Part 16

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.”

XXVI

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, it _ain' t_ more '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 I _will_ let 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 I _have_ money,” he said, straightening up. “Oh, my God!”

“I _know_ it,” said Pole. “I don't think anything about it--I _know_ it.”

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.”

XXVII

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.