S Abner Daniel leaned over the rail-fence in front of Pole Baker's log-cabin one balmy day, two weeks later, he saw evidences of the ex-moonshiner's thriftlessness combined with an inordinate love for his children. A little express-wagon, painted red, such as city children receive from their well-to-do parents on Christmas, was going to ruin under a cherry-tree which had been bent to the ground by a rope-swing fastened to one of its flexible boughs. The body of a mechanical speaking-doll lay near by, and the remains of a toy air-rifle. After a protracted spree Pole usually came home laden down with such peace-offerings to his family and conscience. His wife might go without a needed gown, and he a coat, but his children never without toys. Seeing Abner at the fence, Mrs. Baker came to the low door and stood bending her head to look out.

“I heerd at home,” said Abner, “that Pole was over thar axin' fer me. I've been away to my peach-orchard on the hill.”

“Yes, he's been over thar twice,” said the woman. “He's back of the house some'r's settin' a trap fer the children to ketch some birds in. I 'll blow the horn. When I blow twice he knows he's wanted right off.”

She took down a cow's-horn from a nail on the wall, and going to the door on the opposite side of the house she gave two long, ringing blasts, which set half a dozen dogs near by and some far off to barking mellowly. In a few minutes Pole appeared around the corner of the cabin.

“Hello, Uncle Ab,” he said. “Won't you come in?”

“No, hain't time,” smiled the old man. “I jest come over to see how much money you wanted to borrow.”

“I don't want any o' yo'rn,” said Pole, leaning over the fence, his unbuttoned shirt-sleeves allowing his brawny, bare arms to rest on the top rail. “I wanted to talk to you about Alan an' that bank bu'st-up.”

“You've been to town, I heer,” said Abner, deeply interested.

“Yes, an' I've been with Alan an' Miller fer the last week tryin' to do some 'n', but we couldn't. They've been sendin' telegrams by the basketful, an' Jeff Dukes has trotted his legs off back an' forth, but nothin' hain't been done.”

“You say the' hain't?” Abner's voice quivered and fell.

“No; they both kept up the'r sperits purty well fer about ten days beca'se that dang Atlanta chief of police kept wirin' he was on a scent o' Winship; but day before yesterday they give in. We was a-settin' in Miller's office when the last message come from Atlanta. They said they'd been after the wrong man, an' that they'd give up. You ort to 'a' seed Alan's face. Miller tried to cheer 'im up, but it wasn't no go. Then who do you think come? Alan's sweetheart. She axed to see 'im, an' they talked awhile in the front room; then Miller come back an' said she'd axed to be introduced to me. Jest think of it! I went in and seed she'd been a-cryin'. She got up, by jinks! an' ketched my hand an' said she wanted to thank me beca'se I'd been sech a friend to Alan. Uncle Ab, I felt as mean as a egg-suckin' dog, beca'se thar was Alan flat o' his back, as the feller said, an' I hadn't turned a hand to he'p 'im. And thar she was, the gal he loves an' wants, an' his poverty standin' betwixt 'em. I couldn't say nothin', an' I reckon I looked more kinds of a damn fool than she ever seed on two legs.”

“Well, what did you do?” asked Abner, too much moved by Pole's graphic picture to speak with his usual lightness.

“What did I do? I made my bow an' slid. I made a bee-line fer Murray's bar an' put two down as fast as they could shovel 'em out. Then I tuck another, an' quit countin'. I begun to think I owned the shebang, an' broke several billiard-cues an' throwed the chalk around. Then Dukes come an' said he'd give me a chance to escape trial fer misconduct, ef I'd straddle my hoss an' make fer home. I agreed, but thar was one thing I had to do fust. I had promised Alan not to drink any more, an' so I didn't want to sneak away to hide it. I went to Miller's house, whar he's stayin', an' called 'im out. I told 'im I'd jest come fer no other reason 'an to let 'im see me at my wust. I felt like it was the only manly way, after I'd broke faith with a friend as true as he is.”

“Too bad!” sighed Abner. “I 'll bet it hurt Alan to see you in that fix.”

