9230
BOUT noon that day, as Pole Baker sat on a fallen tree near the road-side in the loneliest spot of that rugged country, his horse grazing behind him, he saw Craig coming up the gradual incline from the creek. Pole stood up and caught the bridle-rein of his horse and muttered:
“Now, Pole Baker, durn yore hide, you've got brains—at least, some folks say you have—an' so has he. Ef you don't git the best of that scalawag yo' re done fer. You've put purty big things through; now put this un through or shet up.”
“Well, heer you are,” merrily cried out the ex-banker, as he came up. He was smiling expectantly. “Your secret's safe with me. I hain't met a soul that I know sence I left town.”
“I'm glad you didn't, Mr. Craig,” Pole said. “I don't want anybody a-meddlin' with my business.” He pointed up the rather steep and rocky road that led gradually up the mountain. “We've got two or three mile furder to go. Have you had any dinner?”
“I put a cold biscuit and a slice of ham in my pocket,” said Craig. “It 'll do me till supper.”
Pole mounted and led the way up the unfrequented road.
“I may as well tell you, Mr. Craig, that I used to be a moonshiner in these mountains, an'—”
“Lord, I knew that, Baker. Who doesn't, I'd like to know?”
Pole's big-booted legs swung back and forth like pendulums from the flanks of his horse.
“I was a-goin' to tell you that I had a hide-out, whar I kept stuff stored, that wasn't knowed by one livin' man.”
“Well, you must have had a slick place from all I've heerd,” said Craig, still in his vast good-humor with himself and everybody else.
“The best natur' ever built,” said Pole; “an' what's more, it was in thar that I found the gold. I reckon it ud 'a' been diskivered long ago, ef it had 'a' been above ground.”
“Then it's in—a sort of cave?” ventured Craig.
“That's jest it; but I've got the mouth of it closed up so it ud fool even a bloodhound.”
Half an hour later Pole drew rein in a most isolated spot, near a great yawning canon from which came a roaring sound of rushing water and clashing winds. The sky overhead was blue and cloudless; the air at that altitude was crisp and rarefied, and held the odor of spruce pine. With a laugh Pole dismounted. “What ef I was to tell you, Mr. Craig, that you was in ten yards o' my old den right now.”
Craig looked about in surprise. “I'd think you was makin' fun o' me—tenderfootin', as we used to say out West.”
“I'm givin' it to you straight,” said Pole, pointing with his riding-switch. “Do you see that pile o' rocks?”
Craig nodded.
“Right under them two flat ones is the mouth o' my den,” said Pole. “Now let's hitch to that hemlock, an' I 'll show you the whole thing.”
When they had fastened their horses to swinging limbs in a dense thicket of laurel and rhododendron bushes, they went to the pile of rocks.
“I toted mighty nigh all of 'em from higher up,” Pole explained. “Some o' the biggest I rolled down from that cliff above.”
“I don't see how you are going to get into your hole in the ground,” said Craig, with a laugh of pleasant anticipation.
Pole picked up a big, smooth stick of hickory, shaped like a crowbar, and thrust the end of it under the largest rock. “Huh! I 'll show you in a jiffy.”
It was an enormous stone weighing over three hundred pounds; but with his strong lever and knotted muscles the ex-moonshiner managed to slide it slowly to the right, disclosing a black hole about two feet square in the ragged stone. From this protruded into the light the ends of a crude ladder leading down about twenty-five feet to the bottom of the cave.
“Ugh!” Craig shuddered, as he peered into the dank blackness. “You don't mean that we are to go down there?”
It was a crisis. Craig seemed to be swayed between two impulses—a desire to penetrate farther and an almost controlling premonition of coming danger. Pole met the situation with his usual originality and continued subtlety of procedure. With his big feet dangling in the hole he threw himself back and gave vent to a hearty, prolonged laugh that went ringing and echoing about among the cliffs and chasms.
“I 'lowed this ud make yore flesh crawl,” he said. “Looks like the openin' to the bad place, don't it?”
“It certainly does,” said Craig, somewhat reassured by Pole's levity.
“Why, itain' tmore 'n forty feet square,” said Pole. “Wait till I run down an' make a light. I've got some fat pine torches down at the foot o' the ladder.”
“Well, I believe Iwilllet you go first,” said Craig, with an uneasy little laugh.
Pole went down the ladder, recklessly thumping his heels on the rungs. He was lost to sight from above, but in a moment Craig heard him strike a match, and saw the red, growing flame of a sputtering torch from which twisted a rope of smoke. When it was well ablaze, Pole called up the ladder: “Come on, now, an' watch whar you put yore feet. This end o' the ladder is solid as the rock o' Gibralty.”
The square of daylight above was cut off, and in a moment the ex-banker stood beside his guide.
“Now come down this way,” said Pole, and with the torch held high he led the way into a part of the chamber where the rock overhead sloped, down lower. Here lay some old whiskey-barrels, two or three lager-beer kegs, and the iron hoops of several barrels that had been burned. There were several one-gallon jugs with corn-cob stoppers. Pole swept his hand over them with a laugh. “If you was a drinkin' man, I could treat you to a thimbleful or two left in them jugs,” he said, almost apologetically.
