BENEATH a big oak Pole stood holding his bridle-rein and waiting, his earnest gaze on the long road leading to Jeff Wade's farm. Suddenly he descried a cloud of dust far ahead, and chuckled.

“He's certainly on time,” he mused. “He must 'a' had his hoss already hitched out in the thicket. Mel made good time, too. The dern scamp wants to see bloodshed. Mel's that sort. By gum! that hain't Wade; it's Mel hisse'f, an' he's certainly layin' the lash to his animal.”

In a gallop, Jones bore down on him, riding as recklessly as a cowboy, his broad hat in one hand, a heavy switch in the other. He drew rein when he recognized Baker.

“Did you deliver that message?” Pole questioned.

“Oh yes, I finally got him alone; his wife seems to suspicion some'n, and she stuck to 'im like a leech. She's a jealous woman, Pole, an' I don't know but what she kinder thought Jeff was up to some o' his old shines. She's in a family-way, an' a little more cranky than common. He was a sorter tough nut before he married, you know, an' a man like that will do to watch.”

“Well, what did he say?” Pole asked, as indifferently as his impatience would allow.

“Why, he said, 'All hunkeydory.' The spring plan ketched him jest right. He said that one thing—o' bloodyin' up the main street in town—had bothered him more than anything else. He admired it in Floyd, too. Jeff said: 'By gum! fer a town dude, that feller's got more backbone than I expected.. He's a foe wuth meetin', an' I reckon killin' 'im won't be sech a terrible disgrace as I was afeard it mought be.'”

“But whar are you headin' fer in sech a rush?” Pole asked.

Jones laughed slyly as he put his hat carefully on his shaggy head and pressed the broad brims up on the sides and to a point in front. “Why, Pole,” he answered, “to tell you the truth, I am headed fer that thar spring. I'm goin' to acknowledge to you that, as long as I've lived in this world, I hain't never been on hand at a shootin'-scrape. Mighty nigh every man I know has seed oodlin's of 'em, but my luck's been agin me. I was too young to be in the war, an' about the most excitin' thing I ever attended was a chicken-fight, and so I determined to see this through. I know a big rock jest above the spring, and I'm a-goin' to git thar in plenty o' time. You let me git kivered all but my eyes, an' I'll run the resk o' gettin' hit from thar up. Whar you makin' fer, Pole?”

“Me? Oh, I'm on the way home, Mel. I seed the biggest rattlesnake run across this road jest now I ever laid eyes on. I got down to settle his hash, but I didn't have anything to hit 'im with, an' I'm done stompin' on them fellers sence Tobe Baker, my cousin, over at Hillbend, got bliffed in the knee-j'int.”

“Well, so long,” Jones laughed. “I'll hunt rattlesnakes some other time. Are you plumb shore you hain't got the jimmies ag'in, Pole? Take my advice an' don't tell anybody about seein' snakes; it sets folks to thinkin'. Why, I seed you once in broad daylight when you swore black spiders was playin' sweepstakes on yore shirt-front.”

“So long, Mel,” Pole smiled. He made a fair pretence at getting ready to mount as Jones galloped away in a cloud of dust. The rider was scarcely out of sight when a pair of fine black horses drawing a buggy came into view. The vehicle contained Captain Duncan and his daughter Evelyn. She was a delicate, rather pretty girl of nineteen or twenty, and she nodded haughtily to Pole as her father stopped his horses.

“You are sure that thing's off, are you, Baker?” the planter said, with a genial smile.

“Oh yes, captain.” Pole had his eyes on the young lady and had taken off his hat, and stood awkwardly swinging it against the baggy knees of his rough trousers.

“Well, I'm very glad,” Duncan said. “I heard you'd told some of the crowd back at the store that it had been settled, but I didn't know whether the report was reliable or not.”

