In Hanover Square, which was only a few steps distant, there was a
crowd collected about the entrance to Cawston's Tavern. Murray was
standing in the doorway, Tom on one side of him, and a huge,
red-haired giant in buckskin, with knife and tomahawk at his belt on
the other. I stared at the red-haired man, for he was the first
woodsman I had seen, observing with curiosity his shaggy locks and
fur cap and the brutal ferocity of his face.
I stared so long that I attracted the attention of Murray, who broke
off his conversation, with the group surrounding him, and with a pale
smile pointed me out to his buckskin retainer. The man scowled at
me, and one hand went to his knife-hilt.