“But I don't drink, Baker,” Craig said. His premonition of danger seemed to have returned to him, and to be driven in by the dank coolness of the cavern, the evidence of past outlawry around him.
Pole heaped his pieces of pine against a rock, and added to them the chunks of some barrel-staves, which set up a lively popping sound like a tiny fusillade of artillery.
“You see that rock behind you, Mr. Craig?” asked Pole. “Well, set down on it. Before we go any furder, me'n you've got to have a understanding.”
The old man stared hesitatingly for an instant, and then, after carefully feeling of the stone, he complied.
“I thought we already—but, of course,” he said, haltingly, “I'm ready to agree to anything that 'll make you feel safe.”
“I kinder 'lowed you would,'' and to Craig's overwhelming astonishment Pole drew a revolver from his hip-pocket and looked at it, twirling the cylinder with a deft thumb.
“You mean, Baker—'' But Craig's words remained unborn in his bewildered brain. The rigor of death itself seemed to have beset his tongue. A cold sweat broke out on him.
“I mean that I've tuck the trouble to fetch you heer fer a purpose, Mr. Craig, an' thar ain't any use in beatin' about the bush to git at it.”
Craig made another effort at utterance, but failed. Pole could hear his rapid breathing and see the terrified gleaming of his wide-open eyes.
“You've had a lots o' dealin' s, Mr. Craig,” said Pole. “You've made yore mistakes an' had yore good luck, but you never did a bigger fool thing 'an you did when you listened to my tale about that lump o' gold.”
“You've trapped me!” burst from Craig's quivering lips.
“That's about the size of it.”
“But—why?” The words formed the beginning and the end of a gasp.
Pole towered over him, the revolver in his tense hand.
“Mr. Craig, thar is one man in this world that I'd die fer twenty times over. I love 'im more than a brother. That man you've robbed of every dollar an' hope on earth. I've fetched you heer to die a lingerin' death, ef—ef, I say,ef—you don't refund his money. That man is Alan Bishop, an' the amount is twenty-five thousand dollars to a cent.”
“But I haven't any money,” moaned the crouching figure; “not a dollar that I kin lay my hands on.”
“Then you are in a damn bad fix,” said Pole. “Unless I git that amount o' money from you you 'll never smell a breath o' fresh air or see natural daylight.”
“You mean to kill a helpless man?” The words were like a prayer.
“I'd bottle you up heer to die,” said Pole Baker, firmly. “You've met me in this lonely spot, an' no man could lay yore end to me. In fact, all that know you would swear you'd run off from the folks you've defrauded. You see nothin' but that money o' Alan Bishop's kin possibly save you. You know that well enough, an' thar ain't a bit o' use palaverin' about it. I've fetched a pen an' ink an' paper, an' you've got to write me an order fer the money. If I have to go as fur off as Atlanta, I 'll take the fust train an' go after it. If I git the money, you git out, ef I don't you won't see me agin, nur nobody else till you face yore Maker.”
Craig bent over his knees and groaned.
“You think Ihavemoney,” he said, straightening up. “Oh, my God!”
“Iknowit,” said Pole. “I don't think anything about it—Iknowit.”
He took out the pen and ink from his pants pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Git to work,” he said. “You needn't try to turn me, you damned old hog!”
Craig raised a pair of wide-open, helpless eyes to the rigid face above him.
“Oh, my God!” he said, again.
“You let God alone an' git down to business,” said Pole, taking a fresh hold on the handle of his weapon. “I'm not goin' to waste time with you. Either you git me Alan Bishop's money or you 'll die. Hurry up!”
“Will you keep faith with me—if—if—”
“Yes, durn you, why wouldn't I?” A gleam of triumph flashed in the outlaw's eyes. Up to this moment he had been groping in experimental darkness. He now saw his way clearly and his voice rang with dawning triumph.
The ex-banker had taken the pen and Pole spread out the sheet of paper on his knee.
“What assurance have I?” stammered Craig, his face like a death-mask against the rock behind him. “You see, after you got the money, you might think it safer to leave me here, thinking that I would prosecute you. I wouldn't, as God is my judge, but you might be afraid—”
“I'm not afraid o' nothin',” said Pole. “Old man, you couldn't handle me without puttin' yorese'f in jail fer the rest o' yore life. That order's a-goin' to be proof that you have money when you've swore publicly that you didn't. No; when I'm paid back Alan Bishop's money I 'll let you go. I don't want to kill a man fer jest tryin' to steal an' not makin' the riffle.”
The logic struck home. The warmth of hope diffused itself over the gaunt form. “Then I 'll write a note to my wife,” he said.
Pole reached for one of the torches and held it near the paper.
“Well, I'm glad I won't have to go furder'n Darley,” he said. “It 'll be better fer both of us. By ridin' peert I can let you out before sundown. You may git a late supper at Darley, but it's a sight better'n gittin' none heer an' no bed to speak of.”
“I'm putting my life in your hands, Baker,” said Craig, and with an unsteady hand he began to write.
