Part 2

“'I. want fifty dollars a month, _under certain conditions'_ the boy said, lookin' the old skinflint straight in the eye.

“'Fifty--huh! yo're crazy--stark, starin' crazy, plumb off yore base!' the old man said, his lip twisted up like it is when he's mad. 'I see myse'f payin' a beardless boy a Broadway salary to work in a shack like this out here in the mountains.'

“'Well, I'll jest be obliged to quit you then,' Nelson said, as steady as a mill-pond on a hot day in August, 'an' I'd sorter hate to do it. Moore & Trotter at Darley offer me that fer the fust six months, with an increase later.'

“'Moore & Trotter!' the old skunk grunted loud enough to be heard clean to the court-house across the street. They was the only firm in this end o' the state that controlled as much custom as Mayhew did, an' it struck the old chump under the ribs. He got up from his chair an' walked clean down to the front-door. It was shet an' locked; but thar was a lamp on the show-case nigh whar he stopped, an' I could see his old face a-workin' under the influence o' good an' evil. Purty soon he grunted, an' come back, thumpin' his old stick agin barrels an' boxes along the way.

“'How am I goin' to know whether Moore & Trotter offered you that much or not?' he axed.

“'Beca'se I said so,' Nelson told 'im, an' his dark eyes was flashin' like lightnin'. He stood up an' faced the old codger. 'I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Mayhew,' he let fly at 'im, 'ef you don't know whether I'm tellin' the truth or not you'd better not keep me, fer a man that will lie will steal. I say they offered me fifty dollars. I've got the'r written proposition in my pocket, but I'll be hanged ef I show it to you!'”

“Good!” exclaimed the planter.

“Well, it knocked the old man clean off his feet,” Pole went on. “He sat down in his chair again, all of a tremble, an' white about the mouth. Stingy folks git scared to death at the very idea o' payin' out money, anyway, an' stingy don't fit that old cuss. Ef Noah Webster had knowed him he'd 'a' made another word fer that meanin'. I don't know but he'd simply 'a' spelled out the old man's name an' 'a' been done with it.”

“What final answer did Mayhew give the young man, Baker?” asked the planter, in a tone which indicated no little interest.

“Why, he jest set still fer a while,” said Pole, “an' me an' Joe Peters was a-wonderin' what he'd say. He never did anything sudden. Ef he ever gits to heaven he'll feel his way through the gate an' want to know ef thar's any other entrance. I seed 'im keep a woman standin' in the store once from breakfast to dinner time while he was lookin' fer a paper o' needles she'd called fer. Every now an' then he'd quit huntin' fer the needles an' go an' wait on some other customer, an' then come back to 'er. She was a timid sort o' thing, an' didn't seem to think she had the right to leave, bein' as she had started the search. Whenever she'd go towards the door to see ef her hoss was standin', he'd call 'er back an' ax 'er about 'er crap an' tell 'er not to be in a hurry, that Rome wasn't built in a day, an' the like. You know the old cuss has some education. Finally he found the needles an' tuck another half an' hour to select a scrap o' paper little enough to wrap 'em up in. But you axed me what Nelson said to 'im. Huh! the boy was too good a trader to push a matter like that to a head. He'd throwed down the bars, an' he jest waited fer the old man to come into the grass of his own accord. Finally Mayhew axed, as indifferent as he could under all his excitement: 'When do you intend to answer the letter you say you got from Moore & Trotter?'

“'I expect to answer it to-night,' Nelson said. 'I shall tell 'em I appreciate the'r offer an' will run over an' see 'em day after to-morrow.'”

“Good! very well said, Baker,” laughed Captain Duncan. “No wonder the young man's got rich. You can't keep talent like that down. But what did old Mayhew say?”

“It was like pullin' eye-teeth,” answered Pole. “But he finally come across. 'Well,' said he, 'I reckon you kin make yorese'f as useful to me as you kin to them, an' ef you are bent on ridin' me to death, after I picked you up, an' give you a start, an' l'arnt you how to do business, I reckon I'll have to put up with it.'

“'I don't feel like I owe you anything,' said Nelson, as plucky as a banker demandin' good security on a loan. 'I've worked for you like a slave for three years for my bare livin' an' my experience, an' from now on I am goin' to work for number one. I said that I'd stay for fifty dollars a month _on certain conditions_.'

“'Conditions?' the old man growled. 'What conditions do you mean?'

