Kerry looked at his host and wondered that any man should hope to tamper with the affections of her who loved him.
“Wed we was,” the mountain-man went on; and an imperceptible pause followed the words. “We rid down to Garyville to be wed, an' we went from the jestice's office to the office of this here Dickert. He had a cuss with him that was no better'n him; an' when it come to the time in the signin' that our names was put down, an' my wife was to be 'examined privately and apart'—ez is right an' lawful—ez to whether I'd made her sign or not, this other cuss steps with her into the hall, an' Dickert turns an' says to me, 'You git a thousand dollars each fer your land—you an' that woman,' he says.
“I never liked the way he spoke—besides what he said; an' I says to him, 'The bargain was made fer five thousand dollars apiece,' says I, 'an' why do we git less?'
“'Beca'se,' says he, a-swellin' up an' lookin' at me red an' devilish,—'beca'se you take my leavin's—you fool! I bought the land of you fer a thousand dollars each—an' there's my deed to it, that you jest signed—I reckon you can read it. Ef I sell the land to the company—it's none o' your business what I git fer it.'
“Well, I can't read—not greatly. I don't know how I knowed—but I did know—that he was gittin' from the company the five thousand dollars apiece that we was to have had. I seen his eye cut round to the hall door, an' I thort he had that money on him (beca'se he was their agent an' they'd trusted him so far) fer to pay me and Euola in cash. With that he grabbed up the deed an' stuffed it into his pocket. Lord! Lord! I could 'a' shook it out o' him—an' the money too—hit's what I would 'a' done if the fool had 'a' kep' his mouth shut. But I reckon hit was God's punishment on him 'at he had to go on sayin', 'Yes, you tuck my leavin's in the money, an' you've tuck my leavin's agin to-day.' Euola was jest comin' into the room when he said that, an' he looked at her. I hit him.” He gazed down the length of his arm thoughtfully. “I ort to be careful when I hit out, bein' stronger than most. But I was mad, an' I hit harder than I thort. I reached over an' grabbed open the table drawer jest fer luck—an' thar was the money. I tuck it. The other cuss he was down on the floor, sorter whimperin' an' workin' over this feller Dickert; an' he begun to yell that I'd killed 'im. With that Euola she gives me one look—white ez paper she was—an' she says, 'Run, Andy honey. I'll git to ye when I kin.'” The mountain-man was silent so long that Kerry thought he was done. But he suddenly said:
“She ketched my sleeve, jest ez I made to start, an' said: 'I'll come, Andy. Mind, Andy, I'll come to ye, ef I live.'” Then there was the silence of sympathy between the two men.
So that was the history of the crime—a very different history from the one Kerry had heard.
“Hit's right tetchy business—er has been—a-tryin' to take Andy Proudfoot,” the outlaw continued; “but, Dan, I'd got mighty tired, time you come. An' Euola—”
Kerry rose abruptly, the memory hot within him of Proudfoot's offer of the night before. The mountaineer got slowly to his feet.
“They's somethin' I wanted to show ye, too, ye remember,” he said. They walked together down the bluff, to where another little cavern, low and shallow, hid itself behind huckleberry-bushes. “I kep' the money here,” Proudfoot said, kneeling in the cramped entrance and delving among the rocks. He drew out a roll of bills and fingered them thoughtfully.