“Hold on thar,” said Pole. “You 'll know the best way to write to her, but when the money's mentioned I want you to say the twenty-five thousand dollars deposited in the bank by the Bishops. You see I'm not goin' to tote no order fer money I hain't no right to. An' I 'll tell you another thing, old man, you needn't throw out no hint to her to have me arrested. As God is my final judge, ef I'm tuck up fer this, they 'll never make me tell whar you are. I'd wait until you'd pegged out, anyway.”
“I'm not setting any trap for you, Baker,” whined Craig. “You've got the longest head of any man I ever knew. You've got me in your power, and all I can ask of you is my life. I've got Bishop's money hidden in my house. I am willing to restore it, if you will release me. I can write my wife a note that will cause her to give it to you. Isn't that fair?”
“That's all I want,” said Pole; “an' I 'll say this to you, I 'll agree to use my influence with Alan Bishop not to handle you by law; but the best thing fer you an' yore family to do is to shake the dirt of Darley off'n yore feet an' seek fresh pastures. These 'round heer ain't as green, in one way, as some I've seed.”
Craig wrote the note and handed it up to Baker. Pole read it slowly, and then said: “You mought 'a' axed 'er to excuse bad writin' an' spellin', an' hopin' these few lines will find you enjoyin' the same blessin' s; but ef it gits the boodle that's all I want. Now you keep yore shirt on, an' don't git skeerd o' the darkness. It will be as black as pitch, an' you kin heer yore eyelids creak after I shet the front door, but I 'll be back—ef I find yore old lady hain't run off with a handsomer man an' tuck the swag with 'er. I'm glad you cautioned 'er agin axin' me questions.”
Pole backed to the foot of the ladder, followed by Craig.
“Don't leave me here, Baker,” he said, imploringly. “Don't, for God's sake! I swear I 'll go with you and get you the money.”
“I can't do that, Mr. Craig; but I 'll be back as shore as fate, ef I get that cash,” promised Pole. “It all depends on that. I 'll keep my word, if you do yore'n.”
“I am going to trust you,” said the old man, with the pleading intonation of a cowed and frightened child.
After he had gotten out, Pole thrust his head into the opening again. “It 'll be like you to come up heer an' try to move this rock,” he called out, “but you mought as well not try it, fer I'm goin' to add about a dump-cart load o' rocks to it to keep the wolves from diggin' you out.”
9239
AYBURN MILLER and Alan spent that day on the river trying to catch fish, but with no luck at all, returning empty-handed to the farm-house for a late dinner. They passed the afternoon at target-shooting on the lawn with rifles and revolvers, ending the day by a reckless ride on their horses across the fields, over fences and ditches, after the manner of fox-hunting, a sport not often indulged in in that part of the country.
In the evening as they sat in the big sitting-room, smoking after-supper cigars, accompanied by Abner Daniel, with his long, cane-stemmed pipe, Mrs. Bishop came into the room, in her quiet way, smoothing her apron with her delicate hands.
“Pole Baker's rid up an' hitched at the front gate,” she said. “Did you send 'im to town fer anything, Alan?”
“No, mother,” replied her son. “I reckon he's come to get more meat. Is father out there?”
“I think he's some'r's about the stable,” said Mrs. Bishop.
Miller laughed. “I guess Pole isn't the best pay in the world, is he?”
“Father never weighs or keeps account of anything he gets,” said Alan. “They both make a guess at it, when cotton is sold. Father calls it 'lumping' the thing, and usually Pole gets the lump. But he's all right, and I wish we could do more for him. Father was really thinking about helping him in some substantial way when the crash came—”
“Thar!” broke in Daniel, with a gurgling laugh, “I've won my bet. I bet to myse'f jest now that ten minutes wouldn't pass 'fore Craig an' his bu'st-up would be mentioned.”
“We have been at it, off and on, all day,” said Miller, with a low laugh. “The truth is, it makes me madder than anything I ever encountered.”
“Do you know why?” asked Abner, seriously, just as Pole Baker came through the dining-room and leaned against the door-jamb facing them. “It's beca'se”—nodding a greeting to Pole along with the others—“it's beca'se you know in reason that he's got that money.”
“Oh, I wouldn't saythat,” protested Miller, in the tone of a man of broad experience in worldly affairs. “I wouldn't say that.”
“Well, I would, an' do,” said Abner, in the full tone of decision. “Iknowhe's got it!”
“Well, yo' re wrong thar, Uncle Ab,” said Pole, striding forward and sinking into a chair. “You've got as good jedgment as any man I ever run across. I thought like you do once. I'd 'a' tuck my oath that he had it about two hours by sun this evenin', but I kin swear he hain't a cent of it now.”
“Do you mean that, Pole?” Abner stared across the wide hearth at him fixedly.
“He hain't got it, Uncle Ab.” Pole was beginning to smile mysteriously. “Hedidhave it, but he hain't got it now. I got it from 'im, blast his ugly pictur'!”
“Yougot it?” gasped Daniel. “You?”