“'Why, it's jest this,' said Nelson. 'I've had my feelin's, an' the feelin's o' my friends, hurt time after time by you turnin' 'em away without credit, when I knowed they would meet the'r obligations. Now, ef I stay with you, it is with the distinct understandin' that I have the authority to give or refuse credit whenever I see fit.'

“That knocked the old man off his perch ag'in. He wilted an' sat thar as limp as a dish-rag. Joe Peters worships the ground Nelson walks on, an', as much as he fears the old man, he busted out in a big chuckle an' rubbed his hands together. Besides, he knowed Nelson was talkin' fer the interest o' the business. He'd seed no end o' good customers sent off fer no reason in the world than that Mayhew was scared o' his shadow.

“'I'll never consent to _that_, anyway,' Mayhew said, mighty nigh clean whipped out.

“'Well, Moore & Trotter _will_,' Nelson said. 'That's one o' the things laid down in the'r proposition.' An' the boy went to the desk an' drawed out a sheet o' paper an' dipped his pen in the ink. The old man set quiverin' awhile, an' then got up an' went an' stood behind the boy. 'Put down yore pen,' said he, with a deep sigh from away down inside of 'im. 'It would ruin me fer you to move to Darley--half the trade would follow you. Go ahead, I'll keep you, an' run the risk.'”

The planter had been listening attentively, and he now said, admiringly: “Even at that early age the boy was showing the talent that developed later. It wasn't long after that, I believe, before he became the old man's partner.”

“The next year,” answered Pole. “He saved every dollar of his wages and made some good investments that turned out money. It wasn't a big slice of the business at fust, but he owns a half now, an', countin' his outside interests, he's wuth as much as old Mayhew. He's rich already, captain.”

“So I've heard the women say,” smiled the planter. “Women always keep track of well-to-do unmarried men.”

“It hain't 'spiled Nelson one bit, nuther,” added Baker. “He's the same unselfish friend to me as he ever was, and I hain't hardly got a roof to cover me an' mine. But as solid as he always was, he had a serious back-set about three years ago, and all his well-wishers thought it was goin' to do him up.”

“You mean when he took to drinking,” said Captain Duncan, interrogatively.

“Yes, that's what I mean. He'd formed the habit when he was a boy, and along with his prosperity an' late work-hours it begun to fasten its claws on 'im like it has on some other folks I know, captain. He had a lot o' night work to do, an' Thigpen's bar was right 'j'inin' the store. Nelson used to slide in at the back-door whenever the notion struck 'im; and he made the trail hot, I tell you. Old Mayhew kept a sharp eye on 'im, an' every now an' then he'd git powerful blue over the way things was a-goin'. Finally the old cuss got desperate an' called a halt. He had a straight talk with Nelson, an' told 'im they would have to divide the'r interests, that he wasn't a drinkin' man hisse'f, an' he didn't want to be yoked to a feller that was soaked half the time. It fetched the boy to his senses. He come over to my house that night an' called me out to the fence.

“'I want to make a deal with you, Pole,' said he.

“'With me?' says I. 'What sort of a deal?'

“'Why,' said he, 'I've made up my mind to swear off fer good an' all, an' I want you to jine me.'

“I agreed all right,” Pole laughed. “In fact, I was sorter in that business; I'd promised every preacher an' temperance worker in the county to quit, an' I couldn't refuse a friend what I was dispensin' so freely right an' left. So I said, said I: 'All right, Nelson, I'm with you.'”

“And how did it come out?” questioned the planter, as he bowed to a wagonful of farmers going in an opposite direction.

“His vaccination tuck,” Pole smiled. “He had a mighty sore arm fer a week or so, but he helt out. As fer me, I was so dem glad to see his success in abstainin' that I started in to celebrate. I did try, though. One mornin' I went in the store an' seed Nelson have sech a clean, prosperous look an' so well satisfied with his stand that I went out with fresh resolutions. What did I do? I went to the bar-room an' bought four pint bottles o' red rye an' tuck 'em home with me. I set 'em all in a straight row on the mantel-shelf, nigh the edge, in front o' the clock, an' was standin' lookin' at 'em when Sally, my wife, come in. She seed the display, an' jest set kerflop down in her chair an' begun to whimper.

“'You hold on!' said I; 'don't you cross a foot-log till the tree's down. I'm tryin' a new dicker. I've always heard that “familiarity breeds contempt,” an' I've also heard that “the hair o' the dog is good fer the bite.” Now, I've tried my level best to quit liquor by stayin' away from it, an' I'm a-goin' to see ef I cayn't do it with its eye on me all the time.' Well, sir, the sweet little woman--she's a sweet, dear little creature, Captain Duncan, ef I do say it myse'f.”

