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HE following morning Pole rose before daylight and rode to Darley. As
he reached the place, the first rays of the sun were touching the
slate-covered spire of the largest church in town.
He went to a public wagon-yard and hitched his horse to one of the
long racks. A mountain family he knew slightly had camped in the yard,
sleeping in their canvas-covered wagon, and were making coffee over a
little fire. Pole wanted a cup of the beverage, but he passed on into a
grocery-store across the street and bought a dime's worth of cheese and
hard-tack crackers. This was his breakfast. He washed it down with a
dipper of water from the street well, and sat around the store chatting
with the clerk, who was sprinkling the floor, and sweeping and dusting
the long room. The clerk was a red-headed young man with a short,
bristling mustache, and a suit of clothes that was too large for him.
“Don't Mr. Craig stay around Fincher's warehouse a good deal?” Pole
asked, as the clerk rested for a moment on his broom near him.
“Mighty nigh all day long,” was the reply; “him an' Fincher's some kin,
I think.”
“On his wife's side,” said Pole. “I want to see Mr. Craig. I wonder ef
he 'll be down thar this mornin'.”
“Purty apt,” said the clerk. “Fincher's his best friend sence his
bu'st-up, an' they are mighty thick. I reckon he gits the cold-shoulder
at a lots o' places.”
“You don't say!”
“An' of course he wants somewhar to go besides home. In passing I've
seed 'im a-figurin' several times at Fincher's desk. They say he's got
some notion o' workin' fer Fincher as his bookkeeper.”
“Well, he 'll have to make a livin' some way,” said Pole.
The clerk laughed significantly.
“Ef it ain't already made,” said he, with a smile. Pole stood up. “I
don't think that's right,” he said, coldly. “Me nur you, nur nobody,
hain't got no right to hint at what we don't know nothin' about. Mr.
Craig may 'a' lost ever' cent he had.”
“In a pig's valise!” sneered the red-headed man. “I'd bet my hat he's
got money--an' plenty of it, huh!”
“Well, I don't know nothin' about it,” said Pole, still coldly. “An'
what's more, Dunn, I ain't a-goin' about smirchin' any helpless man's
character, nuther. Ef I knowed he had made by the bu'st I'd talk
different, but I don't know it!”
“Oh, I see which side you are on, Baker,” laughed the clerk. “Folks are
about equally divided. Half is fer 'im an' half agin. But mark my words,
Craig will slide out o' this town some day, an' be heerd of after a
while a-gittin' started agin some'r's else. That racket has been worked
to death all over the country.”
Pole carried the discussion no further. Half an hour passed. Customers
were coming in from the wagon-yard and examining the wares on the
counters and making slow purchases. The proprietor came in and let the
clerk go to breakfast. Pole stood in the doorway, looking up the street
in the direction of Craig's residence. Presently he saw the ex-banker
coming from the post-office, reading his mail. Pole stepped back into
the store and let him go by; then he went to the door again and saw
Craig go into Fincher's warehouse at the end of the next block of
straggling, wooden buildings. Pole sauntered down the sidewalk in that
direction, passing the front door of the warehouse without looking in.
The door at the side of the house had a long platform before it, and on
it Fincher, the proprietor, was weighing bales of hay which were being
unloaded from several wagons by the countrymen who were disposing of it.
“Hello, Mr. Fincher,” Pole greeted him, familiarly. “Want any help
unloadin'?”
“Hello, Baker,” said Fincher, looking up from the blank-book in which he
was recording the weights. “No, I reckon they can handle it all right.”
Fincher was a short, fat man, very bald, and with a round, laughing
face. He had known Pole a long time and considered him a most amusing
character. “How do you come on, Pole?”
“Oh, about as common. I jest thought them fellers looked sorter
light-weight.”
The men on the wagon laughed as they thumped a bale of hay on to the
platform. “You'd better dry up,” one of them said. “We 'll git the mayor
to put you to work agin.”
“Well, he 'll have to be quicker about it than he was the last time,”
said Pole, dryly.
Some one laughed lustily from behind a tall stack of wheat in bags
in the warehouse. It was Lawyer Trabue. He came round and picked up
Fincher's daily paper, as he did every morning, and sat down and began
to read it.
“Now you are talkin',” he said. “Thar was more rest in that job, Pole,
than any you ever undertook. They tell me you didn't crack a rock.”
Fincher laughed as he closed his book and struck Baker with it
playfully. “Pole was too tired to do that job,” he said. “He was born
that way.”