“Yes. I made up my mind he had it, an' it deviled me so much that I determined to have it by hook or crook, ef it killed me, or put me in hock the rest o' my life.” Pole rose and took a packet wrapped in brown paper from under his rough coat and laid it on the table near Alan. “God bless you, old boy,” he said, “thar's yore money! It's all thar. I counted it. It's in fifties an' hundreds.”
Breathlessly, and with expanded eyes, Alan broke the string about the packet and opened it.
“Great God!” he muttered.
Miller sprang up and looked at the stack of bills, but said nothing. Abner, leaning forward, uttered a little, low laugh.
“You—you didn't kill 'im, did you, Pole, old boy—you didn't, did you?” he asked.
“Didn't harm a hair of his head,” said Pole. “All I wanted was Alan' s money, an' thar it is!”
“Well,” grunted Daniel, “I'm glad you spared his life. And I thank God you got the money.”
Miller was now hurriedly running over the bills.
“You say you counted it, Baker?” he said, pale with pleased excitement.
“Three times; fust when it was turned over to me, an' twice on the way out heer from town.”
Mrs. Bishop had not spoken until now, standing in the shadows of the others as if bewildered by what seemed a mocking impossibility.
“Is it our money—is it our'n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh, is it, Pole?”
“Yes, 'm,” replied Pole. “It's yo'rn.” He produced a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to Miller. “Heer's Craig's order on his wife fer it, an' in it he acknowledges it's the cash deposited by Mr. Bishop. He won't give me no trouble. I've got 'im fixed. He 'll leave Darley in the mornin'. He's afeerd this 'll git out an' he 'll be lynched.”
Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred his gaze from the money to Pole's face, and leaned towards him.
“You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking.
“That's what I did it fer, Alan, an' I wish I could do it over agin. When I laid hold o' that wad an' knowed it was the thing you wanted more'n anything else, I felt like flyin'.”
“Tell us all about it, Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of bills.
“All right,” said Pole, but Mrs. Bishop interrupted him.
“Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight. “Wait; I 'll run find 'im.”
She went out through the dining-room towards the stables, calling her husband at every step. “Alfred, oh, Alfred!”
“Heer!” she heard him call out from one of the stables.
She leaned over the fence opposite the closed door, behind which she had heard his voice.
“Oh, Alfred!” she called, “come out, quick! I've got news fer you—big, big news!”
She heard him grumbling as he emptied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan' s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerged into the starlight.
“That fool nigger only give Alan's hoss six ears o' corn,” he fumed. “I know, beca'se I counted the cobs; the hoss had licked the trough clean, an' gnawed the ends o' the cobs. The idea o' starvin' my stock right before my—”
“Oh, Alfred, whatdoyou think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We've got the bank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it. He's goin' to tell about it now. Come on in!”
Bishop closed the door behind him; he fumbled with the chain and padlock for an instant, then he moved towards her, his lip hanging, his eyes protruding.
“I 'll believe my part o' that when—”
“But,” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it's been counted. I say it's thar! Don't you believe it?”
The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it with the iron ring over the two posts. But after that he seemed to lose the power of locomotion. He stood facing her, his features working.
“I 'll believe my part o' that cat-an'-bull story when I see—”
“Well, come in the house, then,” she cried. “You kin lay yore hands on it an' count it. It's a awful big pile, an' nothin' less than fifty-dollar bills.”
Grasping his arm, she half dragged, half led him into the house. Entering the sitting-room, he strode to the table and, without a word, picked up the package and opened it. He made an effort to count the money, but his fingers seemed to have lost their cunning, and he gave it up.
“It's all there,” Miller assured him, “and it's your money. You needn't bother about that.”
Bishop sat down in his place in the chimney corner, the packet on his knees, while Pole Baker, modestly, and not without touches of humor, recounted his experiences.
“The toughest job I had was managin' the woman,” Pole laughed. “You kin always count on a woman to be contrary. I believe ef you was tryin' to git some women out of a burnin' house they'd want to have the'r way about it. She read the order an' got white about the gills an' screamed, low, so nobody wouldn't heer 'er, an' then wanted to ax questions. That's the female of it. She knowed in reason that Craig was dead fixed an' couldn't git out until she complied with the instructions, but she wanted to know all about it. I reckon she thought he wouldn't give full particulars—an' he won't, nuther. She wouldn't budge to git the money, an' time was a-passin'. I finally had a thought that fetched 'er. I told 'er Craig was confined in a place along with a barrel o' gunpowder; that a slow fuse was burnin' towards 'im, an' that he'd go sky-high at about sundown ef I didn't git thar an' kick out the fire. Then I told 'er she'd be arrested fer holdin' the money, an' that got 'er in a trot. She fetched it out purty quick, a-cryin' an' abusin' me by turns. As soon as the money left 'er hands though, she begun to beg me to ride fast. I wanted to come heer fust; but I felt sorter sorry fer Craig, an' went an' let 'im out. He was the gladdest man to see me you ever looked at. He thought I was goin' to leave 'im thar. He looked like he wanted to hug me. He says Winship wasn't much to blame. They both got in deep water speculatin', an' Craig was tempted to cabbage on the twenty-five thousand dollars.”
