Historical Newspapers of South Carolina

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_ . -i.i. ^ , j,,__ .. . A..- -V I DANIEL t- WILL N. x[ HARDEN Author of “XVejUrftU" >x~H»4 ^ -^H**!* •!• 4» <• -M* ❖ 4 4 ; Copyright, 1902, by HARPER © BROS.. Who Publish the Work in Book Form. Ail Rights Reserved • - M.J. * *J. ►f* *1**1* T t' *3 |d CHAPTER XXII. BOUT noon that day as Pole Baker sat on a fallen tree* near the roadside in the lone- : liest spot of that rugged coun try, his horse grazing behind him, he saw Craig coming up the gradual in cline from the creek. Pole stood up and caught the bridle rein of his horse and muttered: “Now. Pole Baker, durn yore hide, j you’ve got brains—at least some folks say you have—an’ so has he. Ef you don’t git the best of that scalawag, yo’re done fer. You’ve put purty big things through. Now put this un through or shet up.’’ “Well, here you are," merrily cried out the ex-banker as he came up. He was smiling expectantly. “Your se fret's safe with me. I haven’t met a soul that I know since I left town.” “I'm glad you didn’t. Mr. Craig." Pole said. “I don’t want anybody a-meddlin’ with my business.” He pointed up the rather steep and rocky | road that led gradually up the moun tain. “We’ve got two or three mile furder to go. Have you had any din nerV” “I put a cold biscuit and a slice of ham in my pocket,” said Craig. “It ’ll do me till supper.” Pole mounted and led the way up the unfrequented road. “I may as well tell you. Mr. Craig, that I used to be a moonshin >r in these mountains, an’ “Lord. I knew that, Baker. Who j doesn’t. I’d like to know?” Pole’s big booled legs swung back and forth like pendulums from the flanks of his horse. “I was a-goin’ to tell you that 1 had a hide out, whar I kept stuff stored, that wasn't knowed by one livin’ man.” “Well, you must have had a slick place from all I’ve heard.” said Craig, ■till in his vast good humor with him self ami everybody else. “The best natur’ ever built,” said Pole; “an’ whal’s more, It was in thar that 1 found the gold. I reckon it ud ’a’ been diskivered long ago, ef it had ’a’ been above ground.” “Then it’s In—a sort of cave?” ven tured Craig. “That’s jest It; but I’ve got the mouth of It closed up so It ud fool even a bloodhound.” Half an hour later Pole drew rein In a most isolated spot, near a great yawn Ing canyon fn in which came a roaring aound of rmiiing water and clashing winds. The sky overhead was blue and cloudiest (he air at that altitude waa crisp aid rarelied. and held the odor of sprree pine. With a laugh Pole dlsmoumed. “What ef I was to tell you, Mr. Craig, that you was in ten yards o’ my old den right now?” Craig looked about in surprise. “I’d think you was making fun of me—ten derfootiu’, as we used to say out west.” “I’m givfn’ it to you straight,” said Pole, pointing with Ids riding switch. “Do you see that pile o’ rocks?" Craig nodded. “Right under them two flat ones is the mouth o' my den,” said Pole. “Now Jet’s hiteh to that tyemlock, an’ I’ll show you the whole thing.” When they had fastened their horses to swinging limits in a dense thicket of laurel and rhododendron hushes, they went to the pile of rocks. “1 toted mighty nigh all of ’em from higher up,” Pole explained. “Some o’ the biggest I rolled down from tliat cliff above.” “I don’t sec bow you are going to get Into your hole in the ground," said Craig, with a laugh of pleasant antici pation. Pole picked up a big, smooth stick of hickory, shaped like a crowbar, and thrust the end of it under the largest rock. “Huh! I’ll show you in a Jiffy.” It was an enormous stone weighing over throe hundred pounds; but with his strong lever and knotted muscles the ex-mooushiner managed to slide it slowly to the right, disclosing a black hole about two feet square in the rag ged stone. From this protruded into the light the ends of a crude ladder leading down about twenty-flve feet to the bottom of the cave. “Ugh!” Craig shuddered as he peered Into the dank blackness. “You don’t mean that we are to go down there?” It was a crisis. With his big feet dangling in the hole, Pole threw him- self back and gave vent to a hearty, prolonged laugh that went ringing and echoing about among the cliffs and chasms. “I ’lowed this ud make yore flesh crawl,” he said. “Looks like the open in’ to thffbad place, don't It?” “It certainly docs,” said Craig, some what reassured by Pole’s levity. “Why, it ain’t morc'n forty feet square,” said Pole. “Walt till I-run down an’ make a light. I’ve got some fat pine torches down at the foot o’ the ladder.” “Well, l believe I will let you go first,” said Craig, with an uneasy little laugh. Pole went down the ladder, reckless ly thumping bis heels on the rungs. He was lost to sight from above, but in a moment Craig heard him strike a match and saw the red, growing flame of a sputtering torch from which twisted a rope of smoke. When it was well ablaze, Pole called up the ladder: “Come oij no^ an’ watch, whar you put yore feet. This end o’ the ladder is solid as the rock o' tJibralty.” The square of daylight above was cut off, and in u moment the ex-banker stood beside his guide. “Now come down this way,” said Pole, and with the torch held high he led the way into a part of the chamber where the rock overhead sloped down lower. Here lay some old whisky bar rels. two or three lager beer kegs and the iron hoops of several barrels that had been burned. There were several one gallon jugs with corncob stoppers. Pole swept ids hand over thorn with a laugh. “If you was a drinkin’ man. I could treat you to a thimbleful or two left in them jugs,” lie said almost apol ogetically. “But I don’t drink. Baker,” Craig said. His premonition of danger seemed to have returned to him and to lie driv en in by the dank coolness of the cav ern, the evidence of past outlawry around him. Pole heaped his pieces of pine against a rock and added to them the chunks of some barrel staves, which set up a lively popping sound like a tiny fusil lade of artillery. “You see that rook behind you, Mr. Craig?” asked Pole. “Well, set down ou it. Before we go any furder me ’n you’ve got to have a understanding.” The old man stared hesitatingly for au instant, and then, after carefully feeling of the stone, he complied. “I thought we already—but. of course,” lie said haltingly, “I’m ready to agree to anything that ’ll make you feel safe.” “I kinder 'lowed yon would.” And, to Craig’s overwhelming astonishment. Pole drew a revolver from his hip pock et and looked at it, turning the cylin der with a d i t thumb. “You mean. Baker”— But Craig’s words remained unborn in his bewil dered brain. The rigor of death itself seemed to have beset his tongue. A cold sweat broke out on him. “I mean that I’ve tuck the trouble to fetch you beer fer a purpose, Mr. Craig, an’ thar ain’t any use in heatin’ about the bush to git at it.” Craig made another effort at utter ance, but failed. Pole could hear his rapid breathing and see the terrified gleaming of his wide open eyes. “You’ve had a lots o’ douim's, Mr. Craig,” said Pole. "You’ve made yore mistakes an’ had yore good luck, but "You’ve trapped me!" 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 Iteginning 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 Mm more than u brother. That man you’ve robbed of every dol lar an’ hope on earth. I’ve fetched you beer 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 $25,000 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 purty bad fix.” •aid 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 u helpless man?” The words were like a prayer. "I’d bottle you up beer to die," said Pole Baker firmly. "You've met me in this lonely spot, an’ no iium couhi lay yore end to me. In fact, all that know you would swear you’d run olY from the folks you’ve defrauded. You see, nothin’ hut that money o’ Ab'i Bishop’s kin possibly save you. Yoi know that well enough, an’ thar ain’t ft bit o’ use palavenn* trbout it. I've fetched a pen an’ ink an* paper, au’ 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 ng’in nur nobody else till you face yore Maker.” Craig bent over his knees and i 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 pou and ink from ids pants pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Git to work,” he said. “You ueedn’t try to turn me, you durned 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 fresli hold of the handle of his weapon. “I’m not goin’ to waste time with you. Either you git me Alau Bishop's money •>r you’ll die. Hurry up!” "Will yon keep faith with me—if— if’- “Yes, durn you, why wouldn’t I?" ; A gleam of triumph flashed in the out- | law’s eyes. i The ex-banker had taken the pen | and Pole spread out the sheet of paper i ou his knee. “What assurance have IV” stam mered Craig, his face like a death mask against the rock behind him. “You see. after you got the money, you might think it safer to leave me here, thinking that 1 would prosecute you. I wouldn't, as God is my judge, hut you might be afraid”— “I’m not afraid o’ nothin’,” said Pole. “Old man. you couldn’t handle me without