HOAG rode into the village the next morning, and as his horse bore him along through the balmy air he ruminated over the object he had in view. He had determined to see Sid Trawley and have a straight talk with him about certain private matters. He no longer doubted that the liveryman was persistently avoiding him. Sid had not answered to his name at the last roll-call of the “klan,” and vague rumors were afloat. One of the younger members had jocularly remarked that Sid had simply “got cold feet, an' was tryin' to shirk the entire thing.” At any rate, Hoag was sure that Trawley was not deporting himself as an aide-decamp should, and Hoag was determined to have a distinct understanding about it. It was not Hoag's way to beat about the bush, and Trawley knew too much regarding matters more or less confidential to be allowed to act as he was acting without good and sufficient reasons. As his horse cantered along the street near the livery-stable, Hoag was quite sure that he saw Trawley in the doorway and that he had purposely withdrawn from view.

“Huh, that's cheeky!” Hoag muttered, as he reined in at the stable, dismounted, and threw his bridle-rein to a negro attendant.

“Which way did Sid go?” he asked the man, suddenly.

The negro's eyelashes flickered hesitatingly, and he avoided the white man's stare.

“I dunno, boss, I hain't seed 'im,” the man said. “He was heer dis mawnin', but I don't know whar he is now.”

“You are a liar, you black imp!” Hoag growled. “I saw 'im right here a minute ago.”

The negro made no response; he shrugged his shoulders doggedly, and his bead-like eyes were full of cautious concern as he led the horse to a stall.

Hoag stared after him, a sullen, thwarted expression on his face. “Don't take the saddle off,” he yelled. “I'm goin' back right away.” And with that he suddenly turned into the little office on the right, finding Trawley at his desk, a queer look, half of fear, half of sheepishness, in his shifting eyes. Hoag was now positive that the man was trying to avoid him, and a fierce demand for explanation was on his tongue, but he managed to restrain himself. Indeed, he felt that this was a case that required diplomatic handling, for Trawley had a temper, and at present had the look of a man driven into a corner.

“Hello, Sid,” Hoag said. “How goes it?”

“Oh, so so,” Trawley answered, awkwardly. “How's things out your way?”

“Oh, about as common.” Hoag was wondering over Trawley's sallow complexion, once so ruddy, and the nervousness of a frame which surely had lost weight and poise. The two did not shake hands. Hoag idly tapped the green cloth of the desk, beating little ridges of dust into view, and fixed his purposeful eyes on the dingy, small-paned window which was hung over with cobwebs.

“You hain't answered at roll-call lately,” he suddenly plunged.

“I couldn't find the time.” Trawley was opening a canvas-backed ledger with thin, quivering fingers. “I've been powerful busy, Cap. Lots an' lots o' rigs an' hosses goin' out an' comin' in—can't trust my shebang with these coons. They don't feed an' water my stock—or rub 'em down when they come in tired. They git things all balled up—send out hosses on long trips that hain't had no rest; one o' my best mules dropped dead t'other day an'—”

“I understand all that.” Hoag's eyes bore down on him impatiently. “But you didn't use to be so all-fired anxious about this dang stable. It's a new twist altogether. Say, has anything gone crooked with you?”

“What makes you ax that?” Trawley's words crept slowly from his stiff lips, and his glance rose, only to fall precipitately.

“I don't know,” Hoag replied. “Some o' the boys said they didn't know but what you'd took to doctorin' yorese'f—got a fool notion in yore head that you was about to git down sick.”

“Well, I am sick—if you want to know,” Trawley suddenly declared. “I'm not a sound man, by a long shot.”

“Oh, come off!” Hoag laughed. “You've been eatin' too much or smokin' more'n you ought. Maybe yore liquor ain't o' the right brand. There's a lot o' poison in the truck shoved over bar-counters these days. You oughtn't to touch any but straight moonshine corn. Some o' our boys make the best that ever slid down a gullet.”

“'Tain't nothin' o' that sort,” Trawley sighed, despondently. “Dr. Lynn examined me an' wasn't a bit satisfied. He said my stomach had clean gone back on me. Nothin' I eat won't stay down. I roll an' tumble at night an' shake all over durin' the day. Doc said it was serious.”

“Oh, now I understand.” Hoag seemed slightly relieved. “But you hain't a-goin' to let that scare the socks off you. Besides, Lynn may be mistaken.”