When Pole had concluded, the group sat in silence for a long time. It looked as if Bishop wanted to openly thank Pole for what he had done, but he had never done such a thing in the presence of others, and he could not pull himself to it. He sat crouched up in his tilted chair as if burning up with the joy of his release.
The silence was broken by Abner Daniel, as he filled his pipe anew and stood over the fireplace.
“They say money's a cuss an' the root of all evil,” he said, dryly. “But in this case it's give Pole Baker thar a chance to show what's in 'im. I'd 'a' give the last cent I have to 'a' done what he did to-day. I grant you he used deception, but it was the fust-water sort that that Bible king resorted to when he made out he was goin' to divide that baby by cuttin' it in halves. He fetched out the good an' squelched the bad.” Abner glanced at Pole, and gave one of his impulsive inward laughs. “My boy, when I reach t'other shore I expect to see whole strings o' sech law-breakers as you a-playin' leap-frog on the golden sands. You don't sing an' pray a whole lot, nur keep yore religion in sight, but when thar's work to be done you shuck off yore shirt an' do it like a wild-cat a-scratchin'.”
No one spoke after this outburst for several minutes, though the glances cast in his direction showed the embarrassed ex-moonshiner that one and all had sanctioned Abner Daniel's opinion.
Bishop leaned forward and looked at the clock, and seeing that it was nine, he put the money in a bureau-drawer and turned the key. Then he took down the big family Bible from its shelf and sat down near the lamp. They all knew what the action portended.
“That's another thing,” smiled Abner Daniel, while his brother-in-law was searching for his place in the big Book. “Money may be a bad thing, a cuss an' a evil, an' what not, but Alf 'ain't felt like holdin' prayer sence the bad news come; an' now that he's got the scads once more the fust thing is an appeal to the Throne. Yes, it may be a bad thing, but sometimes it sets folks to singin' an' shoutin'. Ef I was a-runnin' of the universe, I believe I'd do a lots o' distributin' in low places. I'd scrape off a good many tops an' level up more. Accordin' to some, the Lord's busy watchin' birds fall to the ground. I reckon our hard times is due to them pesky English sparrows that's overrun ever'thing.”
“You'd better dry up, Uncle Ab,” said Pole Baker. “That's the kind o' talk that made brother Dole jump on you.”
“Huh! That's a fact,” said Daniel; “but this is in the family.”
Then Bishop began to read in his even, declamatory voice, and all the others looked steadily at the fire in the chimney, their faces lighted up by the flickering flames.
When they had risen from their knees after prayer, Pole looked at Abner with eyes from which shot beams of amusement. He seemed to enjoy nothing so much as hearing Abner's religious opinions.
“You say this thing has set Mr. Bishop to prayin', Uncle Ab?” he asked.
“That's what,” smiled Abner, who had never admired Baker so much before. “Ef I stay heer, an' they ever git that railroad through, I'm goin' to have me a pair o' knee-pads made.”
9247
BOUT a week after the events recorded in the preceding chapter, old man Bishop, just at dusk one evening, rode up to Pole Baker's humble domicile.
Pole was in the front yard making a fire of sticks, twigs, and chips.
“What's that fer?” the old man questioned, as he dismounted and hitched his horse to the worm fence.
“To drive off mosquitoes,” said Pole, wiping his eyes, which were red from the effects of the smoke. “I 'll never pass another night like the last un ef I kin he'p it. I 'lowed my hide was thick, but they bored fer oil all over me from dark till sun-up. I never 've tried smoke, but Hank Watts says it's ahead o' pennyr'yal.”
“Shucks!” grunted the planter, “you ain't workin' it right. A few rags burnin' in a pan nigh yore bed may drive 'em out, but a smoke out heer in the yard 'll jest drive 'em in.”
“What?” said Pole, in high disgust. “Do you expect me to sleep sech hot weather as this is with a fire nigh my bed? The durn things may eat me raw, but I 'll be blamed ef I barbecue myse'f to please 'em.”
Mrs. Baker appeared in the cabin-door, holding two of the youngest children by their hands. “He won't take my advice, Mr. Bishop,” she said. “I jest rub a little lamp-oil on my face an' hands an' they don't tetch me.” Pole grunted and looked with laughing eyes at the old man.
“She axed me t'other night why I'd quit kissin' 'er,” he said. “An' I told 'er I didn't keer any more fer kerosene than the mosquitoes did.”
Mrs. Baker laughed pleasantly, as she brought out a chair for Bishop and invited him to sit down. He complied, twirling his riding-switch in his hand. From his position, almost on a level with the floor, he could see the interior of one of the rooms. It was almost bare of furniture. Two opposite corners were occupied by crude bedsteads; in the centre of the room was a cradle made from a soap-box on rockers sawn from rough poplar boards. It had the appearance of having been in use through several generations. Near it stood a spinning-wheel and a three-legged stool. The sharp steel spindle gleamed in the firelight from the big log and mud chimney.
“What's the news from town, Mr. Bishop?” Pole asked, awkwardly, for it struck him that Bishop had called to talk with him about some business and was reluctant to introduce it.
“Nothin' that interests any of us, I reckon, Pole,” said the old man, “except I made that investment in Shoal Cotton Factory stock.”
