Yancy had become more and more convinced as the evening passed that Murrell was bent on getting him drunk, and suspicion mounted darkly to his brain.  He felt certain that he was Bladen’s agent.  Now, Mr. Yancy took an innocent pride in his ability to “cool off liquor.”  Perhaps it was some heritage from a well living ancestry that had hardened its head with Port and Madeira in the days when the Yancys owned their acres and their slaves.  Be that as it may, he was equal to the task he had set himself.  He saw with satisfaction the flush mount to Murrell’s swarthy cheeks, and felt that the limit of his capacity was being reached.  Mr. Slosson had become a sort of Greek chorus.  He anticipated all the possible phases of drunkenness that awaited his companions.  He went from silence to noisy mirth, when his unmeaning laughter rang through the house; he told long witless stories as he leaned against the bar; he became melancholy and described the loss of his wife five years before.  From melancholy he passed to sullenness and seemed ready to fasten a quarrel on Yancy, but the latter deftly evaded any such issue.

“What you-all want is another drink,” he said affably.  “With all you been through you need a tonic, so shove along that extract of cornshucks and molasses!”

“I’m a rip-staver,” said Slosson thickly.  “But I’ve knowed enough sorrow to kill a horse.”

“You have that look.  Captain, will you join us?” asked Yancy.  Murrell shook his head, but he made a significant gesture to Slosson as Yancy drained his glass.

“Have a drink with me!” cried Slosson, giving way to drunken laughter.

“Don’t you reckon you’ll spite yo’ appetite fo’ breakfast, neighbor?” suggested Yancy.

“Do you mean you won’t drink with me?” roared Slosson.

“The captain’s dropped out and I ‘low it’s about time fo’ these here festivities to come to an end.  I’m thinking some of going to bed myself,” said Yancy.  He kept his eyes fixed on Murrell.  He realized that if the latter could prevent it he was not to leave the bar.  Murrell stood between him and the door; more than this, he stood between him and his rifle, which leaned against the wall in the far corner of the room.  Slosson roared out a protest to his words.  “That’s all right, neighbor,” retorted Yancy over his shoulder, “but I’m going to bed.”  He never shifted his glance from Murrell’s face.  Seowling now, the captain’s eyes blazed back their challenge as he thrust his right hand under his coat.  “Fair play—­I don’t know who you are, but I know what you want!” said Yancy, the light in his frank gray eyes deepening.  Murrell laughed and took a forward step.  At the same moment Slosson snatched up a heavy club from back of the bar and dealt Yancy a murderous blow.  A single startled cry escaped the Scratch Hitler; he struck out wildly as he lurched toward Murrell, who drew his knife and drove it into his shoulder.