“Hullo,” I said, happily, stepping directly before him.  “When did you come ashore?”

He stopped as though shot, bracing himself with difficulty, and endeavoring to gain a glimpse of my face.

“Hello, yerself,” he managed to ejaculate thickly.  “Who are yer? frien’ o’ mine?”

“Why, don’t yer remember me, ol’ man?  I’m the feller who wus scrubbin’ the paint on the Adventurer.  We wus talkin’ tergether comin’ up.  I wus goin’ fer ter enlist.”

“Hell! yes; glad ter see yer.  Sum hot whisky et this camp—­tried eny?”

“No,” I answered, grasping at the opportunity to arouse his generosity.  “I ain’t got no coin to buy.  They wudn’t let me leave ther boat, ner pay me a picayune, so I just skipped out.  I’m flat broke; maybe yer cud stake me fer a bite ter eat?”

“Eat!” he flung one arm lovingly about my shoulders, and burst into laughter.  “Yer bet yer life, we’re a goin’ ter eat, an’ drink too.  I don’t go back on none o’ ther boys.  Yer never heerd nuthin’ like thet ’bout Tim Kennedy, I reckon.  Eat, sure—­yer know Jack Rale?”

“Never heerd the name.”

“What, hell! never heerd o’ Jack Rale!  Ol’ river man, half hoss, half alligator; uster tend bar in Saint Louee.  He’s up yere now, a sellin’ forty-rod ter sojers.  Cum up ’long with him frum Beardstown.  Got a shack back yere, an’ is a gittin’ rich—­frien’ o’ mine.  Yer just cum ’long with me—­thas all.”

I permitted him to lead me, his voice never ceasing as we followed the dim trail.  I made out little of what he said, nor did I question him.  Drunk as the man was, I still thought it best to wait until more thoroughly assured that we were alone.  Besides I could take no chance now with his garrulous tongue.  The trail ended before a two-room log cabin, so deeply hidden in the woods as to be revealed merely by a glimmer of light shining out from within through chinks in the walls.  Tim fumbled for the latch and finally opened the door, lurching across the threshold, dragging me along after him.  The room was evidently kitchen and bar combined, the latter an unplaned board, resting on two upturned kegs, with a shelf behind containing an array of bottles.  There were two men at a sloppy table, a disreputable looking white woman stirring the contents of a pot hung over the open fire, and a fellow behind the bar, attired in a dingy white apron.  It was all sordid enough, and dirty—­a typical frontier grogshop; but the thing of most interest to me was the proprietor.  The fellow was the same red-moustached individual whom I had watched disembark from the steamer that same afternoon, slipping in the yellow mud as he surmounted the bank, dragging his valise along after him.  So it was this fellow passenger who had given these fugitives refuge; it was his presence in these parts which had decided Kirby to make the venture ashore.  He glanced up at our entrance, the glare of light overhead revealing a deep, ugly scar across his chin, and a pair of deep-set, scowling eyes.