“Tried to,” grunted Pole, in high disgust, “but Miller says it's no good to think of accusin' Craig. He says we can' t prove a thing on 'im, unless we ketch Winship. He says that sort of a steal is the easiest thing on earth, an' that it's done every day. But that's beca'se he was fetched up in the law,” Pole finished. “We-uns out heer in the mountains kin fish up other ways o' fetchin' a scamp to time without standin' 'im up before a thick-headed jury, or lettin' 'im out on bond till he dies o' old age. You've got sense enough to know that, Uncle Ab.”
The slanting rays of the setting sun struck the old man in the face. There was a tinkle of cow-bells in the pasture below the cabin. The outlaw in Pole Baker was a thing Abner Daniel deplored; and yet, to-day it was a straw bobbing about on the troubled waters of the old man' s soul towards which, if he did not extend his hand, he looked interestedly. A grim expression stole into his face, drawing the merry lines down towards his chin.
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” he said.
Pole Baker grunted in sheer derision. “I've done fool things whar thar wasn't a thing to be made by 'em. By gum! I'd do ten dozen fer jest a bare chance o' shakin' that wad o' cash in Alan Bishop's face, an' so would you, dern yore hide—so would you, Uncle Ab Daniel!”
Abner blinked at the red sun.
“The boy's been bad treated,” he said, evasively; “bad, bad, bad! It's squeezed life an' hope out o' him.”
“Well, you are a church-member, an' so fur in good-standin',” said Pole, “an' I ain't agoin' to pull you into no devilment; but ef I see any way—I say ef I see any way, I 'll come an' tell you the news.”
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” said Abner, and turned to go. He paused a few paces away and said, “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” He motioned towards the cabin. “You've got them in thar to look after.”
Pole let him walk on a few paces, then he climbed over the fence and caught him up. He drew the piece of quartz containing the tiny nugget of gold from his pocket, which he had shown Abner and Dole on a former occasion. “You see that, Uncle Ab,” he said. “That dirty rock is like friendship in general, but that little yaller lump is like my friendship fer Alan Bishop. It's the puore thing, solid an' heavy, an' won't lose color. You don't know when that boy done his first favor to me. It was away back when we was boys together. A feller at Treadwell's mill one day, behind my back, called me a bad name—a name no man will take or can. He used my mother's name, God bless her! as puore an' holy a woman as ever lived, to git back at me. He hadn't no sooner spoke it than Alan was at his throat like a wild-cat. The skunk was bigger 'n him, but Alan beat 'im till he was black all over. I never heerd about it till about two weeks after it happened an' the feller had moved out West. Alan wouldn't let nobody tell me. I axed 'im why he hadn't let me know. 'Beca'se,' ses he, 'you'd 'a' killed 'im an' 'a' got into trouble, an' he wasn't wuth it. 'That's what he said, Uncle Ab.” Pole's big-jawed face was full of struggling emotion, his voice was husky, his eyes were filling. “That's why it's a-killin' me to see 'im robbed of all he's got—his pride, his ambition, an' the good woman that loves 'im. Huh! ef I jest knowed that pie-faced hypocrite had his money he wouldn't have it long.”
“I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” Abner looked into the fellow's face, drew a long, trembling breath, and finished, “I wouldn't—but I 'll be dumed ef I know what I'd do!”