clumsy river boats, half raft, half sawn lumber, drifted down the Ohio
on their first and last voyage, discharged their cargoes of grain,
liquor, or merchandise, and were broken up. Their crews came back on
the long overland journey to Fort Pitt, there to man another craft.
The garrison at the fort performed their customary duties; the
pioneers tilled the fields; the blacksmith scattered sparks, the
wheelwright worked industriously at his bench, and the housewives
attended to their many cares. No strangers arrived at Fort Henry. The
quiet life of the village was uninterrupted.

Near sunset of a long day Jonathan strolled down the sandy,
well-trodden path toward Metzar's inn. He did not drink, and
consequently seldom visited the rude, dark, ill-smelling bar-room.
When occasion demanded his presence there, he was evidently not
welcome. The original owner, a sturdy soldier and pioneer, came to
Fort Henry when Colonel Zane founded the settlement, and had been
killed during Girty's last attack. His successor, another Metzar, was,
according to Jonathan's belief, as bad as the whiskey he dispensed.
More than one murder had been committed at the inn; countless fatal
knife and tomahawk fights had stained red the hard clay floor; and
more than one desperate character had been harbored there. Once
Colonel Zane sent Wetzel there to invite a thief and outlaw to quit
the settlement, with the not unexpected result that it became
necessary the robber be carried out.

Jonathan thought of the bad name the place bore all over the frontier,
and wondered if Metzar could tell anything about the horse-thieves.
When the borderman bent his tall frame to enter the low-studded door
he fancied he saw a dark figure disappear into a room just behind the
bar. A roughly-clad, heavily-bearded man turned hastily at the