[Illustration: 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 say _that_,” 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. “I
_know_ he'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.
“He _did_ have it, but he hain't got it now. I got it from 'im, blast
his ugly pictur'!”
“_You_ got 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, what _do_ you 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.”