Pole's glance shifted between plain truth and Evelyn Duncan's refined face for a moment, and then he nodded. “Oh yes, it was all a mistake, captain. Reports get out, you know; and nothin' hain't as bad as gossip is after it's crawled through a hundred mouths an' over a hundred envious tongues.”

“Well, I'm glad, as I say,” the planter said, and he jerked his reins and spoke to his horses.

As he whirled away, Pole growled. “Derned ef I hain't a-makin' a regular sign-post out o' myself,” he mused, “an' lyin' to beat the Dutch. Ef that blasted fool don't hurry on purty soon I'll—but thar he is now, comin' on with a swoop. His hoss is about to run from under 'im, his dem legs is so long. Now, looky' here, Pole Baker, Esquire, hog-thief an' liar, you are up agin about the most serious proposition you ever tackled, an' ef you don't mind what you are about you'll have cold feet inside o' ten minutes by the clock. You've set in to carry this thing through or die in the attempt, an' time's precious. The fust thing is to stop the blamed whelp; you cayn't reason with a man that's flyin' through the air like he's shot out of a gun, an' Jeff Wade's a-goin' to be the devil to halt. He's got the smell o' blood, an' that works on a mad man jest like it does on a bloodhound—he's a-goin' to run some'n down. The only thing in God's world that'll stop a man in that fix is to insult 'im, an' I reckon I'll have that to do in this case.”

Jeff Wade was riding rapidly. Just before he reached Pole he drew out his big, silver, open-faced watch and looked at it. He wore no coat and had on a gray flannel-shirt, open at the neck. Round his waist he wore a wide leather belt, from which, on his right side, protruded the glittering butt of a revolver of unusual size and length of barrel. Suddenly Pole led his own horse round until the animal stood directly across the narrow road, rendering it impossible for the approaching rider to pass at the speed he was going.

“Hold on thar, Jeff!” Pole held up his hand. “Whar away? The mail-hack hain't in yet. I've jest left town.”

“I hain't goin' after no mail!” Wade said, his lips tight, a fixed stare in his big, earnest eyes. “I'm headed fer Price's Spring. I'm goin' to put a few holes in that thar Nelson Floyd, ef I git the drap on him 'fore he does on me.”

“Huh!” Pole ejaculated; “no, you hain't a-goin' to see him, nuther—that is, not till me'n you've had a talk, Jeff Wade. You seem in a hurry, but thar's a matter betwixt me an' you that's got to be attended to.”

“What the hell d' you mean?” Wade demanded, a stare of irritated astonishment dawning in his eyes.

“Why, I mean that Nelson Floyd is a friend o' mine, an' he ain't a-goin' to be shot down like a dog by a man that could hit a nickel a hundred yards away nine times out o' ten. You an' me's face to face, an' I reckon chances 'ud be somewhar about equal. I hain't a brag shot, but I could hit a pouch as big as yourn is, at close range, about as easy as you could me.”

“You—you—by God! do you mean to take this matter up?”

Jeff Wade slid off his horse and stood facing Pole.

“Yes, I do, Jeff—that is, unless you'll listen to common-sense. That's what I'm here fer. I'm a-goin' to stuff reason into you ef I have to make a hole to put it in at. You are a-goin' entirely too fast to live in an enlightened Christian age, an' I'm here to call a halt. I've got some things to tell you. They are a-goin' to hurt like pullin' eye-teeth, an' you may draw yore gun before I'm through, but I'm goin' to make a try at it.”

“What the hell do you—”

“Hold on, hold on, hold on, Jeff!” Pole raised a warning hand. “Keep that paw off'n that cannon in yore belt or thar'll be a war right here before you hear my proclamation of the terms we kin both live under. Jeff, I am yore neighbor an' friend I love you mighty nigh like a brother, but I'm here to tell you that, with all yore grit an' good qualities, you are makin' a bellowin' jackass o' yourself. An' ef I let you put through yore present plans, you'll weep in repentance fer it till you are let down in yore soggy grave. Thar's two sides to every question, an' you are lookin' only at yore side o' this un. You cayn't tell how sorry I am about havin' to take this step. I've been a friend to yore entire family—to yore brothers, an' yore old daddy, when he was alive. I mighty nigh swore a lie down in Atlanta to keep him out o' limbo, when he was arrested fer moon-shinin'.”

