Holcomb laid the powder on the table. What he suspected he dared not formulate into words, let alone tell the hide-out.
"I ain't never forgot ye, Billy, for what ye've done for me," continued the hide-out with a choke in his feeble voice. Then, starting to his feet, the old fear returning, he whispered hoarsely:
"'Tain't safe here for me; I dasn't stay longer."
"Bob," said Holcomb, "you're safe here until daylight; there's my bed."
"No! No! I dassent, Billy."
"But you're wet to the skin," insisted Holcomb.
"So be everything when it rains. I'm wet most of the time. Now I'm a-goin', and a-goin' quick. That's what I come to give ye," and he nodded to the crumpled bit of paper and its contents lying under the lamp's glow.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Bob, down below? I saw Katie last time I drove in."
A hungry eager look stole into the man's face; tears started in his eyes and lost themselves in his matted, unkempt beard.
"Ye see Katie, Billy?" he moaned. "God—how I'd like to! Growing, ain't she? Most 'leven now. Some weeks back since I dared go down. Last time I see her she cried and went on so holdin' on to me I come near givin' myself up I felt so bad; then I knowed that wouldn't git nowhars."