“I'd bottle you up heer to die,” said Pole Baker, firmly. “You've met me in this lonely spot, an' no man could lay yore end to me. In fact, all that know you would swear you'd run off from the folks you've defrauded. You see nothin' but that money o' Alan Bishop's kin possibly save you. You know that well enough, an' thar ain't a bit o' use palaverin' about it. I've fetched a pen an' ink an' paper, an' you've got to write me an order fer the money. If I have to go as fur off as Atlanta, I 'll take the fust train an' go after it. If I git the money, you git out, ef I don't you won't see me agin, nur nobody else till you face yore Maker.”
Craig bent over his knees and groaned.
“You think I have money,” he said, straightening up. “Oh, my God!”
“I know it,” said Pole. “I don't think anything about it—I know it.”
He took out the pen and ink from his pants pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Git to work,” he said. “You needn't try to turn me, you damned old hog!”
Craig raised a pair of wide-open, helpless eyes to the rigid face above him.
“Oh, my God!” he said, again.
“You let God alone an' git down to business,” said Pole, taking a fresh hold on the handle of his weapon. “I'm not goin' to waste time with you. Either you git me Alan Bishop's money or you 'll die. Hurry up!”
“Will you keep faith with me—if—if—”
“Yes, durn you, why wouldn't I?” A gleam of triumph flashed in the outlaw's eyes. Up to this moment he had been groping in experimental darkness. He now saw his way clearly and his voice rang with dawning triumph.