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.”