“I know all that!” growled Wade; “but, damn it, you—”

“Hold yore taters, now, an' listen. You mought as well take yore mind off'n that spring. You hain't a-goin' to git at Nelson Floyd without you walk over my dead body—an' thar's no efs an' an's about that. You try to mount that hoss, an' I'll kill you ef it's in my power. I say I've got some'n to tell you that you'll wish you'd listened to. I know some'n about Minnie that will put a new color on this whole nasty business; an' when you know it, ef you kill Nelson Floyd in cold blood the law will jerk that stiff neck o' your'n—jerk it till it's limber.”

“You say you know some'n about Minnie?” The gaunt hand which till now had hovered over the butt of the big revolver hung straight down. Wade stood staring, his lip hanging loose, a sudden droop of indecision upon him.

“I know this much, Jeff,” Pole said, less sharply, “I know you are not on the track o' the fust offender in that matter, an' when I prove that to you I don't believe you'll look at it the same.”

“You say—you say—”

“Listen now, Jeff, an' don't fly off the handle at a well-wisher sayin' what he thinks has to be said in justice to all concerned. The truth is, you never seed Minnie like other folks has all along. You seed 'er grow up an' she was yore pet. To you she was a regular angel, but other folks has knowed all along, Jeff, that she was born with a sorter light nature. Women folks, with the'r keen eyes, has knowed that ever since she got out o' short dresses. Even yore own wife has said behind yore back a heap on this line that she was afeard to say to your face. Not a soul has dared to talk plain to you, an' even I wouldn't do it now except in this case o' life an' death.”

Wade shook back his long, coarse hair. He was panting like a tired dog. “I don't believe a damn word of what you are a-sayin,” he muttered, “an' I'll make you prove it, by God, or I'll have yore lifeblood!”

“Listen to me, Jeff,” Pole said, gently. “I'm not goin' to threaten any more. Believe me or not, but listen. You remember when Thad Pelham went off to Mexico a year or so ago?”

Wade made no reply, but there was a look of groping comprehension in his great, blearing eyes.

“I see you remember that,” Pole went on. “Well, you know, too, that he was goin' with Minnie a lot about that time—takin' her buggy-ridin' an' to meet-in'. He was a devil in pants, Jeff—his whole family was bad. The men in it would refuse the last call to go in at the gate o' heaven ef a designin' woman was winkin' at 'em on the outside. Well, Thad started fer Mexico one day, an' at the same time Minnie went on a visit to yore brother Joe in Calhoun.”

“She went thar a year ago,” Wade put in, “fer I bought 'er ticket myself at Darley.”

“She told you she went to Calhoun.” Pole's eyes were mercifully averted. “Jeff, I met her an' Thad down in Atlanta.”

Wade caught his breath. He shook from head to foot as with a chill.

“You say—Pole, you say—”

“Yes, I met 'em comin' out o' the Globe Hotel—that little resort jest off'n Decatur Street. They was comin' out o' the side-door, an' me an' them met face to face. Minnie, she turned as white as a sheet, but Thad sorter laughed like it was a good joke, an' winked at me. I bowed to 'em an' passed on, but I seed 'em lookin' back, an' then they motioned to me to stop, an' they come to me. Minnie set in to cryin' an' begun tellin' me not to take the news back home—that her an' Thad loved each other so much she jest had to play the trick on you an' go as fur as Atlanta with 'im. She said he was comin' back after he got located, an' that they was goin' to git decently married an' so on. An' that devilish Thad smiled an' sorter pulled his cheek down from his left eye an' said, 'Yes, Pole, we are a-goin' to git married. That is, when the proper times comes.'”

