As he told of his defection, and the falsehood with which he had accounted for it, Jubal Perkins came to a sudden decision.
“Git on that thar mule, Birt, an’ ride over ter Nate’s, an’ find out what ails him, ef so be ye hanker ter know. I don’t want nobody workin’ in this hyar tanyard ez looks ez mournful ez ye do - like ez ef ye hed been buried an’ dug up. But hurry back, ’kase there ain’t enough bark ground yit, an’ I hev got other turns o’ work I want ye ter do besides ’fore dark.”
“War that Satan?” asked Rufe abruptly.
“Whar?” exclaimed Birt, startled, and glancing hastily over his shoulder.
“Down yander by the lick,” plained Rufe.
“Naw!” said Birt, scornfully, “an’ nuthin’ like Satan, I’ll be bound!”
He was, however, uneasy to hear of any man down the ravine in the neighborhood of his hidden treasure, but he could not now question Rufe, for Jube Perkins, with mock severity, was taking the small boy to account.
Byers was looking on, the knife idle in his hands, and his lips distended with a wide grin in the anticipation of getting some fun out of Rufe.
“Look-a-hyar, bub,” said Jubal Perkins, with both hands in his pockets and glaring down solemnly at Rufe; “ef ever I ketches ye goin’ of yerrands no better’n that ag’in, I’m a-goin’ ter -
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