Craig made another effort at utterance, but failed. Pole could hear his rapid breathing and see the terrified gleaming of his wide-open eyes.
“You've had a lots o' dealin' s, Mr. Craig,” said Pole. “You've made yore mistakes an' had yore good luck, but you never did a bigger fool thing 'an you did when you listened to my tale about that lump o' gold.”
“You've trapped me!” burst from Craig's quivering lips.
“That's about the size of it.”
“But—why?” The words formed the beginning and the end of a gasp.
Pole towered over him, the revolver in his tense hand.
“Mr. Craig, thar is one man in this world that I'd die fer twenty times over. I love 'im more than a brother. That man you've robbed of every dollar an' hope on earth. I've fetched you heer to die a lingerin' death, ef—ef, I say, ef—you don't refund his money. That man is Alan Bishop, an' the amount is twenty-five thousand dollars to a cent.”
“But I haven't any money,” moaned the crouching figure; “not a dollar that I kin lay my hands on.”
“Then you are in a damn bad fix,” said Pole. “Unless I git that amount o' money from you you 'll never smell a breath o' fresh air or see natural daylight.”
“You mean to kill a helpless man?” The words were like a prayer.