“Say, Mr. Trabue,” retaliated Pole, “did you ever heer how I got the
best o' Mr. Fincher in a chicken trade?”
“I don't think I ever did, Pole,” laughed the lawyer, expectantly. “How
was it?”
“Oh, come off, don't go over that again,” said Fincher, flushing.
“It was this away,” said Pole, with a broad, wholesome grin. “My cousin,
Bart Wilks, was runnin' the restaurant under the car-shed about two yeer
ago. He was a new hand at the business, an' one day he had a awful rush.
He got a telegram that a trainload o' passengers had missed connection
at Chattanooga an' would have to eat with him. He was powerful rattled,
runnin' round like a dog after its tail. He knowed he'd have to have a
lot o' fryin' chickens, an' he couldn't leave the restaurant, so he
axed me ef I'd take the money an' go out in town an' buy 'em fer 'im. I
consented, an' struck Mr. Fincher, who was sellin' sech truck then. He
'lowed, you know, that I jest wanted one, or two at the outside, fer my
own use, so when I seed a fine coop out in front an' axed the price of
'em he kinder drawed on his beerd till his mouth fell open, an' studied
how he could make the most out o' me. After a while he said: 'Well,
Pole, I 'll make 'em ten cents apiece ef I pick 'em, an' fifteen ef you
pick 'em.' I sorter skeerd the chickens around an' seed thar was two or
three tiny ones hidin' under the big ones, an' I seed what he was up to,
but I was ready fer 'im. 'All right,' ses I, 'you pick 'em.' Thar was
two or three loafers standin' round an' they all laughed at me when Mr.
Fincher got down over the coop an' finally ketched one about the size
of a robin an' hauled it out. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I, an' he made a
grab fer one a little bigger an' handed it up to me. Then he stuck his
hands down in his pockets, doin' his best to keep from laughin'. The
gang yelled then, but I wasn't done. 'Keep on a-pickin',' ses I. An' he
got down agin. An', sir, I got that coop at about four cents apiece less
'n he'd paid fer 'em. He tried to back, but the gang wouldn't let 'im.
It was the cheapest lot o' chickens I ever seed. I turned the little
ones out to fatten, an' made Wilks pay me the market-price all round fer
the bunch.”
“I 'll be bound you made some 'n' out of it,” said Trabue. “Fincher, did
you ever heer how that scamp tuck in every merchant on this street about
two yeer ago?”
“Never heerd anything except his owin' 'em all,” said Fincher, with a
laugh.
“I could put 'im in the penitentiary fer it,” affirmed the lawyer. “You
know about that time thar was a powerful rivalry goin' on among the
storekeepers. They was movin' heaven an' earth to sell the'r big stocks.
Well, one of the spryest in the lot, Joe Gaylord, noticed that Pole was
powerful popular with mountain-folks, an' he made 'im a proposition,
bindin' 'im down to secrecy. He proposed to give Pole ten per cent,
commission on all the goods he'd he'p sell by bringin' customers in the
store. Pole hesitated, beca'se, he said, they might find it out, an' Joe
finally agreed that all Pole would have to do was to fetch 'em in, give
the wink, an' him an' his clerks would do the rest. It worked mighty
slick fer a while, but Pole noticed that very often the folks he'd
fetch in wouldn't be pleased with the goods an' prices an' ud go trade
some'r's else. Then what do you think the scamp did? He went to every
store in town an' made a secret contract to git ten per cent, on all
sales, an' he had the softest snap you ever heerd of. He'd simply
hang onto a gang from the country, whether he knowed 'em or not, an'
foller 'em around till they bought; then he'd walk up an' rake in his
part.”
“I got left once,” said Pole, laughing with the others. “One gang that I
stuck to all day went over to Melton an' bought.”
“Well, the merchants caught on after a while an' stopped him,” said
Trabue; “but he made good money while he was at it. They'd 'a' sent 'im
up fer it, ef it hadn't been sech a good joke on 'em.”
“I don't know about that,” replied Pole, thoughtfully. “I was doin' all
I agreed, an' ef they could afford to pay ten per cent, to anybody, they
mought as well 'a' paid it to me. I drawed trade to the whole town. The
cigars an' whiskey I give away amounted to a lots. I've set up many a
night tellin' them moss-backs tales to make 'em laugh.”
“Well, ef you ever git into any trouble let me know,” said Trabue, as he
rose to go. “I 'll defend you at half price; you'd be a sight o' help to
a lawyer. I 'll be hanged if I ever seed a better case 'an you made
out in the mayor's court, an' you hadn't a thing to back it up with,
nuther.”