A sigh escaped Jeff Wade's tense lips.

“Are you plumb shore the two done wrong down thar, Baker?” he asked.

Pole pulled his mustache and looked at the ground. A smile dawned and died on his face.

“Well, I reckon they wasn't down thar to attend a Sunday-school convention, Jeff. They didn't have that look to me. But I was so worried fer fear I mought be doin' a woman injustice in my mind, that, after they left me, to make sure, I went in the office o' the hotel. The clerk was standin' thar doin' nothin', an' so I axed 'im who that young couple was that had jest gone out, an' he laughed an' said they was a newly married pair from up in the mountains—'Mr. an' Mrs. Sam Buncombe,' an' he showed me whar Thad had writ the names in his scrawlin' hand-write on the book. The clerk said that fer a freshly linked couple they headed off any he'd ever had in his bridal-chamber. He said they was orderin' some sort o' drink every minute in the day, an' that they made so much racket overhead that he had to stop 'em several times. He said they danced jigs an' sung nigger songs. He said he'd never married hisse'f—that he'd always been afeard to make the riffle, but that ef he could be shore matrimony was like that, that he'd find him a consort 'fore sundown or break his neck tryin'.”

Suddenly Wade put out his hand and laid it heavily on Pole's shoulder. “Looky' here, Baker,” he said, “if you are lying to me, I—”

“Hold on, hold on, Jeff Wade!” Pole broke in sternly. “When you use words like them don't you look serious! So fur, this has been a friendly talk, man to man, as I see it; but you begin to intimate that I'm a liar, an' I'll try my best to make you chaw the statement. You're excited, but you must watch whar yore a-walkin'.”

“Well, I want the truth, by God, I want the truth!”

“Well, you are a-gittin' it, with the measure runnin' over,” Pole said, “an' that ought to satisfy any reasonable man.”

“So you think, then, that Nelson Floyd never done any—any o' the things folks says he did—that trip to the circus at Darley, when Minnie said she was stayin' all night with the Halsey gals over the mountains—that was just report?”

“Well, I ain't here to say that, nuther,” said Pole, most diplomatically. “Nelson Floyd ain't any more'n human, Jeff. His wings hain't sprouted—at least, they ain't big enough to show through his clothes. He's like you used to be before you married an' quit the turf, only—ef I'm any judge—you was a hundred times wuss. Ef all the men concerned in this county was after you like you are after Nelson Floyd, they'd be on yore track wuss'n a pack o' yelpin' wolves.”

“Oh, hell! let up on me an' what I've done! I kin take care o' myself,” Wade snarled.

“All right, Jeff,” Pole laughed. “I was only drappin' them hints on my way to my point. Well, Minnie she come back from Atlanta, an' fer three whole days she looked to me like she missed Thad, but she got to goin' with the Thornton boys, an' then Nelson Floyd run across her track. I ain't here to make excuses fer 'im, but she was every bit as much to blame as he was. He's been around some, an' has enough sense to git in out o' the rain, an' I reckon he had his fun, or he wouldn't be a-settin' at Price's Spring waitin' to meet death at the end o' that gun o' yourn.”

Jeff Wade turned an undecided, wavering glance upon the towering mountain on his right. He drew a deep breath and seemed about to speak, but checked himself.

“But la me! what a stark, ravin' fool you was about to make o' yoreself, Jeff!” Pole went on. “You started to do this thing to-day on yore sister's account, when by doin' it you would bust up her home an' make the rest of her life miserable.”