“That's good,” said Pole, in the tone of anybody but a man who had never invested a dollar in anything. “It's all hunkey, an' my opinion is that it 'll never be wuth less.”
“I did heer, too,” added Bishop, “that it was reported that Craig had set up a little grocery store out in Texas, nigh the Indian Territory. Some thinks that Winship 'll turn up thar an' jine 'im, but a body never knows what to believe these days.”
“That shore is a fact,” opined Pole. “Sally, that corn-bread's a-burnin'; ef you'd use less lamp-oil you'd smell better.”
Mrs. Baker darted to the fireplace, raked the live coals from beneath the cast-iron oven, and jerked off the lid in a cloud of steam and smoke. She turned over the pone with the aid of a case-knife, and then came back to the door.
“Fer the last month I've had my eye on the Bascome farm,” Bishop was saying. “Thar's a hundred acres even, some good bottom land and upland, an' in the neighborhood o' thirty acres o' good wood. Then thar's a five-room house, well made an' tight, an' a barn, cow-house, an' stable.”
“Lord! I know the place like a book,” said Pole; “an' it's a dandy investment, Mr. Bishop. They say he offered it fer fifteen hundred. It's wuth two thousand. You won't drap any money by buyin' that property, Mr. Bishop. I'd hate to contract to build jest the house an' well an' out-houses fer a thousand.”
“I bought it,” Bishop told him. “He let me have it fer a good deal less 'n fifteen hundred, cash down.”
“Well, you made a dandy trade, Mr. Bishop. Ah, that's what ready money will do. When you got the cash things seem to come at bottom figures.”
Old Bishop drew a folded paper from his pocket and slapped it on his knee. “Yes, I closed the deal this evenin', an' I was jest a-thinkin' that as you hain't rented fer next yeer—I mean—” Bishop was ordinarily direct of speech, but somehow his words became tangled, and he delivered himself awkwardly on this occasion. “You see, Alan thinks that you 'n Sally ort to live in a better house than jest this heer log-cabin, an'—”
The wan face of the tired woman was aglow with expectation. She sank down on the doorstep, and sat still and mute, her hands clasping each other in her lap. She had always disliked that cabin and its sordid surroundings, and there was something in Bishop's talk that made her think he was about to propose renting the new farm, house and all, to her husband. Her mouth fell open; she scarcely allowed herself to breathe. Then, as Bishop paused, her husband's voice struck dumb dismay to her heart. It was as if she were falling from glowing hope back to tasted despair.
“Thar's more land in that farm an' I could do jestice to, Mr. Bishop; but ef thar's a good cabin on it an' you see fit to cut off enough fer me'n one hoss I'd jest as soon tend that as this heer. I want to do what you an' Alan think is best all'round.”
“Oh, Pole, Pole!” The woman was crying it to herself, her face lowered to her hands that the two men might not see the agony written in her eyes. A house like that to live in, with all those rooms and fireplaces, and windows with panes of glass in them! She fancied she saw her children playing on the tight, smooth floors and on the honeysuckled porch. For one minute these things had been hers, to be snatched away by the callous indifference of her husband, who, alas! had never cared a straw for appearances.
“Oh, I wasn't thinking aboutrentin''it to you,” said Bishop, and the woman's dream was over. She raised her head, awake again. “You see,” went on Bishop, still struggling for proper expression, “Alan thinks—well, he thinks you are sech a born fool about not acceptin' help from them that feels nigh to you, an' I may as well say grateful, exceedingly grateful, fer what you've done, things that no other livin' man could 'a' done. Alan thinks you ort to have the farm fer yore own property, an' so the deeds has been made out to—”
Pole drew himself up to his full height. His big face was flushed, half with anger, half with a strong emotion of a tenderer kind. He stood towering over the old man like a giant swayed by the warring winds of good and evil, “I won't heer a word more of that, Mr. Bishop,” he said, with a quivering lip; “not a word more. By golly! I mean what I say. I don't want to heer another word of it. This heer place is good enough fer me an' my family. It's done eight yeer, an' it kin do another eight.”
“Oh, Pole, Pole,Pole!” The woman's cry was now audible. It came straight from her pent-up, starving soul and went right to Bishop's heart.
“You want the place, don't you, Sally?” he said, calling her by her given name for the first time, as if he had just discovered their kinship. He could not have used a tenderer tone to child of his own.
“Mind, mind what you say, Sally!” ordered Pole, from the depths of his fighting emotions. “Mind what you say!”
The woman looked at Bishop. Her glance was on fire.
“Yes, I want it—Iwantit!” she cried. “I ain't goin' to lie. I want it more right now than I do the kingdom of heaven. I want it ef we have a right to it. Oh, I don't know.” She dropped her head in her lap and began to sob.
Bishop stood up. He moved towards her in a jerky fashion and laid his hand on the pitifully tight knot of hair at the back of her head.
“Well, it's yores,” he said. “Alan thought Pole would raise a kick agin it, an' me'n him had it made out in yore name, so he couldn't tetch it. It's yores, Sally Ann Baker. That's the way it reads.”