The hay was unloaded and the wagons driven away. Fincher stood eying
Pole with admiration. “It's a fact,” he said. “You could 'a' made
some 'n' out o' yorese'f, if you'd 'a' been educated, an' had a showin'.”
Pole jerked his thumb over his shoulder at Craig, who was standing in
the front door, looking out into the street. “Everybody don't git a fair
showin' in this world, Mr. Fincher,” he said. “That man Craig hain't
been treated right.”
The jovial expression died out of the merchant's face, and he leaned
against the door-jamb.
“You are right thar,” he said--“dead right. He's been mighty unlucky and
bad treated.”
Pole grasped the brim of his massive hat, and drew it from his shaggy
head. “It makes me so all-fired mad sometimes, Mr. Fincher, to heer
folks a-runnin' that man down, that I want to fight. I ain't no
religious man myse'f, but I respect one, an' I've always put him down in
my book as a good man.”
“So 've I,” said the merchant, and he looked towards the subject of
their conversation and called out: “Craig, oh, Craig, come back heer a
minute.”
Pole put on his hat and stared at the ground. He made a gesture as if of
protest, but refrained from speaking.
“What's wanted?” Craig came down to them. He was smoking a cigar
and wore a comfortable look, as if he had been fighting a hard but
successful fight and now heard only random shots from a fleeing enemy.
“You ain't a candidate fer office,” laughed Fincher, “but nearly all
men like to know they've got friends. This chap heer's been standin' up
fer you. He says it makes him mad to hear folks talk agin you.”
“Oh, it's Baker!” exclaimed the ex-banker, shaking hands with Pole and
beaming on him. “Well, I don't know a man I'd rather have for a friend,”
he said, smoothly.
Pole tossed his head, and looked straight into the speaker's eye. “I'm
fer human justice, Mr. Craig,” he said. “An' I don't think folks
has treated you right. What man is thar that don't now an' then make
mistakes, sir? You've always had means, an' I never was anything but
a pore mountain-boy, but I've always looked on you as a good man, a
law-abidin' man, an' I don't like to heer folks try to blame you fer
what another man done. When you had plenty, I never come nigh you,
beca'se I knowed you belonged to one life an' me another, but now you
are flat o' yore back, sir, I'm yore friend.”
Craig's face beamed; he pulled his beard; his eyes danced.
“I'm glad there are men in the world like you, Baker,” he said. “I say
I'm glad, and I mean it.”
Fincher had begun to look over the figures in his book, and walked to
the front.
“Oh, my friendship ain't wuth nothin',” said Pole. “I know that. I
never was in the shape to he'p nobody, but I know when a man' s treated
right or wrong.”
“Well, if you ever need assistance, and I can help you, don't fail to
call on me,” Craig spoke with a tone of sincerity.
Pole took a deep breath and lowered his voice, glancing cautiously into
the house, as if fearful of being overheard.
“Well, I _do_ need advice, Mr. Craig,” he said. “Not money, nor nothin'
expensive, but I've laid awake night after night wishing 'at I could run
on some man of experience that I could ax fer advice, an' that I could
trust. Mr. Craig, I 'll be blamed ef I don't feel like tellin' you
some 'n' that never has passed my lips.”
Craig stared in interested astonishment. “Well, you can trust me,
Baker,” he said; “and if I can advise you, why, I 'll do it with
pleasure.”
There was a cotton compress near by, with its vast sheds and platforms,
and Pole looked at it steadily. He thrust his hand into his pants pocket
and kept it there for a full minute. Then he shook his head, drew out
his hand, and said: “I reckon I won't bother you to-day, Mr. Craig. Some
day I 'll come in town an' tell you, but--” Pole looked at the sun. “I
reckon I'd better be goin'.”
“Hold on,” Craig caught Pole's arm. The exbanker was a natural man.
Despite his recent troubles, he had his share of curiosity, and Pole's
manner and words had roused it to unwonted activity. “Hold on,” he said.
“What's your hurry? I've got time to spare if you have.”
Pole hung his head for a moment in silence, then he looked the old
man in the face. “Mr. Craig,” he began, in even a lower voice, “do you
reckon thar's any gold in them mountains?” Pole nodded to the blue wave
in the east.
Craig was standing near a bale of cotton and he sat down on it, first
parting the tails of his long, black coat.
“I don't know; there might be,” he said, deeply interested, and yet
trying to appear indifferent. “There is plenty of it in the same range
further down about Dalonega.”
Pole had his hand in the right pocket of his rough jean trousers.