puttin’ yoreself in jail fer the rest o’ yore life. That order’s a-goin’ to he proof that you have money when you've swore publicly that you didn't. No; when I'm paid hack Alan Bishop’s money I'll let you go. I don’t want to kill a man fer jest tryiu’ to steal an’ not makiu’ the riffle.” The logic struck home. The warmth of hope diffused itself over the gaunt form. “Then I'll write a note to my wife.” he said. Pole reached for one of the torches and held it near the paper. "Well, I'm glad I won’t have to go furder ’n Darley,” he said. "It ’ll be better fer both of us. By ridiu’ peert I can let you out before sundown. You may git a late supper at Darley, hut It’s a sight better ’n gittin’ none beer an’ uo bed to speak of.” “I’m putting my life in your bauds, Baker,” said Craig, and with an un steady hand he hegau to write. “Hold on thar,” said Pole. “You’ll know the best way to write to her, but when the money’s mentioned I want you to say the $25,000 deposited in the bank by the Bishops. You see, I’m not goin’ to tote uo order fer money 1 hain’t no right to. An’ I’ll tell you an other thing, old man, you needn’t throw out no hint to her to have me arrested. As God is my final Judge, ef I’m tuck up for this, they’ll never make me tell whar you are. I'd wait until you’d pegged out, anyway.” “I’m not setting any trap for you. Baker,” whined Craig. “You’ve got the longest head of any man I ever knew. You’ve got me in your power, and all I can ask of you is my life. I’ve got Bishop's money hidden in my house. I am willing to restore it if you will re lease me. I can write my wife a note that will cause her to give it to you. Isn't that fair?” “That’s all I want,” said Pole. “An’ I’ll say this to you: I’ll agree to use ray Influence with Alan Bishop not to ban die you by law; but the best thing fer you an’ yore family to do is to shake the dirt of Darley off’n yore feet an’ seek fresh pastures. These round beer ain’t as green, in one way, as some I’ve seed.” Craig wrote the note and handed it up to Baker. Pole read it slowly and then said: “You mought ’a’ axed ’er to excuse bad writin’ an’ spellin’, an’ hopin’ these few lines will find you en joyin’ the same blessin’s; but ef It gits the boodle that’s all I want. Now you keep yore shirt on, an’ don’t git skeerd o’ the darkness. It will be as black as pitch, an’ you kin beer yore eyelids creak after I shet the front door, but I’ll be back, ef I find yore old lady hain’t run off with a handsomer man an’ tuck the swag with ’er. I’m glad you cautioned 'er agin axin’ me ques tions.” Pole backed to the foot of the ladder, followed by Craig. “Don’t leave me here. Baker,” he said imploringly. “Don't, for God’s sake! I swear I’ll go with you and get you the money.” “I can’t do that, Mr. Craig; but I’ll be back as shore as fate, ef I get that cash,” promised Pole. “It all depends on that. I’ll keep my word if you do your’n.” “I am going to trust you,” said the old man, with the pleading intonation of a cowed and frightened child. After he had got out Pole thrust his head into the opening again. “It ’ll be like you to come up beer an’ try to move this rock," he called out, “but you mought as well not try it, fer I’m goin’ to add about a dumpeart load o’ rocks to it to keep the wolves from dlggln’ you out.” CHAPTER XXIII. lAYBURN MILLER and Alan j spent that day on the river trying to catch fish, hut with no luck at all. returning emp ty handed to the farmhouse for a late dinner. They passed the afternoon at target shooting on the lawn with rifle* and revolvers, ending the day by a reckless ride on their horses across the fields, over fences and ditches, after the manner of fox hunting, a sport not often Indulged in in that part of the country, Ju the evening, us they sat in the bit; •sit—” rr-firi ?rr.n?flng after supper ci gars, accompanied by Abner Daniel, with his long, cane stemmed pipe, Mrs. Rishop came into the room in her quiet way, smoothing her apron ffith her delicate hands. “Pole Baker's rid up an’ hitched at the front gate,” site said. “Did you send Mm to town fer anything, Alan?” “No, mother,” replied her son. “I reckon lie’s come to get more meat. Is father out there?” “I think he’s some'r's about the sta ble,” said Mrs. Bishop. Mjller laughed. "1 guess Pole isn't the best pay in the world, is he?” “Father never weighs or keeps ae count of anything he gets,” said Alan. "Thar's yore money! It's all thar." “They both make a guess at it when cotton is sold. Father calls it Mump ing’ the thing, and usually Pole gets the lump. But he’s