The place was populous enough, for all its squalor.  A half-dozen small children, scantily clothed, swarmed amongst the tin cans; two women, one with a baby in her arms, appeared and disappeared through the low doorway of the cabin; a horse or two dozed among the trees of the neglected orchard; chickens scratched everywhere.  Square in the middle of the verandah, in a wooden chair, sat an old man whom Bob guessed to be Samuels.  He sat bolt upright, facing the front, his knees spread apart, his feet planted solidly.  A patriarchal beard swept his great chest; thick, white hair crowned his head; bushy white brows, like thatch, overshadowed his eyes.  Even at the distance, Bob could imagine the deep-set, flashing, vigorous eyes of the old man.  For everything about him, save the colour of his hair and beard, bespoke great vigour.  His solidly planted attitude in his chair, the straight carriage of his back, the set of his shoulders, the very poise of his head told of the power and energy of an autocrat.  Across his knees rested a shotgun.

As Bob watched, a tall youth sauntered around the corner of the cabin.  He spoke to the old man.  Samuels did not look around, but nodded his massive head.  The young man disappeared in the cabin to return after a moment, accompanied by the individual Bob had seen in Durham.  The two spoke again to the old man; then sauntered off in the direction of the barn.

Bob returned, untied his horse; and, leading that animal, approached the cabin afoot.  No sooner had he emerged into view when the old man arose and came squarely and uncompromisingly to meet him.  The two encountered perhaps fifty yards from the cabin door.

Bob found that a closer inspection of his antagonist rather strengthened than diminished the impression of force.  The old man’s eyes were flashing fire, and his great chest rose and fell rapidly.  He held his weapon across the hollow of his left arm, but the muscles of his right hand were white with the power of his grip.

“Get out of here!” he fairly panted at Bob.  “I warned you fellows!”

Bob replied calmly.

“I came in to see if I could get to stay for supper, and to feed my horse.”

At this the old man exploded in a violent rage.  He ordered Bob off the place instantly, and menaced him with his shotgun.  Had Bob been mounted, Samuels would probably have shot him; but the mere position of a horseman afoot conveys subtly an impression of defencelessness that is difficult to overcome.  He is, as it were, anchored to the spot, and at the other man’s mercy.  Samuels raged, but he did not shoot.

At the sounds of altercation, however, the whole hive swarmed.  The numerous children scuttled for cover like quail, but immediately peered forth again.  The two women thrust their heads from the doorway.  From the direction of the stable the younger men came running.  One of them held a revolver in his hand.

During all this turmoil and furore Bob had stood perfectly still, saying no word.  Provided he did nothing to invite it, he was now safe from personal violence.  To be sure, a very slight mistake would invite it.  Bob waited patiently.