Godfrey was mollified at once. The sight of money always made him good-natured, especially if he saw a prospect of handling it himself.
“How much ye got thar?” he asked, in a very different tone of voice.
“Three dollars an’ a half,” replied Dan. “Silas Jones done offered it to me fur my beef, an’ when I axed him whar was the money, he counted it right down. Mebbe I could lend ye another dollar, pop, if ye’ll promise to pay it back.”
Godfrey had in some way collected his wandering wits by this time. He reviewed the situation hastily while Dan was speaking, and greatly to the surprise of the boy, who had never known him to refuse money before, replied:
“No, Dannie, the money is yourn, an’ I wont take it from ye. I’ll have plenty of my own in a week or two—jest as soon as we find that thar bar’l. But, Dannie, I had got my mind all made up fur somethin’ nice, an’ I can’t no ways do without some fresh meat of some kind fur supper; so if ye’ll take yer rifle an’ go right out an’ shoot some squirrels, I’ll say no more about yer sellin’ the meat. I’ll unhitch the critter, too.”
Dan, glad to be let off so easily, and wondering greatly at this unusual display of forbearance on the part of his father, readily agreed to this proposal. But he didn’t quite like the look of things. He had a suspicion that this was simply a ruse on the part of his father, and that when he came out from behind the wagon and entered the cabin to get his rifle, Godfrey would seize him and bring the rawhide into play. Experience had taught him that his father’s word was not always to be depended on, so he was very cautious in his movements. He accompanied the wagon to the corn-crib, waited until his father began to unharness the mule, and then darted into the cabin, secured his rifle and ammunition, and quickly put a ten rail fence between him and his sire. Then he began to breathe easier.
Being left to himself, Godfrey proceeded very leisurely to unharness the mule and detach him from the wagon. Just as the work was about to be completed, he heard the report of his son’s rifle away off in the woods. The sound had a strange effect upon him. His actions seemed to say that he had been waiting for it. Quickly dropping the harness, which he was on the point of hanging in its accustomed place, he seized the wooden pin that concealed the entrance to Dan’s hiding-place, and pulled it out. Then he took the packages from his pocket, one by one, and put them back in the opening just as he had found them—the powder first, the lead next, then the caps, and lastly the money; and when they were all in, he drove the pin back to its place and hung the harness upon it. He seemed to feel relieved after it was done. He drew a long breath, and started for the cabin to solace himself with a pipe, as he always did after he had exerted himself in any unusual degree.
In half an hour the sun began to sink behind the trees on the opposite bank of the river, and then Godfrey’s scattered family began to come in, one after the other. First came his wife, who had been over to see a neighbor with whom she had been on visiting terms in better days. On her arm she carried a basket covered with a snow-white napkin. Godfrey’s eyes glistened at the sight of it. He had seen a good many such baskets carried into his house of late, and he knew that every time they came he and the rest of the family had something good to eat for a day or two.
“Now, Godfrey, if you will chop some wood and start a fire, I’ll get some supper,” said his wife, cheerfully.
The man took his pipe out of his mouth and groaned. Chopping wood was his pet aversion.