“Every dollar of it,” said Jack Bracken. “It come from railroads, banks and express companies. I didn't feel squirmish about takin' it, for all o' them are robbers. The only diff'r'nce betwix' them an' me is that they rob a little every day, till they get their pile, an' I take mine from 'em, all at onct.”
He thought awhile, then he said: “But it must all go back to 'em, Jack. Let them answer for their own sins. Leave it here until next week—an' then we will come an' haul it fifty miles to the next town, where you can express it to them without bein' known, or havin' anybody kno' what's in the buckets till you're safe back here in this town. I'll fix it an' the note you are to write. They'll not pester you after they get their money. The crowd you've named never got hot under a gold collar. A clean shave will change you so nobody will suspect you, an' there's a good openin' in town for a blacksmith, an' you can live with me in my cabin.”
“But there's one thing I've kept back for the las',” said Jack, after they had gone into the front part of the room and sat down on the deer skins there.
“That sword there”—and he pointed to the wall where it hung.
The Bishop glanced up, and as he did so he felt a strange thrill of recognition run through him—“It belongs to Cap'n Tom,” said Jack quietly.
The old man sprang up and took it reverently, fondly down.
“Jack—” he began.
“I was at Franklin,” went on Jack proudly. “I charged with old Gen. Travis over the breastworks near the Carter House. I saw Cap'n Tom when he went under.”
“Cap'n Tom,” repeated the old man slowly.
“Cap'n Tom, yes—he saved my life once, you know. He cut me down when they were about to hang me for a spy—you heard about it?”