“Well, he didn't complain,” said Pole. “But he put his arm around me an' come as nigh cryin' as I ever seed a strong man. 'It's my fault, Pole,' ses he. 'I can see that.' Then him an' Miller both tried to git me to go up-stairs in that fine house an' go to bed an' sleep it off, but I wouldn't. I come on home an' got mad at Sally fer talkin' to me, an' come as nigh as peas hittin' 'er in the jaw. But that's over, Uncle Ab. What I'm in fer now is work. I ain't no fool. I'm on a still hunt, an' I jest want yore private opinion. I don't want you to commit yorese'f, unless you want to; but I'd go more on yore jedgment than any man' s in this county. I want to know ef you think old Craig is a honest man at heart. Now don't say you don't know, an' keep yore mouth shet; fer what I want to know, an' all I want to know, is how you feel about that one thing.”

Abner hung his head down. His long thumb trembled as its nail went under a splinter on the rail and pried it off.

“I see what you are a-drivin' at,” he said. “You jest want to feel shore o' yore ground.” Abner began to chew the splinter and spit out the broken bits. He was silent, under Pole's anxious gaze, for a minute, and then he laughed dryly. “I reckon me 'n' you has about the same suspicions,” he said. “That p'int's been worryin' me fer several days, an' I didn't let it end, thar nuther.”

“Ah! you didn't?” exclaimed Baker. “You say you didn't, Uncle Ab?”

“No; I got so I couldn't lie down at night without the idea poppin' into my head that maybe Craig had made a tool of Winship fer some minor crime an' had hustled 'im out o' the country so he could gobble up what was in the bank an' pose as a injured man in the community.”

“Same heer, pine blank!” said Pole, eagerly. “What did you do, Uncle Ab?”

“I went to Darley an' attended his church last Sunday,” replied the old man, a tense expression in his eyes. “I got a seat in the amen-corner, whar I could see him, an' all through preachin' I watched 'im like a hawk. He didn't look to me like a man who had bu'sted on wind alone. He had a fat, oily, pink look, an' when they axed 'im to lead in prayer it looked to me like he was talkin' more to the people 'an he was to God. I didn't like his whine, an' what he said didn't seem to come from the cellar. But I seed that he was makin' converts to his side as fast as a dog kin trot. The Presbyterians an' Baptists has been accusin' the Methodists o' packin' more bad eggs 'an they have, an' it looks like Craig's crowd's a-goin' to swear he's fresh whether he is or not. After meetin' was over I walked ahead of him an' his fine lady, who has made the mistake o' tryin' to kiver the whole business up with silk an' feathers, an' waited fer 'em nigh the'r gate. I told 'im I wanted a word with 'im, an' they axed me in the parlor. I smelt dinner, but they didn't mention it. I wasn't goin' to eat thar nohow. Well, I set in an' jest told Craig what had been troublin' me. I said the loss o' my folk's money was as bad as death, an' that thar'd been so much talk agin him, an' suspicion, that I had jest come to headquarters. Ef he had any money laid away, I was thar to tell 'im it never would do 'im any good, an' ef he didn't, I wanted to beg his pardon fer my evil thoughts, an' try to git the matter off'n my mind.”

“Good God! did you railly tell 'im that, Uncle Ab?”

“Yes, an' I had a deep-laid reason. I wanted to make 'im mad an' study 'im. He did git mad. He was as red as a dewberry, an' quivered from head to foot. Thar's two kinds o' mad—the justified an' the unjustified. Make a good man rail mad by accusin' 'im, an' he 'll justify hisse'f or bu'st; but ef you make a bad un mad by accusin' 'im, he 'll delight in showin' you he's done wrong—ef it hurts you an' he's safe. Thar's right whar I landed Craig. He had the look, as plain as day, o' sayin', 'Yes, dang you, I did it, an' you cayn't he'p yorese'f!' His wife had gone in the back part o' the house, an' after a while I heerd her new shoes a-creakin' at the door betwixt the two rooms. Now a pair o' shoes don't walk up to a door squeakin' like mice an' then stop all of a sudden without reason. I knowed she was a-listenin', an' I determined she should not heer me say she was purty. I told 'im louder 'an ever that folks was a-talkin', an' a-talkin', an' that fetched her. She flung open the door an' faced me as mad as a turtle on its back. She showed her hand, too, an' I knowed she was in cahoot with 'im. She cussed me black an' blue fer a uncouth, meddlin' devil, an' what not.”

“By gum!” said Pole, his big eyes expanding. “But you didn't gain much by that, did you?”

“Jest satisfied myself that Alan's money—or some of it—wasn't out o' creation, that's all.”

