The old man looked quietly into the muzzle of the revolver and said, with a laugh:
“This ain't 'zactly my benediction time, Jack Bracken, an' I've no notion of h'istin' my arms an' axin' a blessin' over you an' that old pistol. Put it up an' tell me what you want,” he said more softly.
“Well, you do know me,” said the man, coming forward and thrusting his pistol into its case. “I wa'nt sho' it was you,” he said, “and I wa'nt sho' you'd kno' me if it was. In my business I have to be mighty keerful,” he added with a slight laugh.
He came up to the saddle-skirt and held out his hand, half hesitatingly, as he spoke.
The Bishop—as every one knew him—glanced into the face before him and saw something which touched him quickly. It was grief-stricken, and sorrow sat in the fierce eyes, and in the shadows of the dark face. And through it all, a pleading, beseeching appeal for sympathy ran as he half doubtingly held out his hand.
“Why,—yes—, I'll take it, Jack, robber that you are,” said the old man cheerily. “You may not be as bad as they say, an' no man is worse than his heart. But what in the worl' do you want to hold up as po' a man as me—an' if I do say it, yo' frien' when you was a boy?”
“I know,” said the other—“I know. I don't want yo' money, even if you had it. I want you. You've come as a God-send. I—I couldn't bury him till you'd said somethin'.”
His voice choked—he shook with a suppressed sob.
The bishop slid off his horse: “What is it, Jack? You hain't kilt anybody, have you?”
“No—no”—said the other—“it's little—little Jack—he's dead.”