“I've always heard so, Baker,” the planter said. “She's very popular with your neighbors.”

“An' I'm jest t'other way,” said Pole. “Well, Sally she got up an' kissed me, an' said that somehow she felt like my plan would work.”

“And did it?--I mean”--the captain recalled Pole's spree of only the night before--“I mean, did it work for any length of time?”

“I was goin' on to tell you,” answered the mountaineer. “That night fer the fust time sence my marriage I woke smack dab in the middle o' the night, an' as I laid thar in the room filled with moonlight I couldn't see a blessed thing but that row o' bottles, an' then my mouth set in to waterin' at sech a rate that I got afeard I'd ketch my death from sleepin' on a wet pillow. It was certainly a struggle with the flesh. I'd put my thirst, captain, when she's good an' dry, ag'in any that ever tickled a human throat. It ud take the blue ribbon at a convention o' drunkards. It's a rale thing; it kin walk, an' talk, an' kick, an' squirm, but it won't be dictated to. Finally Sally woke up an' said:

“'What's the matter, Pole? Hain't you comfortable?'

“'Comfortable the devil!' said I--I'm usually polite to Sally, but I felt like that wasn't no time an' place to talk about little matters. 'Comfortable nothin',' said I. 'Sally, ef you don't take that “doghair” out o' this house an' hide it, I'll be as drunk as a b'iled owl in ten minutes.'

“'Dog-hair?' said she, an' then the little woman remembered, an' she got up. I heard the bottles tinkle like sorrowful good-bye bells callin' wanderin' friends back to the fold as she tuck 'em up an' left. Captain, I felt jest like”--Pole laughed good-naturedly--“I felt like thar was a mean, stinkin' plot agin the best friends I ever had. I actually felt sorry fer them thar bottles, an' I got up an' stood at the window an' watched Sally as she tuck 'em away out in the lonely moonlight to the barn. I seed 'er climb over the fence o' the cow-lot an' go in at the side whar I kept my hay an' fodder an' roughness fer my cattle. Then I laid down in bed ag'in.”

“You acted right,” said the planter; “and you deserve credit for putting your foot down so firmly on what you felt was so injurious, even, even”--the captain came back again to reality--“even if you didn't remain firm very long afterwards.”

“Well, I'll tell you one thing--” The ex-moonshiner laughed again, and his eyes twinkled. “It tuck Sally longer, it seemed to me, to git to sleep after she got back than it ever had in all her life. Of all times on earth, she wanted to talk. But I shet her off. I made like I was breathin' good an' deep, an' then she set in, too. What did I do? Captain Duncan, I spent the best half o' that night out in the barn lookin' fer hens' nests. I found two, an' had to be put to bed at sun-up.”

The planter laughed. “There is one good thing about the situation, Baker,” he said, “and that is your making a joke of it. I believe you will get the under-hold of the thing some day and throw it over. Coming back to your friend Floyd, it's true he gave up whiskey, but if reports are reliable he has another fault that is quite as bad.”

“Oh, you mean all that talk about that girl,” answered the mountaineer.

“Yes, Baker, a reputation of that sort is not a desirable thing in any community. I know that many brainy and successful men hold that kind of thing lightly, but it will down anybody who tampers with it.”

“Now, look here, captain,” Pole said, sharply; “don't you be an old woman! 'Ain't you got more sense 'an to swallow everything that passes among idle gossips in these mountains? Nelson Floyd has got a backbone full o' the fire o' youth an' is a hot-blooded young chap, but he's, to my positive knowledge, one o' the cleanest boys I ever come across. To tell you the truth, I don't believe he ever made but that one slip. It got out, unfortunately, an' beca'se he was rich an' prominent it raised a regular whirlwind o' talk an' exaggeration. If it had happened to half a dozen other young men round about here, not a word would 'a' been said.”

'“Oh, I see,” smiled the planter, “he's not as black as he's painted, then.”

“Not by a jugful,” said the farmer. “I tell you he's all right, an' folks will know it 'fore long.”

III

SPRINGTOWN was about twelve miles west of Darley, only a mile from Captain Duncan's house, and half a mile from Pole Baker's humble cottage and small farm. The village had a population of about two hundred souls. It was the county-seat, and the court-house, a simple, ante-bellum brick structure, stood in the centre of the public square, around which were clustered the one-storied shops, lawyer's offices, cotton warehouses, hotel, and general stores.

