The blacksmith stared in astonishment.
'Pete Cayce's say-so war all I wanted,' he declared; 'an' I hed the two hunderd dollars ez I hed yearned, an' ye hed flunged away, a-hangin' on ter it,' he added.
'I hev a mind ter go thar now, whilst I be on the Big Smoky, an' talk ter the old man 'bout'n it,' Green said reflectively.
He had drawn out his clasp-knife, and was whittling a piece of white oak which he had picked up from the ground. With the energy of his intention the slivers flew.
The blacksmith glanced in furtive surprise at his downcast face, but for a moment said nothing. Then:
'Hain't you-uns hearn how the Cayces turned out agin ye at the 'lection? Ef they didn't defeat ye, they made it an all-fired sight wuss. Ez fur ez I could hear, me and Tobe Grimes war the only men in the Big Smoky ez voted fur ye. I war plumb 'shamed o' it arterward. I hates ter be beat. I'm thinkin' they ain't a-hankerin' ter see ye down yander at the still.'
The defeated candidate's face turned deeply scarlet pending this recital. But he said, with an off-hand air:
'I ain't a-keerin' fur that now; that's 'count o' an old grudge the Cayces hold agin me. All I want now is ter kem up with Rick Tyler, ef so be I can, afore the gran' jury sits again; an' I hev talked with ev'ybody on the mountings, mighty nigh, 'ceptin' it be the Cayces. Which fork o' the road is it ye take fur the still—I furgit—the lef' or the right?'
Gid Fletcher burst into a sudden laugh, almost as metallic, as inexpressive of any human emotion, as if it had issued from the anvil. His face flushed, not the reflection from the iron, which had cooled, but with his own angry red blood; his figure, visible in the sullen illumination of the dull forge fire, was tense and motionless.
'Ye never knew, 'Cajah Green!' he cried. 'Ye don't take nare one o' the forks o' the road. Ye ain't a-goin' ter know, nuther, from me. I ain't a-hankerin' ter be fund dead in the road some mornin', with a big bullet in my skull-bone, an' nobody ter know how sech happened. Ef ye hev a mind ter spy out the Cayces fur the raiders, ye air on a powerful cold scent; thar ain't nobody on this mounting ez loves lead well enough ter tell whar old Groundhog holds forth. Them ez he wants ter know—knows 'thout bein' told. Ye ain't smart enough, 'Cajah Green, ter match yer meanness!'