all right, and I wish we could do more for him. Fa tlier was really thinking about helping him in some substantial way when the crash came”— “Thar!" broke in Daniel, with a gur gling laugh. “I’ve wou my bet. I bet to myse’f jest now that ten minutes wouldn’t pass ’fore Craig an’ his bu’st up would be mentioned.” “We have been at it, off aud ou, all day,” said Miller, with a low laugh. “The truth is it makes me madder than anything I ever encountered.” “Do you know why?” asked Abnei seriously, just as Pole Baker came through the dining room and' leaned against the door jamb facing them. “It's beca’se”—nodding a greeting to Pole along with the others—“it’s beea’se you know in reason that he's goi that money.” “Oil, I wouldn't say that!” protested Miller, in the tone of a man of broad experience in worldly affairs. “I wouldn't say that.” “Well. I would, an’ do." said Abner, in the full tone of decision. "I know he’s got it!" "Well, yo’re wrong thar. Uncle Ab,” said Pole, striding forward and sinking into a chair. "You’ve got sis good judg ment as any man i ever run across. I thought like you do ones*. I’d ’a’ tuck my oatli that he had it about two hours by sun this evenin’, but I kin swear he hain’t a cent of it now." “Do you mean that. Pole?” Abner stared across tin* wide hearth at him fixedly. “He hain’t got it. Uncle Ab.” Pole was beginning to smile mysteriously. “He did have it. hut he hain’t got it now. I got it from Mm. blast his ugly pictur’!” “You got it?" gasped Daniel. “You?’ “Yes. I made up my mind he had it, an’ it deviled me so^mucb that I dg termined to have it by hook or crook ef it killed me or put me in hook the rest o’ my life.” Pole rose and took a packet wrapped in brown paper from under ids rough coat and laid it on the table near Alan. "God bless you, old boy.” fie said, “thar’s yore money! It’s all thar. I counted it. It’s in fifties an’ hundreds.” Breathlessly and with expanded eyes Alan broke the string about the packet and opened it. “Great God!” he muttered. Miller sprang up and looked at the stack of bills, but said nothing. Abner, leaning forward, uttered a little, low laugh. “You—you didn’t kill Mm, did you, Pole, old boy—you didn’t, did you?” he asked. “Didn’t harm a hair of his head." said Pole. "All I wanted was Alan’s money, an’ thar it is!” “Well.” grunted Daniel, “I’m glad you spared his life. And I thank God you got the money.” Miller was now hurriedly rtmnine over the bills. “You say you counted it, Baker?” lie said, pale with pleased excitement. “Three times—fust when it was turn ed over to me an’ twice on the way out heor from town.” Mrs. Rishop had not spoken until now, standing in the shadows of the others, as if bewildered by what seem ed a mocking impossibility. “Is it our money—is it our’n?” she finally found voice to say. “Oh, Is it. Pole?" “Yes’m,” replied Pole; "it’s yo’rn.” He produced a crumpled piece of pa per and handed it to Miller. “Heer’s Craig’s order on his wife fer It, an’ In ft he acknowledges it’s the cash depos ited by Mr. Bishop. He won’t give me no trouble. I’ve got Mm fixed. He’ll leave Darley in the nioruin’. He’s afeerd this Ml git out an’ he’ll be lynched.” Alan was profoundly moved. He transferred ids gaze from the money to Pole’s face and leaned toward him. “You did it out of friendship for me,” he said, his voice shaking. “That’s what I did it fer. Alan, an' I wish 1 could do it over ag’in. When I laid hold o’ that wad an’ knowed It was the tiling you wanted more’n any thing else. I felt like flyin’." “Tell us all about it. Baker,” said Miller, wrapping up the stack of hills. “All right.” said Pole, hut Mrs. Bish op Interrupted him. “Wait fer Alfred,” she said, her voice rising and cracking in delight. "Wait; I’ll run find Mm.” She went out through the dining room, toward the stables, calling her hus band at every step. "Alfred! Oh, Al fred!” “Heer!” she heard him call out from qne of the stables. She leaned over the fence opposite the closed d<H>r. behind which she hail heard his voice. “Oi». Alfred!" she called. “Come out, quick! I’ve got news fer you- big, big news!” She heard him grumbling as he emp tied some ears of corn into the trough of the stall containing Alan’s favorite horse, and then with a growl he emerg ed into the starlight. “That fool nigger only give Alan's boss six ears o’ corn,” he fumed. “I know, beea’se I counted the cobs. The boss had licked the trough clean an’ gnawed the ends o’ the cobs. The idea o’ starvin’ my stock right before my”— “Oh. Alfred, what do you think has happened?” his wife broke in. “We’ve got the hank money back! Pole Baker managed somehow to get it He’s go in’ to tell about It now. Come on in!’’ Bishop closed the door behind him. He fumbled with the chain and pad lock for an instant then he moved to ward her, his lips hanging, his eyes protruding. "I’ll believe my part o’ that when" “But” she cried, opening the gate for him to pass through, “the money's thar in the house on the table; it’s been counted. I say It’s thar! Don’t you believe it?” The old man moved through the gate mechanically. He paused to fasten it wiih tlic iron ring over the two posts. Rut u 't' i that lie seemed to lose the- uower of locomo; :<*n. He stood facing her. his features working. "I'll 'iclieve my part o’ that cat-an'- M ,11 story whi n I sec” "V.’ell, come in the house, then,” she ei'b'd. "You kin lay yore hands on it tin’ count it. It’s an awful big pile, an* nothin’ less than fitly dollar hills." Grasping his arm, she half dragged, half led him into the house. Eut. % ing the sitting room, he strode to the table and, without a word, picket! up the package and opened it. He made an effort to count the money, but his fingers seemed to have lost their cun niug aud he gave it up. “It’s all there,” Miller assured him. “and it’s your money. You ueedu’t bother about that.” Bishop sat down in his place in the chimney corner, the packet on his knees, while Pole Baker modestly and not without touches of humor recount ed ids experiences. “The toughest job I had was manag in’ the woman,’’ Pole laughed. “You kin always count on a woman to he contrary. I believe ef you was tryin’ to git some women out of » '.minin’ house they'd want to have the'r way about it. She read the order an’ got white about the .gills an’ screamed, low, so nobody wouldn’t heer ’er, an then wanted to ax questions. That’s the ft male of it. She knowed in reason that Craig was dead fixed an’ couldn't git out until she complied with the in- s ruetions. but she wanted to know all about it. Then 1 told ’er she'd be ar rested fer boldin’ the money, an’ that got her in a trot. She fetched if eat purty quick, a-cryin' an’ abusin' me by turns. As soon as the money left 'er hands, though, she begun to he;; me to ride fast. I wanted to come hoi r fust, hut I felt sorter sorry t'er Crain, in' w<*>»t an’ lot Mm out. He was the gladdest man to sec me you ever looked at. He thought I was goin’ to leave Mm thar. He looked like ho wanted to hug me. He says W.uship wasn’t rum-h to Mane. IM ey both got in deep water speculatin', an’ Craig was tempted to cabbage on the $25,000." When Pole had concluded, the gioup sat in silence for a longtime. It looked as if Bishop wanted to openly thank Pole for what lie had <’oue, hut be bad never done such a thing in the presence of others, and lie could not pull himself to it. He sat crouched up in his tilted chair as if burning up with the joy of ins release. The silence was broken by Abner Daniel as he filled his pipe anew and stood over the fireplace. “They say money’s a cuss an* the root of all evil,” he said dryly, “but in this case it’s give Pole Baker thar a chance to show what’s in Mm. I’d ’a’ give the last cent 1 have to ’a’ done what he did today. I grant you be used deception, but it was the fust( water sort that that Bible king resorted to when he made out he was goin* to divide that baby by cuttin’ it in halves. He fetched out the good an’ squelched the bad.” Abner glanced at Pole and gave one of his impulsive Inward ; laughs. “My hoy, when 1 reach t’other j shore I expect to see whole strings o’ ; seeb lawbreakers as you a-playin’ leap frog on the golden sands. You don't sing an’ pray a whole lot, nur keep yore religion in sight, but when thar’s , work to be done you shuck off yore shirt an’ do it like a wildcat a-scrateh in’.” No one spoke after this outburst for several minutes, though the glanees cast in his direction showed the em barrassed ex-moonshiner that one and all had sanctioned Abner Daniel’s opin ion. Bishop leaned forward and looked at the clock, and, seeing that it was 9, he put the money in a bureau drawer and turned the key. Then he took dowu the big family Bible from its shelf aud sat down near the lump. They all knew what the action portended. This sfirv will he continued in next Friday’s issue. Subscribe for The Ledger To Cure a Cold in One Day Tda Laxative Bromo Quinine Tablets. Seven MUBon boxes sold in post U months. This Signature, ^ Cures Grip in Two Days. on every box. 25c. •J*r • ; .54—.. Z: r?? 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