Chief among the last mentioned was the well-known establishment of Mayhew & Floyd. It was a long, frame building, once white but now a murky gray, a tone which nothing but the brush of time and weather could have given it.

It was only a week since Captain Duncan's talk with Pole Baker, and a bright, inspiring morning, well suited to the breaking of the soil and the planting of seed. The village was agog with the spirit of hope. The post-office was filled with men who had come for their mail, and they stood and chatted about the crops on the long veranda of the hotel and in the front part of Mayhew & Floyd's store. Pole Baker was in the store talking with Joe Peters, the clerk, about seed potatoes, when a tall countryman, in the neighborhood of forty-five years of age, slouched in and leaned heavily against the counter.

“I want a box o' forty-four cartridges,” he said, drawing out a long revolver and rapping on the counter with the butt of it.

“What! you goin' squirrel huntin'?” Peters laughed and winked at Pole. “That gun's got a long enough barrel to send a ball to the top o' the highest tree in these mountains.”

“You slide around behind thar an' git me them cartridges!” retorted the customer. “Do yore talkin' to somebody else. I'll hunt what an' whar I want to, I reckon.”

“Oh, come off yore perch, Jeff Wade!” the clerk said, with another easy laugh. “You hain't nobody's daddy! But here you are. Forty cents a box, full count, every one warranted to make a hole an' a noise. Want me to charge 'em?”

“No, I don't; do you hear me?--I don't! An', what's more, I want to know exactly how much I owe this dern house. I've been to a dozen moneylenders 'fore I found what I wanted, but I got it, an' I want to pay what I owe Mayhew & Floyd.” Just then Pole Baker stepped up to the man's side, and, looking under the broad brim of his hat, he said:

“Looky' here, Jeff Wade, what you shootin' off yore mouth fer? I 'lowed at fust that you was full, but you hain't drinkin', at least you don't seem to have no bottle on yore person.”

“Drinkin' hell! No, I'm not drinkin', an', what's more, I don't intend to let a drap pass down my throat till I've done my duty to me an' mine. Say, you look good an' see ef I'm drinkin'! See ef you think a man that's in liquor would have as steady a nerve as I've got. You watch me! Maybe it'll show you what I'm able to do.”

Turning, he stalked out of the store, and Peters and Pole followed, watching him in wonder. He strode across the street to the court-house, loading his revolver as he went. Reaching the closed door of the building, he took an envelope from his pocket and fastened it to the panel by thrusting the blade of his big pocket-knife into it several times. The spectators heard the hollow, resounding blows like the strokes of a carpenter's hammer, and then Wade turned and came back towards them.

“By gum, he's off his nut!” said Peters, seriously. “He's as crazy as a bed-bug.”

“It's my opinion he's jest comin' to his senses,” Pole mused, a troubled look in his eyes. “Yes, that's about it; he's jest wakin' up, an' the whole county will know it, too. By gum, I hate this--I hate it!”

“You hate what?” asked Peters, his eyes on the farmer, who was now quite near them. Pole made no reply, for Wade was by his side on the brick walk beneath the wooden shed in front of the store, his revolver swinging at his side.

“You fellows keep yore eye on that envelope,” said Wade, and he cocked his revolver.

“Look here, don't make a damn fool o' yorese'f,” said Pole Baker, and he laid a remonstrating hand on the iron arm of the gaunt mountaineer. “You know it's agin the ordinance. You know you'll git into trouble; you listen to the advice of a friend. Put up that gun an' go home!”

“I'm my own boss, damn it!” snarled the man with the weapon.

“Yes, an' a dern fool, too,” answered Baker.

“Well, that's my lookout.” Wade glared over his shoulder into the store and raised his voice significantly. “I want to show this damn town how easy it will be fer me to put three shots into the blackest heart that ever pumped human blood.”

“You'd better mind what yo're about, Jeff Wade.” Pole Baker was pale, his lips were tight, his eyes flashing.

“I know what I'm about. I'm tryin' to draw a coward from his den. I'm not shore--I'm not dead shore, mind you--but I'm mighty nigh it. Ef the guilty stand an' hear what I'm a-sayin' an' don't take it up, they are wuss than hell-tainted. You watch that white mark.”

The bystanders, several comprehending, stood rigid. Pole Baker stared. Wade raised his Revolver, aimed steadily at the mark, and fired three shots in quick succession.

