“Marse Morey,” said old Marsh, as Morey and Amos climbed into the creaking vehicle, “yo doin’ right. Go right to Major Carey. He git yo’ outen yo’ trouble. But don’t yo’ go traipsin’ ’roun’ dat Captain Barber. He ain’ no better dan Jedge Lummix. Go right to Major Carey—he’s yo’ frien.’”
“Still,” laughed Morey, “we might meet Marshal Robinson and he might put me in jail. So goodbye until I see you again.” He held out his hand.
“Go ’long, boy. Ain’t no Marshal Rob’ison gwine git yo’,” and the old darkey chuckled. “Amos,” he added with mock sternness, “don’t yo’ come back ’yar widdout Marse Morey.”
“No, sah, I won’t,” responded the perturbed Amos.
“Anyway, goodbye, Marsh, ’till we see you again. We may not come back right away. Goodbye.”
The old “overseer” turned away with another chuckle.
“Major Carey’ll git yo’ outen yo’ mess. I’ll leab de gate open. Take care ob dat hoss.”
By the time sleepy Betty had reached Morey’s cache of clothing and provisions, old Marsh was well on his way back to his cabin. As Morey stored the valise, basket and blankets in the surrey, his hand fell on a hard round object. Drawing it out into the pale starlight he discovered something tied in an old red bandanna handkerchief.
“This yours, Amos?” he asked, feeling the unyielding contents.