"Hit's like this," Saul spoke now with undisguised excitement: "Ther boys air holdin' a rally ternight over at ther incline.... A big lawyer from Loueyville is makin' a speech thar.... They wants thet I shell fotch ye back along with me—an' thet ye shan't tote no rifle-gun ner no weepin' of airy sort. Tom Carr'll be thar too—unarmed."
At the name Asa Gregory flinched as if he had been smitten in the face, but the messenger went persuasively on:
"Thar'll be es many of our folks thar es his'n. They'll be consortin' tergither plum peaceable—twell ye walks inter ther room. Them Gregories an' them Carrs air all armed. Hit's jest you an' Tom thet hain't. When we comes inter ther place, Tom'll start down ther aisle to'rds ye—an' you'll start up to'rds Tom." The speaker paused, and Asa prompted in a low, restrained voice, though his face was chalky pale with smothered emotion:
"Go on! I'm hearkenin'."
Saul shrugged his shoulders. "Wa'al, thet's all. Ye knows ther rest es well es I does. Them fellers on both sides air trustin' their lives ter ther two of ye. Ef you an' Tom shakes hands they'll all ride home quiet as turtle-doves—an' take off th'ar coats ter beat this man fer Governor. Ef you an' Tom don't shake hands—or ef one or t'other of ye makes a single fightin' move, every gun under thet roof'll start poppin' an ther place'll be a slaughter house. They all knows thet full well. Ther lawyer knows hit, too—an' he's a'riskin' hit fer ther sake of his party."
The indicted man took a step forward. "Stand up hyar an' look me in ther eyes," he commanded shortly, and, when Fulton rose, they stood, face to face, so close that each could feel the breath of the other's lips.
The steady brown eyes bored into the shiftier pupils of greenish-gray with an implacable searching, and Asa's voice came in an uncompromising hardness:
"Saul, ye're askin' me ter trust ye right far. I hain't got nothin' but yore word fer hit thet thar'll be airy man over thar at thet meetin' but them thet seeks my life. This may be what ye says hit is or hit may be a trap—but ye're a kinsman of mine, an' I've got a license ter believe ye—oncet. Ef ye're lyin' ter me, ye're mighty apt ter hev ter pay fer hit."
"Ef I'm lyin' ter ye, Asa," came the prompt response, "I'm ready ter pay fer hit."
Gregory drew on his coarse socks and heavy shoes. "Alright," he acceded curtly, "I'm a'goin' along with ye now, an' I reckon we'd better hasten."