“How much?” asked Jack.
“That's a lot of money,” said the outlaw quickly. “A heap fur you to need.”
“It's not fur me,” he said—“I don't need it—I wouldn't have it for myself. It's for him—see!” he pointed to the sleeping man on the low cot. “Jack, I've been talkin' to the Doctor—he examined Cap'n Tom's head, and he says it'd be an easy job—that it's a shame it ain't been done befo'—that in a city to the North,—he gave me the name of a surgeon there who could take that pressure from his head and make him the man he was befo'—the man, mind you, the man he was befo'.”
Jack sat up excited. His eyes glittered.
“Then there's Shiloh,” went on the old man—“it'll mean life to her too—life to git away from the mill.
“Cap'n Tom and Shiloh—I must have it, Jack—I must have it. God will provide a way. I'd give my home—I'd give everything—just to save them two—Cap'n Tom and little Shiloh.”
He felt a touch on his shoulder and looked up.
Jack Bracken stood before him, clutching the handle of his big Colt's revolver, and his hat was pulled low over his eyes. He was flushed and panting. A glitter was in his eyes, the glitter of the old desperado spirit returned.
“Bishop,” he said, “ever' now and then it comes over me ag'in, comes over me—the old dare-devil feelin'.” He held up his pistol: “All week I've missed somethin'. Last night I fingered it in my sleep.”