“You’ll pay Bill Wilder or go to jail, by the eternal,” cried the young man, quite as angrily, whereupon I looked upon him with a mixture of admiration and commiseration, with a gulping certainty in my throat that I was about to see murder done.  He was a strange young man, with the rare marked look that would compel even a poor memory to pick him out again.  For example, he was very tall and very slim, with red hair blown every which way over a high and towering forehead that seemed as long as the face under it.  The face, too, was long, and all freckled by the weather.  The blue eyes held me in wonder, and these blazed with such prodigious wrath that, if a look could have killed, Hump Gibson would have been stricken on the spot.  Mr. Gibson was, however, very much alive.

“Skin out o’ here afore I kill ye,” he shouted, and he charged at the slim young man like a buffalo, while the crowd held its breath.  I, who had looked upon cruel sights in my day, was turning away with a kind of sickening when I saw the slim young man dodge the rush.  He did more.  With two strides of his long legs he reached the fence, ripped off the topmost rail, and his huge antagonist, having changed his direction and coming at him with a bellow, was met with the point of a scantling in the pit of his stomach, and Mr. Gibson fell heavily to the ground.  It had all happened in a twinkling, and there was a moment’s lull while the minds of the onlookers needed readjustment, and then they gave vent to ecstasies of delight.

“Great Goliah!” cried the landlord, breathlessly, “he shet him up jest like a jack-knife.”

Awe-struck, I looked at the tall young man, and he was the very essence of wrath.  Unmindful of the plaudits, he stood brandishing the fence-rail over the great, writhing figure on the ground.  And he was slobbering.  I recall that this fact gave a twinge to something in my memory.

“Come on, Hump Gibson,” he cried, “come on!”—­at which the crowd went wild with pure joy.  Witticisms flew.

“Thought ye was goin’ to eat ’im up, Hump?” said a friend.

“Ye ain’t hed yer meal yet, Hump,” reminded another.

Mr. Hump Gibson arose slowly out of the dust, yet he did not stand straight.

“Come on, come on!” cried the young lawyer-fellow, and he thrust the point of the rail within a foot of Mr. Gibson’s stomach.

“Come on, Hump!” howled the crowd, but Mr. Gibson stood irresolute.  He lacked the supreme test of courage which was demanded on this occasion.  Then he turned and walked away very slowly, as though his pace might mitigate in some degree the shame of his retreat.  The young man flung away the fence-rail, and, thrusting aside the overzealous among his admirers, he strode past me into the tavern, his anger still hot.

“Hooray fer Jackson!” they shouted.  “Hooray fer Andy Jackson!”

Andy Jackson!  Then I knew.  Then I remembered a slim, wild, sandy-haired boy digging his toes in the red mud long ago at the Waxhaws Settlement.  And I recalled with a smile my own fierce struggle at the schoolhouse with the same boy, and how his slobbering had been my salvation.  I turned and went in after him with the landlord, who was rubbing his hands with glee.