“Is thar anybody in this town that could tell a piece o' gold ef they
seed it?” he asked.
“Oh, a good many, I reckon,” said Craig, a steely beam of excitement in
his unsteady eye. “I can, myself. I spent two years in the gold-mines of
California when I was a young man.”
“You don't say! I never knowed that.” Pole had really heard of that
fact, but his face was straight. He had managed to throw into it a most
wonderful blending of fear and over-cautiousness.
“Oh yes; I've had a good deal of experience in such things.”
“You don't say!” Pole was looking towards the compress again.
Craig laughed out suddenly, and put his hand on Pole's shoulder with a
friendly, downward stroke.
“You can trust me, Baker,” he said, persuasively, “and it may be that I
could be of assistance to you.”
There was something like an actual tremor of agitation in Pole's rough
hand as he drew his little nugget from its resting-place at the bottom
of his pocket. With a deep, indrawn breath, he handed it to Craig. “Is
that thar little lump gold or not?” he asked.
Craig started visibly as his eyes fell on the piece of gold. But he took
it indifferently, and examined it closely.
“Where did you run across that?” he asked.
“I want to know ef it's the puore thing,” answered Pole.
Craig made another examination, obviously to decide on the method he
would apply to a situation that claimed all his interest.
“I think it is,” he said; “in fact, I know it is.”
Pole took it eagerly, thrust it back into his pocket, and said:
“Mr. Craig, I know whar thar's a vein o' that stuff twenty yards thick,
runnin' clean through a mountain.”
“You do!” Craig actually paled under his suppressed excitement.
“Yes, sir; an' I kin buy it, lock, stock, and barrel, fer five hundred
dollars--the feller that owns it ud jump at it like a duck on a
June-bug. That's my secret, Mr. Craig. I hain't one dollar to my name,
but from this day on I'm goin' to work hard an' save my money till I own
that property. I'm a-goin' down to Atlanta next week, whar people don't
know me, an' have a lump of it bigger 'n this examined, an' ef it's gold
I 'll own the land sooner or later.”
Craig glanced to the rear.
“Come back here,” he said. Opening a door at the end of the warehouse,
he led Pole into a more retired spot, where they would be free from
possible interruption. Then, in a most persuasive voice, he continued:
“Baker, you need a man of experience with you in this. Besides, if there
is as much of--of that stuff as you say there is, you wouldn't be able
to use all you could make out of it. Now, it might take you a long time
to get up the money to buy the land, and there is no telling what might
happen in the mean time. I'm in a close place, but I could raise five
hundred dollars, or even a thousand. My friends still stick to me, you
know. The truth is, Baker, I'd like the best in the world to be able to
make money to pay back what some of my friends have lost through me.”
Pole hung his head. He seemed to be speaking half to himself and on the
verge of a smile when he replied: “I'd like to see you pay back some of
'em too, Mr. Craig.”
Craig laid his hand gently on Pole's shoulder.
“How about lettin' me see the place, Baker?” he said.
Pole hesitated, and then he met the ex-banker's look with the expression
of a man who has resigned himself to a generous impulse.
“Well, some day when you are a-passin' my way, stop in, an' I 'll--”
“How far is it?” broke in Craig, pulling his beard with unsteady
fingers.
“A good fifteen miles from heer,” said Pole.
Craig smiled. “Nothin' but an easy ride,” he declared. “I've got a horse
doin' nothing in the stable. What's to hinder us from going to-day--this
morning--as soon as I can go by for my horse?”
“I don't keer,” said Pole, resignedly. “But could you manage to go
without anybody knowin' whar you was bound fer?”
“Easy enough,” Craig laughed. He was really pleased with Pole's extreme
cautiousness.
“Then you mought meet me out thar some'r's.”
“A good idea--a good idea, Baker.”
“Do you know whar the Ducktown road crosses Holly Creek, at the foot o'
Old Pine Mountain?”
“As well as I know where my house is.”
Pole looked at the sun, shading his eyes with his hand.
“Could you be thar by eleven o'clock?”
“Easy enough, Baker.”
“Well, I 'll meet you--I'm a-goin' to trust you, Mr. Craig, an' when you
see the vein, ef you think thar's enough money in it fer two--but we can
see about that later.”
“All right, Baker. I 'll be there. But say,” as Pole was moving away,
“you are a drinking man, and get a little off sometimes. You haven't
said anything about this where anybody--”
Pole laughed reassuringly. “I never have been drunk enough to do that,
Mr. Craig, an', what's more, I never will be.”