The woman's sobs increased, but they were sobs of unbridled joy. With her apron to her eyes she rose and hurried into the house.
The eyes of the two men met. Bishop spoke first:
“You've got to give in, Pole,” he said. “You'd not be a man to stand betwixt yore wife an' a thing she wants as bad as she does that place, an', by all that's good an' holy, you sha 'n' t.”
“What's the use o' me tryin' to git even with Alan,” Pole exclaimed, “ef he's eternally a-goin' to git up some 'n'? I've been tickled to death ever since I cornered old Craig till now, but you an' him has sp'iled it all by this heer trick. It ain't fair to me.”
“Well, it's done,” smiled the old man, as he went to his horse; “an' ef you don't live thar with Sally, I 'll make 'er git a divorce.”
Bishop had reached a little pig-pen in a fence-corner farther along, on his way home, when Mrs. Baker suddenly emerged from a patch of high corn in front of him.
“Is he a-goin' to take it, Mr. Bishop?” she asked, panting from her hurried walk through the corn that hid her from the view of the cabin.
“Yes,” Bishop told her; “I'm a-goin' to send two wagons over in the morning to move yore things. I wish it was ten times as good a place as it is, but it will insure you an' the children a living an' a comfortable home.”
After the manner of many of her kind, the woman uttered no words of thanks, but simply turned back into the corn, and, occupied with her own vision of prosperity and choking with gratitude, she hurried back to the cabin.
9253
HE summer ended, the autumn passed, 'and Christmas approached. Nothing of much importance had taken place among the characters of this little history. The Southern Land and Timber Company, and Wilson in particular, had disappointed Miller and Alan by their reticence in regard to the progress of the railroad scheme. At every meeting with Wilson they found him either really or pretendedly indifferent about the matter. His concern, he told them, was busy in other quarters, and that he really did not know what they would finally do about it.
“He can' t pull the wool over my eyes,” Miller told his friend, after one of these interviews. “He simply thinks he can freeze you out by holding off till you have to raise money.”
“He may have inquired into my father's financial condition,” suggested Alan, with a long face.
“Most likely,” replied the lawyer.
“And discovered exactly where we stand.”
“Perhaps, but we must not believe that till we know it. I'm going to try to checkmate him. I don't know how, but I 'll think of something. He feels that he has the upper hand now, but I 'll interest him some of these days.”
Alan's love affair had also been dragging. He had had numerous assurances of Dolly's constancy, but since learning how her father had acted the night he supposed she had eloped with Alan, her eyes had been opened to the seriousness of offending Colonel Barclay. She now knew that her marriage against his will would cause her immediate disinheritance, and she was too sensible a girl to want to go to Alan without a dollar and with the doors of her home closed against her. Besides, she believed in Alan' s future. She, somehow, had more faith in the railroad than any other interested person. She knew, too, that she was now more closely watched than formerly. She had, with firm finality, refused Frank Hillhouse's offer of marriage, and that had not helped her case in the eyes of her exasperated parent. Her mother occupied neutral ground; she had a vague liking for Alan Bishop, and, if the whole truth must be told, was heartily enjoying the situation. She was enjoying it so subtly and so heartily, in her own bloodless way, that she was at times almost afraid of its ending suddenly.
On Christmas Eve Adele was expected home from Atlanta, and Alan had come in town to meet her. As it happened, an accident delayed her train so that it would not reach Darley till ten o' clock at night instead of six in the evening, so there was nothing for her brother to do but arrange for their staying that night at the Johnston House. Somewhat to Alan' s surprise, who had never discovered the close friendship and constant correspondence existing between Miller and his sister, the former announced that he was going to spend the night at the hotel and drive out to the farm with them the next morning. Of course, it was agreeable, Alan reflected, but it was a strange thing for Miller to propose.
From the long veranda of the hotel after supper that evening the two friends witnessed the crude display of holiday fireworks in the street below. Half a dozen big bonfires made of dry-goods boxes, kerosene and tar barrels, and refuse of all kinds were blazing along the main street. Directly opposite the hotel the only confectionery and toy store in the place was crowded to overflowing by eager customers, and in front of it the purchasers of fireworks were letting them off for the benefit of the bystanders. Fire-crackers were exploded by the package, and every now and then a clerk in some store would come to the front door and fire off a gun or a revolver.
All this noise and illumination was at its height when Adele's train drew up in the car-shed. The bonfires near at hand made it as light as day, and she had no trouble recognizing the two friends.
“Oh, what an awful racket!” she exclaimed, as she released herself from Alan' s embrace and gave her hand to Miller.
“It's in your honor,” Miller laughed, as, to Alan' s vast astonishment, he held on to her hand longer than seemed right. “We ought to have had the brass band out.”
“Oh, I'm so glad to get home,” said Adele, laying her hand on Miller's extended arm. Then she released it to give Alan her trunk-checks. “Get them, brother,” she said. “Mr. Miller will take care of me. I suppose you are not going to drive home to-night.”
“Not if you are tired,” said Miller, in a tone Alan had never heard his friend use to any woman, nor had he ever seen such an expression on Miller's face as lay there while the lawyer's eyes were feasting themselves on the girl's beauty.