Trawley's chin dropped despondently. “He knows as much as any doctor, I reckon. Looked to me like he considered my case hopeless. He shook his head all the time he was talkin'. He—he hinted purty strong that I ought to be prepared, that I might—might have to go any day.” Trawley's scant blood had left his face and his lip hung limply.

Hoag shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “So you've let that scare you plumb off from old habits. You set here an' mope instead o' bein' up an' about with the rest of us. We all got to die some time or other.”

Trawley glared fiercely out from his labyrinth of fears. “You wait till it gits you down!” he blurted out. “You kin talk, standin' thar with that solid pouch on you—an' a meal in it that you can hold down. Don't talk to me; I know when I'm in trouble!”

“I know when you will be, shore enough, if you don't mark my words.” Hoag was now employing his favorite browbeating method, and his eyes flashed threateningly. “You have been shootin' off your mouth to outsiders. You are like a scared old hag with fits. I heard that hobgoblin tale you told about seein' the ghost o' Pete Watson. The tale's goin' the rounds, gittin' bigger an' bigger, like a cake o' beeswax that everybody adds a chunk to, an' thar wasn't a thing in it but your fool jim-jams.”

“I know what I know!” Trawley said, a shadow of superstition in his eyes. “I was in my right senses—I was seein' as plain as I am now. The fust time he appeared I was wide awake, settin' up in a chair in the kitchen. The next time I was in my corn-crib a little after dark. Pete put his hand to his neck; I heard 'im groan an' gurgle. He comes to my bed sometimes when I'm asleepin' an' pulls the covers off an' then darts right through the wall. The last time he told me that me nor none o' the klan would ever have peace—that black folks was the same as white whar he was at, an' that accordin' to the book o' judgment to kill the innocent was the unpardonable sin alluded to in Scripture.”

“Poof, Sid, you are gone clean daffy!” Hoag sneered, though a serious expression had captured his features, for he was wondering how far this indiscreet babbler could be trusted to recount such imaginings.

“He got you in it all right,” Trawley said, vindictively. “I ain't the only one. The last time he come to me I was drivin' the cow home from the pasture after dark. At fust I thought it was a calf or a stray hog; but he come on till he was close by my side, limpin' along like he used to do, with his old flipflap feet. He talked as plain as ever he did in this life. He said I was to die a slow death an' a terrible one—that my folks would think I was dead an' put me in the ground, but that I'd lie thar an' wait till him an' some more come an' twisted my sperit out an' tuck it on to torment. Then he fetched you in.”

“Me?” Hoag sniffed. “Well, I'm glad he hain't forgot me. I hope he remembers the time I lambasted 'im for breakin' that new plow o' mine.”

“Yes; he said yore time was comin', too; he said you was the prime mover an' power in the organization—that you was a rank coward at heart, an' that you jest loved the fun o' scarin' niggers because you was afraid o' brave white men. I dunno, I'm jest tellin' you what he told me. He said your luck was goin' to turn flat ag'in' you—that your present support would sluff away, an' you'd find yourself alone with nothin' 'twixt you an' the Almighty but the niggers you'd sent on ahead, an' that you'd git on your knees to 'em an' beg 'em to speak a kind word for you, but that they'd turn a deef ear. He may have missed it in yore case, but was right about me. Jim Hoag, I'm a dyin' man, an' I'm in hell already.” Hoag was becoming angry. Had he dared he would have spoken more sharply. He told himself that Trawley had lost his reason, and that he was a very unsafe man in his present condition, holding the knowledge he held.

“You'll have to git out o' this,” he said, sternly. “You need a change.”

“I need more'n that,” Trawley groaned, and he beat the top of his desk with a limp, splaying hand. “I need medicine that ain't in no bottle or doctor's saddle-bags. I know what I need, but I don't know whar to git it. I need what my good old mammy had when she died, shoutin' an' talkin' about her folks that had gone on, who she declared was right thar over the bed holdin' out their hands to her.”

“Take it from me, Sid,” Hoag said, carelessly, “all that stuff is pure poppycock. When a man's time comes the jig is up—that's all; he's done for; he's put in the ground an' rots. As for me, that's all I want or expect.”

“I know you've always said that,” Trawley answered, “an' I used to think maybe you was right, bein' sech a big man in your way; but I know different now. Say, Jim Hoag, what do you make o' Paul Rundel?”

