried it gently and found it gave way. At that point he stopped to affix his bayonet, then shoved the door open and let out a cry loud enough to startle every echo in the countryside.

The door slammed against the inner wall and Jukes, musket advanced, careened through a hot kitchen, had a momentary glimpse of a frightened woman shrinking back, and arrived at the front room. He cried again--a high, wailing, half savage yell--and burst upon them at the moment the squire, obeying instructions to the letter, burst through the front way, waving his pistols.

“Surrender, gentlemen, or you die!”

The table went over, sending the dishes to the floor with a crash and clatter. Dragoons flung themselves against the wall, sabers flashing, pistols out.

“Charge ’em!” yelled the sergeant. “Kill the devils!”

Jukes’ musket roared; smoke filled the room and the sergeant’s face sagged. He fell to the floor, knocking aside the weapon of one of his men.

“Come on, Pennsylvania!” shouted Jukes, his face afire.

He was as a man gone stark mad, teeth bared and eyes flashing. The bayonet met a saber and knocked it aside. The room shook with gunshots and he felt the powder burn his cheeks. Through the sudden sweat that dripped over his eyes he saw his bayonet point turn to bright red. The squire’s hoarse voice cried encouragement and summoned aid from the night. His pistols spoke and then he was borne out of sight by a dragoon retreating from the wild man with the face of fury who slashed and struck and parried and lunged with a crimson bayonet.

The room was in semi-darkness, swimming with smoke; the fireplace glowed dully, reflecting on the sergeant’s sightless eyes. The squire, from the outer shadows, sent back a great cry:

“Keep at ’em, my boy! You’ve bagged the birds!”

“Swords down!” shouted a disheveled dragoon, sagging at the knee. “We’re taken. Put up your gun, man!”

There were two of them standing against the wall, one with a streak of blood across his face, the other staring sullenly.

“Gad,” said he, “we’ve been taken by a cursed savage! Quarter!”

Jukes swayed in his tracks, black hair fallen about his face, sweat rolling across his whiskers. At some point in the mêlée the cloth of one sleeve had been ripped by a saber and it hung away from his skinny arm, making him all the more a nondescript figure. The flaming fervor slowly faded from his eyes and he dropped the point of his bayonet, suddenly tired.

They had done well enough. The sergeant and two others were dead on the floor; two were prisoners and one had fled. The tavern keeper thrust his white jowls out of the kitchen door and Jukes barked at him--

“What’s your politics, fat-face?”

“I’m a good patriot. Ye ----, y’ve wrecked my place!”

“Thank your luck I ain’t wrecked you,” growled Jukes. “Pick up that gun and hold these fellers to the corner.”

He slouched toward the door, bent on retrieving the dragoon who had fled. But there was no need of that. For there he lay, in the patch of snow just beyond the doorsill. And beside him, one arm still gripping a pistol, was the squire, St. Louis Cotton, of Cotton Hall and member of the Pennsylvania Assembly. Jukes bent over, moved by a sudden, generous pity. The squire’s plump face was turned upward and his lips twitched.

“My boy,” he whispered, “if you’re a straggler, go back before it’s too late. No matter how you feel--go back. ’Tis not the time to desert the country. The act will haunt you later, and your sons will hate you. Go back.”

“Aye,” muttered Jukes, “it’s somethin’ I’d most made my mind to this minute.”

But St. Louis Cotton never heard that, for he was dead, carrying on his ruddy countenance that same pride of place. Jukes stared somberly. At last he turned back to the room.

“Alva Jukes wa’n’t born to run off,” he muttered. “They’ll be changin’ guards at this minute--and who’s to help those poor devils to keep the fire goin’?” He thought of the old gentleman with admiration. “A plucky old cock. Maybe he’s right.”

The tavern keeper gave up his gun.

“I had better look after the squire.”

“Get help to bury ’em all,” replied Jukes gruffly. “Now, fat-face, bring out somethin’ to eat an’ tally it to the account o’ Pennsylvania.”

A half-hour later he was bound back to Valley Forge with two prisoners and six horses, the saddle of each one bearing the king’s crown. Jukes smiled dourly as he plodded through the dark, swirling night. After all, they could not do much to a straggler who returned in that royal fashion.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 1, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.]