“You mean—”

“I mean that Joe Mitchell, that's been dead-stuck on Minnie sence she was a little gal, set up to her an' proposed marriage. They got engaged, an' then every old snaggle-toothed busybody in these mountains set in to try to bust it up by totin' tales about Floyd an' others to 'im. As fast as one would come, Minnie'd kill it, an' show Joe what a foolish thing it was to listen to gossip, an' Joe finally told 'em all to go to hell, an' they was married, an' moved on his farm in Texas. From all accounts, they are doin' well an' are happy, but, la me! they wouldn't be that away long ef you'd 'a' shot Nelson Floyd this mornin'.”

“You say they wouldn't, Pole?”

“Huh, I reckon you wouldn't dance a jig an' sing hallelujah ef you was to pick up a newspaper this mornin' an' read in type a foot long that yore wife's brother, in another state, had laid a man out stiff as a board fer some'n' that had tuck place sometime back betwixt the man an' her.”

“Huh!” Wade's glance was now on Pole's face. “Huh, I reckon you are right, Pole. I reckon you are right. I wasn't thinkin' about that.”

“Thar was another duty you wasn't a-thinkin' about, too,” Pole said. “An' that is yore duty to yore wife an' childern that would be throwed helpless on the world ef this thing had 'a' tuck place to-day.”

“Well, I don't see that, anyway,” said Wade, dejectedly.

“Well, I do, Jeff. You see, ef you'd 'a' gone on an' killed Floyd, after I halted you, I'd 'a' been a witness agin you, an' I'd 'a' had to testify that I told you, in so many words, whar the rale blame laid, an' no jury alive would 'a' spared yore neck.”

“I reckon that's so,” Wade admitted. “Well, I guess I'll go back, Pole; I won't go any furder with it. I promise you not to molest that scamp. I'll not trade any more at his shebang, an' I'll avoid 'im all I kin, but I'll not kill 'im as I intended.”

“Now you're a-talkin' with a clear head an' a clean tongue.” Pole drew a breath of relief, and stood silent as Wade pulled his horse around, put his foot into the heavy, wooden stirrup, and mounted. Pole said nothing until Wade had slowly ridden several paces homeward, then he called out to him and beckoned him back, going to meet him, leading his horse.

“I jest thought o' some'n' else, Jeff—some'n' I want to say fer myself. I reckon I won't sleep sound to-night or think of anything the rest o' the day ef I don't git it off my mind.”

“What's that, Pole?”

“Why, I don't feel right about callin' you to halt so rough jest now, an' talkin' about shootin' holes in you an' the like, fer I hain't nothin' agin you, Jeff. In fact, I'm yore friend now more than I ever was in all my life. I feel fer you way down inside o' me. That look on yore face cuts me as keen as a knife. I—I reckon, Jeff, you sorter feel like—like yore little sister's dead, don't you?”

The rough face looking down from the horse filled. “Like she was dead an' buried, Pole,” Wade answered.

“Well, Jeff”—Pole's voice was husky—“don't you ever think o' what I said awhile ago about shootin'. Jeff, I jest did that to git yore attention. You mought a-blazed away at me, but I'll be danged ef I believe I could 'a' cocked or pulled trigger on you to 'a' saved my soul from hell.”

“Same here, old neighbor,” said Wade, as he wiped his eyes on his shirt-sleeve. “I wouldn't 'a' tuck them words from no other man on the face o' God's green globe.”

When Wade had ridden slowly away, Pole mounted his own horse.

“Now I'll go tell Nelson that the danger is over,” he said. Suddenly, however, he reined his horse in and sat looking thoughtfully at the ground.

“No, I won't,” he finally decided. “He kin set thar an' wonder what's up. It won't hurt him to be in doubt, dab blame his hot-blooded skin. Thar I was in a hair's-breadth of eternity, about to leave a sweet wife an' kids to starvation an' tumble in a bloody grave, jest beca'se a rich chap like he is had to have his dirty bout. No, Nelsy, my boy, you look old Death in the eye fer awhile; it won't do you no harm. Maybe it'll cool you off a little.”

And Pole Baker rode to the thicket where he had hidden his bag of corn-meal that' morning and took it home.

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