“Make o' 'im—what do you mean?”

“I want to know what could 'a' fetched 'imback here to give up to the halter like he did unless—unless he was led by some'n in 'im bigger, wider, an' higher than jest his mortal body?”

Hoag smiled significantly, and idly tapped the leg of his trousers with his whip. “Just betwixt us two, Sid, I never have knowed just what Paul's game was. I saw he was a good man for the job I had open, an' I tuck 'im in. I never have bothered about the tale he told. That was his lookout. He's got a clear head for business. He understands human nature, an' he was sharp enough, I reckon, to know that nine juries out o' ten would be lenient in a case like his'n. He was homesick for these old mountains, an' was willin' to serve a year or two an' be done with it.”

“That won't do at all—not at all,” Trawley protested, with firmness. “I've never seed an eye like his'n in a human head. He heard I was ailin', an' come in here last week friendly like to talk to me. Well”—Trawley averted his face and sat linking his fingers like wooden prongs—“I just don't know how to tell you about it, Cap. He said—Paul said some o' the quarest, most comfortin' things that ever a sick man heard. I want to see 'im ag'in—I just must. I've been to preachers, an' to old Christian men like Tye over thar, an' they all gave me the same stale song-and-dance; but this young fellow, with his shinin' face an' happy way, had some'n fresh. Why, he said that the Lord just couldn't be hard on any repentant soul He'd ever created. I wish I could tell you how Paul fixed it, but I can't remember. He said the ugly sights I'd seed was just in me—just in my own mind—an' that as soon as I seed that I was part an' parcel of God Hisse'f all them gloomy shadows would pass away an' I'd see visions o' true light. He cited the thief on the cross—you remember about that feller? He was dyin' thar by the Saviour, you know, an' the Lord said to him, 'This day shalt thou be with me in Paradise.' As Paul fixed it up nothin' the thief had done in days gone by was to be helt ag'in' 'im—nothin'! He says it is all a matter of wrong thought or right thought. He told a purty tale that was sorter like a new-fashioned parable. He said, take two brothers, for instance. A lawyer comes away across the ocean from the old country an' tells 'em, on his word an' honor, that a kinsman has died over thar an' left 'em a million apiece, but that they will have to be patient an' wait a year before the money will be paid into the'r hands. Now, Paul said one of 'em, for example, would believe the lawyer an' spend his year full o' happy expectations, but t'other wouldn't trust the lawyer's statement, an' in his doubt an' uncertainty his year would be the most miserable he ever spent. Both come in at the end on the same actual level, you see, Cap, but the trustin' fellow got in twelve months quicker—that's all. Paul says that illustrates what is called havin' the kingdom of heaven within you—it's our'n if we'll just believe it's our'n an' move in an' take possession.”

Hoag's countenance was full of shadow. For a moment he seemed undecided as to what to say. He whipped his leg steadily and cleared his throat. One of the negro attendants leaned in at the door and asked Trawley a question, and the liveryman replied sharply:

“Give 'im any pair he wants, an' don't disturb me ag'in while I'm talkin'.” He uttered a low groan as the negro withdrew and looked up at his frowning companion. “I tell you, Jim Hoag, when a man gits in trouble like I am in, a puny thing like whether he rents a turnout, or a hub is split, or a tire off, amounts to so little that it makes 'im mad to think about it.”

“Looky' here, Sid!” Hoag's beetling brows ran together, and his tone was fierce and direct. “I want to git at this thing right now, so as to know what to depend on. Like the rest of us, you are under oath of secrecy to the klan. Did you say anything to Paul Rundel to lead him to suspect that—”

“No, I didn't,” Trawley groaned. “I kept it all back, an' thar's right whar I think my chief trouble lies. I've taken an oath that binds me to the devil an' his imps. Paul says, to git the real thing you've got to go at it with a clean breast, an' I can't be that way with you fellows tellin' me to come to your secret meetin's an' layin' claim to me. I hain't give you all away, an' I ain't goin' to, but I'm in a bad fix. I want to clean up an' git right, but I don't know how. It seems wrong to break my oath, an' wuss to keep it.”

“I can say to you right here, Sid”—Hoag moved toward the door, a dark, red flush on his face—“if you do betray our body you'll regret it, an' you know well enough why.”

So speaking, and without another glance at the man he was leaving, Hoag strode away. Aflame with fury, he mounted his horse and rode homeward.