“I have my reasons fer believin' like you do,” said Pole.

“You say you have.”

Pole glanced furtively over his shoulder at his cabin to see that no one was within hearing, then said:

“You know Winship is old Fred Parson's nephew. Well, old Fred's always been a stanch friend to me. We moonshined it together two yeer, though he never knowed my chief hidin'-place. In fact, nobody knows about that spot, Uncle Ab, even now. Well, I had a talk with him an' axed his opinion about his nephew. He talks as straight as a shingle, an' he ain't no idiot. He says it's all bosh about Winship takin' away all that boodle.”

“He does, does he?” Abner nodded, as if to himself.

“Yes, and he don't claim Winship ain't guilty, nuther; he jest holds that he was too small a dabbler in devilment. He thinks, as I do, that Craig run 'im off with threats of arrest an' picked that chance to bu'st. He thinks Winship's in a safe place an' never will be fetched back.”

Abner drew himself up straight.

“Have you talked to Alan an' Miller on that line?”

“Tried to,” grunted Pole, in high disgust, “but Miller says it's no good to think of accusin' Craig. He says we can' t prove a thing on 'im, unless we ketch Winship. He says that sort of a steal is the easiest thing on earth, an' that it's done every day. But that's beca'se he was fetched up in the law,” Pole finished. “We-uns out heer in the mountains kin fish up other ways o' fetchin' a scamp to time without standin' 'im up before a thick-headed jury, or lettin' 'im out on bond till he dies o' old age. You've got sense enough to know that, Uncle Ab.”

The slanting rays of the setting sun struck the old man in the face. There was a tinkle of cow-bells in the pasture below the cabin. The outlaw in Pole Baker was a thing Abner Daniel deplored; and yet, to-day it was a straw bobbing about on the troubled waters of the old man' s soul towards which, if he did not extend his hand, he looked interestedly. A grim expression stole into his face, drawing the merry lines down towards his chin.

“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” he said.

Pole Baker grunted in sheer derision. “I've done fool things whar thar wasn't a thing to be made by 'em. By gum! I'd do ten dozen fer jest a bare chance o' shakin' that wad o' cash in Alan Bishop's face, an' so would you, dern yore hide—so would you, Uncle Ab Daniel!”

Abner blinked at the red sun.

“The boy's been bad treated,” he said, evasively; “bad, bad, bad! It's squeezed life an' hope out o' him.”

“Well, you are a church-member, an' so fur in good-standin',” said Pole, “an' I ain't agoin' to pull you into no devilment; but ef I see any way—I say ef I see any way, I 'll come an' tell you the news.”

“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” said Abner, and turned to go. He paused a few paces away and said, “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” He motioned towards the cabin. “You've got them in thar to look after.”

Pole let him walk on a few paces, then he climbed over the fence and caught him up. He drew the piece of quartz containing the tiny nugget of gold from his pocket, which he had shown Abner and Dole on a former occasion. “You see that, Uncle Ab,” he said. “That dirty rock is like friendship in general, but that little yaller lump is like my friendship fer Alan Bishop. It's the puore thing, solid an' heavy, an' won't lose color. You don't know when that boy done his first favor to me. It was away back when we was boys together. A feller at Treadwell's mill one day, behind my back, called me a bad name—a name no man will take or can. He used my mother's name, God bless her! as puore an' holy a woman as ever lived, to git back at me. He hadn't no sooner spoke it than Alan was at his throat like a wild-cat. The skunk was bigger 'n him, but Alan beat 'im till he was black all over. I never heerd about it till about two weeks after it happened an' the feller had moved out West. Alan wouldn't let nobody tell me. I axed 'im why he hadn't let me know. 'Beca'se,' ses he, 'you'd 'a' killed 'im an' 'a' got into trouble, an' he wasn't wuth it. 'That's what he said, Uncle Ab.” Pole's big-jawed face was full of struggling emotion, his voice was husky, his eyes were filling. “That's why it's a-killin' me to see 'im robbed of all he's got—his pride, his ambition, an' the good woman that loves 'im. Huh! ef I jest knowed that pie-faced hypocrite had his money he wouldn't have it long.”

“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” Abner looked into the fellow's face, drew a long, trembling breath, and finished, “I wouldn't—but I 'll be dumed ef I know what I'd do!”