“Thar!” said the marksman, with grim triumph; “as bad as my sight is, I kin see 'em from here.”

“By gum, they are thar!” exclaimed Peters, with a strange, inquiring look into Pole Baker's set face. “They are thar, Pole.”

“You bet they are thar, an' some'll be in another spot 'fore long,” said Wade. “Now, Peters, you go in the house an' bring me my account. I've got the money.”

Wonderingly, the clerk obeyed. Pole went into the store behind him, and, as Peters stood at the big ledger writing, Pole stepped up to Nelson Floyd, who sat near a window in the rear with a newspaper in front of him.

“Did you hear all that, Nelson?” the farmer asked.

“Did I? Of course I did. Wasn't it intended for--” The young merchant glanced furtively at Peters and paused. His handsome, dark face was set as from tense, inward struggle.

There was a pause. Peters went towards the front, a written account drying in the air as he waved it to and fro.

“I was about to ask you if--” the young merchant began, but Pole interrupted him.

“Hush, listen!”

There was the sound of clinking coin on the counter below. The cast-iron bell on the cash-drawer rang harshly as the clerk put the money away.

“Thar, I'm even with this dirty shebang!” It was Jeff Wade's raised voice. “An' I kin act when the proper time comes. Oh, you all know what I'm talkin' about! Nobody kin hide a thing in these mountains. But you'll understand it better, ef it ever comes into yore own families. I never had but one little sister--she was all the Lord ever allowed me to have. She was married not more'n a month ago an' went off to Texas with a man who believes in 'er an' swears he will make her a good husband an' protector. But no sooner was the pore little thing gone than all this talk set in. It was writ out to her, an' she writ back to me to stop it. She admitted it was true, but wouldn't lay the blame. Folks say they know, but they won't talk. They are afeard o' the influence o' money an' power, I reckon, but it will git out. I have my suspicions, but I'm not yet dead shore; but I will be, an' what I done fer that scrap o' paper I will do fer that man, ef God don't paralyze this right arm. Ef the black-hearted devil is within the sound o' my voice at this minute, an' stays still, he's not only the thief of woman's happiness, but he's wuss than a coward. He's a sneakin' son of--”

Nelson Floyd, his face rigid, sprang up and went into Joe Peters's little bedroom, which was cut off in one corner of the store, and, opening the top drawer of an old bureau, he took out a revolver. Turning, he met in the door-way the stalwart form of Pole Baker.

“Put down that gun, Nelson! put it down!” Pole commanded. “Jeff Wade's deliberately set this trap to draw you into it, an' the minute you walk down thar it will be a public acknowledgment, an' he'll kill you 'fore you kin bat an eye.”

“No doubt,” said Nelson Floyd, “but the fellow has his rights. I could never draw a free breath if I let this pass. I owe it to the poor devil, Pole, and I'll pay. That has always been my rule. I'll pay. Stand aside!”

“I'll be damned ef I do.” Pole stood his ground firmly. “You must listen to reason. It's deliberate death.”

“Get out of the way, Pole; don't make me mad,” said Floyd. “I'm going down. I'd expect him to pay me, and I shall him.”

“Stop! You are a fool--you are a damned hotheaded simpleton, Nelson Floyd. Listen to me.” Pole caught the revolver and held on to the barrel of it while the young merchant clutched the butt. “Listen to me, I say. Are you goin' back on a helpless little woman? After you have had yore fun, an' the pore little trick gets married to a man who believes in her, an' goes away off an' is on a fair road to happiness, are you, I say, a-goin' to publicly advertise her shame, an', no doubt, bust up a contented home?”

“Great God, Pole!” exclaimed Floyd, as he sank onto the edge of Peters's bed, “do you think, if I give Wade satisfaction it will--”

“Will it? It will be in every paper from Maine to Californy. Meddlesome devils will mark the articles an' mail 'em to the gal's husband. A lot o' folks did the'r level best to bust up the match, anyway, by talkin' to him about you an' others.”

Nelson Floyd stared at the floor and slowly nodded his head.

“I'm caught in a more degrading trap than the one Wade set for me,” he declared, bitterly. “My acts have branded me as a coward and left me without power to vindicate myself. That's one of the ways Providence has of punishing a poor devil. A man may have a good impulse, but can't act upon it owing to the restrictions laid on him by his very sins.”

Pole looked down into the store.

“Nevermind,” he said, gloomily. “Wade's gone.”

Floyd dropped the revolver into the drawer of the bureau, and went back to his desk.