It was a pompous old buck who was bearing down on the old gray horse, and under the slouch hat with its flapping brim—­one Mayhall Wells, by name.  There were but few strands of gray in his thick blue-black hair, though his years were rounding half a century, and he sat the old nag with erect dignity and perfect ease.  His bearded mouth showed vanity immeasurable, and suggested a strength of will that his eyes—­the real seat of power—­denied, for, while shrewd and keen, they were unsteady.  In reality, he was a great coward, though strong as an ox, and whipping with ease every man who could force him into a fight.  So that, in the whole man, a sensitive observer would have felt a peculiar pathos, as though nature had given him a desire to be, and no power to become, and had then sent him on his zigzag way, never to dream wherein his trouble lay.

“Mornin’, gentle_men_!”

“Mornin’, Mayhall!”

All nodded and spoke except Hence Sturgill on the wagon-tongue, who stopped whittling, and merely looked at the big man with narrowing eyes.

Tallow Dick, a yellow slave, appeared at the corner of the store, and the old buck beckoned him to come and hitch his horse.  Flitter Bill had reappeared on the stoop with a piece of white paper in his hand.  The lank messenger sagged in the doorway behind him, ready to start for home.

“Mornin’ Captain Wells,” said Bill, with great respect.  Every man heard the title, stopped his tongue and his knife-blade, and raised his eyes; a few smiled—­Hence Sturgill grinned.  Mayhall stared, and Bill’s left eye closed and opened with lightning quickness in a most portentous wink.  Mayhall straightened his shoulders—­seeing the game, as did the crowd at once:  Flitter Bill was impressing that messenger in case he had some dangerous card up his sleeve.

“Captain Wells,” Bill repeated significantly, “I’m sorry to say yo’ new uniform has not arrived yet.  I am expecting it to-morrow.”  Mayhall toed the line with soldierly promptness.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that, suh—­sorry to hear it, suh,” he said, with slow, measured speech.  “My men are comin’ in fast, and you can hardly realize er—­er what it means to an old soldier er—­er not to have—­er—­” And Mayhall’s answering wink was portentous.

“My friend here is from over in Kaintucky, and the Harlan Home Gyard over there, he says, is a-making some threats.”

Mayhall laughed.

“So I have heerd—­so I have heerd.”  He turned to the messenger.  “We shall be ready fer ’em, suh, ready fer ’em with a thousand men—­one thousand men, suh, right hyeh in the Gap—­right hyeh in the Gap.  Let ’em come on—­let ’em come on!” Mayhall began to rub his hands together as though the conflict were close at hand, and the mountaineer slapped one thigh heartily.  “Good for you!  Give ’em hell!” He was about to slap Mayhall on the shoulder and call him “pardner,” when Flitter Bill coughed, and Mayhall lifted his chin.