Alan hurried away after the trunks and a porter. He was almost blind with a rage that was new to him. Was Miller deliberately beginning a flirtation with Adele at a moment's notice? And had she been so spoiled by the “fast set” of Atlanta during her stay there that she would allow it—even if Miller was a friend of the family? He found a negro porter near the heap of luggage that had been hurled from the baggage-car, and ordered his sister's trunks taken to the hotel. Then he followed the couple moodily up to the hotel parlor. He was destined to undergo another shock, for, on entering that room, he surprised Miller and Adele on a sofa behind the big square piano with their heads suspiciously near together, and so deeply were they engaged in conversation that, although he drew up a chair near them, they paid no heed to him further than to recognize his appearance with a lifting of their eyes. They were talking of social affairs in Atlanta and people whose names were unfamiliar to Alan. He rose and stood before the fireplace, but they did not notice his change of position. Truly it was maddening. He told himself that Adele's pretty face and far too easy manner had attracted Miller's attention temporarily, and the fellow was daring to enter one of his flirtations right before his eyes. Alan would give him a piece of his mind at the first opportunity, even if he was under obligations to him. Indeed, Miller had greatly disappointed him, and so had Adele. He had always thought she, like Dolly Barclay, was different from other girls; but no, she was like them all. Miller's attention had simply turned her head. Well, as soon as he had a chance he would tell her a few things about Miller and his views of women. That would put her on her guard, but it would not draw out the poisoned sting left by Miller's presumption, or indelicacy, or whatever it was. Alan rose and stood at the fire unnoticed for several minutes, and then he showed that he was at least a good chaperon, for he reached out and drew on the old-fashioned bell-pull in the chimney-corner. The porter appeared, and Alan asked: “Is my sister's room ready?”
“Yes, it's good and warm now, suh,” said the negro. “I started the fire an hour ago.”
Miller and Adele had paused to listen.
“Oh, you are going to hurry me off to bed,” the girl said, with an audible sigh.
“You must be tired after that ride,” said Alan, coldly.
“That's a fact, you must be,” echoed Miller. “Well, if you have to go, you can finish telling me in the morning. You know I'm going to spend the night here, where I have a regular room, and I 'll see you at breakfast.”
“Oh, I'm so glad,” said Adele. “Yes, I can finish telling you in the morning.” Then she seemed to notice her brother's long face, and she laughed out teasingly: “I 'll bet he and Dolly are no nearer together than ever.”
“You are right,” Miller joined in her mood; “the Colonel still has his dogs ready for Alan, but they 'll make it up some day, I hope. Dolly isnextto the smartest girl I know.”
“Oh, youarea flatterer,” laughed Adele, and she gave Miller her hand. “Don't forget to be up for early breakfast. We must start soon in the morning. I'm dying to see the home folks.”
Alan was glad that Miller had a room of his own, for he was not in a mood to converse with him; and when Adele had retired he refused Miller's proffered cigar and went to his own room.
Miller grunted as Alan turned away. “He's had bad news of some sort,” he thought, “and it's about Dolly Barclay. I wonder, after all, if she would stick to a poor man. I begin to think some women would. Adele is of that stripe—yes, she is, and isn't she stunning-looking? She's a gem of the first water, straight as a die, full of pluck and—she's all right—all right!”
He went out on the veranda to smoke and enjoy repeating these things over to himself. The bonfires in the street were dying down to red embers, around which stood a few stragglers; but there was a blaze of new light over the young man' s head. Along his horizon had dawned a glorious reason for his existence; a reason that discounted every reason he had ever entertained. “Adele, Adele,” he said to himself, and then his cigar went out. Perhaps, his thoughts ran on in their mad race with happiness—perhaps, with her fair head on her pillow, she was thinking of him as he was of her.
Around the corner came a crowd of young men singing negro songs. They passed under the veranda, and Miller recognized Frank Hillhouse's voice. “That you, Frank?” Miller called out, leaning over the railing.
“Yes—that you, Ray?” Hillhouse stepped out into view. “Come on; we are going to turn the town over. Every sign comes down, according to custom, you know. Old Thad Moore is drunk in the calaboose. They put him in late this evening. We are going to mask and let him out. It's a dandy racket; we are going to make him think we are White Caps, and then set him down in the bosom of his family. Come on.”
“I can't to-night,” declined Miller, with a laugh. “I'm dead tired.”
“Well, if you hear all the church bells ringing, you needn't think it's fire, and jump out of your skin. We ain't going to sleep to-night, and we don't intend to let anybody else do it.”
“Well, go it while you are young,” Miller retorted, with a laugh, and Hillhouse joined his companions in mischief and they passed on singing merrily.
Miller threw his cigar away and went to his room. He was ecstatically happy. The mere thought that Adele Bishop was under the same roof with him, and on the morrow was going to people who liked him, and leaned on his advice and experience, gave him a sweet content that thrilled him from head to foot.
“Perhaps I ought to tell Alan,” he mused, “but he 'll find it out soon enough; and, hang it all, I can' t tell him how I feel about his own sister, after all the rot I've stuffed into him.”