"Jack," said the old man suddenly aroused--"was that you--was it you been puttin' them twenty dollar gol' pieces in the church Bible--between the leds, _ever'_ month for the las' two years? By it I've kep' up the po' of Cottontown. I've puzzled an' wonder'd--I've thought of a dozen fo'ks--but I sed nothin'--was it you?"

The outlaw smiled: "It come from the rich an' it went to the po'.

Come," he said--"that's somethin' we must settle."

He took up the lantern and led the way into the other room. Under a ledge of rocks, securely hid, sat, in rows, half a dozen common water buckets, made of red cedar, with tops fitting securely on them.

The outlaw spread a blanket on the sand, then knelt and, taking up a bucket, removed the top and poured out its contents on the blanket.

They chuckled and rolled and tumbled over each other, the yellow eagles and half eagles, like thoroughbred colts turned out in the paddocks for a romp.

The old man's knees shook under him. He trembled so that he had to sit down on the blanket. Then he ran his hand through them--his fingers open, letting the coins fall through playfully.

Never before had he seen so much gold. Poor as he was and had ever been--much and often as he had suffered--he and his, for the necessities of life, even, knowing its value and the use he might make of it, it thrilled him with a strange, nervous longing--a childish curiosity to handle it and play with it.

Modest and brave men have looked on low-bosomed women in the glitter of dissipative lights with the same feeling.

The old man gazed, silent--doubtless with the same awe which Keats gave to Cortez, when he first looked on the Pacific and stood

"Silent, upon a peak in Darien."

The outlaw lifted another bucket and took off the lid. It also was full. "There are five mo'," he said--"that last one is silver an'

this one--" He lifted the lid of a small cedar box. In it was a large package, wrapped in water-proof. Unravelling it, he shoved out packages of bank bills of such number and denomination as fairly made the old preacher wonder.

"How much in all, Jack?"

"A little the rise of one hundred thousand dollars."

He pushed them back and put the buckets under their ledge of rocks.

"I'd give it all just to have little Jack here agin--an'--an'--start out--a new man. This has cost me ten years of outlawry an' fo'teen bullets. Now I've got all this an'--well--a hole in the groun' an'

little Jack in the hole. If you wanter preach a sermon on the folly of pilin' up money," he went on half ironically, "here is yo' tex'.

All me an' little Jack needed or cu'd use, was a few clothes, some bac'n an' coffee an' flour. Often I'd fill my pockets an' say: 'Well, I'll buy somethin' I want, an' that little Jack will want.' I'd go to town an' see it all, an' think an' puzzle an' wonder--then I'd come home with a few toys, maybe, an' bac'n an' flour an' coffee."

"With all our money we can't buy higher than our source, an' when we go we leave even that behind," he added.

"The world," said the old man quaintly, "is full of folks who have got a big pocket-book an' a bac'n pedigree."

"Do you know who this money belongs to?" he asked the outlaw.

"Every dollar of it," said Jack Bracken. "It come from railroads, banks and express companies. I didn't feel squirmish about takin' it, for all o' them are robbers. The only diff'r'nce betwix' them an' me is that they rob a little every day, till they get their pile, an' I take mine from 'em, all at onct."

He thought awhile, then he said: "But it must all go back to 'em, Jack. Let them answer for their own sins. Leave it here until next week--an' then we will come an' haul it fifty miles to the next town, where you can express it to them without bein' known, or havin'

anybody kno' what's in the buckets till you're safe back here in this town. I'll fix it an' the note you are to write. They'll not pester you after they get their money. The crowd you've named never got hot under a gold collar. A clean shave will change you so n.o.body will suspect you, an' there's a good openin' in town for a blacksmith, an'

you can live with me in my cabin."

"But there's one thing I've kept back for the las'," said Jack, after they had gone into the front part of the room and sat down on the deer skins there.

"That sword there"--and he pointed to the wall where it hung.

The Bishop glanced up, and as he did so he felt a strange thrill of recognition run through him--"It belongs to Cap'n Tom," said Jack quietly.

The old man sprang up and took it reverently, fondly down.

"Jack--" he began.

"I was at Franklin," went on Jack proudly. "I charged with old Gen.

Travis over the breastworks near the Carter House. I saw Cap'n Tom when he went under."

"Cap'n Tom," repeated the old man slowly.

"Cap'n Tom, yes--he saved my life once, you know. He cut me down when they were about to hang me for a spy--you heard about it?"

The Bishop nodded.

"It was his Company that caught me an' they was glad of any excuse to hang me. An' they mighty nigh done it, but Cap'n Tom came up in time to cut me down an' he said he'd make it hot for any man that teched me, that I was a square prisoner of war, an' he sent me to Johnson Island. Of course it didn't take me long to get out of that hole--I escaped."

The Bishop was silent, looking at the sword.

"Well, at Franklin, when I seed Cap'n Tom dyin' as I tho'rt, shunned by the Yankees as a traitor----"

"As a traitor?" asked the old man hotly--"what, after Shiloh--after he give up Miss Alice for the flag he loved an' his old grand sire an' The Gaffs an' all of us that loved him--you call that a traitor?"

"You never heard," said Jack, "how old Gen'l Travis charged the breastworks at Franklin and hit the line where Cap'n Tom's battery stood. Nine times they had charged Cap'n Tom's battery that night--nine times he stood his ground an' they melted away around it.

But when he saw the line led by his own grandsire the blood in him was thicker than water and----"

"An' whut?" gasped the Bishop.

"Well, why they say it was a drunken soldier in his own battery who struck him with the heavy hilt of a sword. Any way I found the old Gen'l cryin' over him: 'My Irish Gray--my Irish Gray,' he kept sayin'. 'I might have known it was you,' and the old Gen'l charged on leaving him for dead. An' so I found him an' tuck him in my arms an'

carried him to my own cabin up yonder on the mountain--carried him an'----"

"An' whut?"--asked the old man, grasping the outlaw's shoulder--"Didn't he die? We've never been able to hear from him."

Jack shook his head. "It 'ud been better for him if he had"--and he touched his forehead significantly.

"Tell me, Jack--quick--tell it all," exclaimed the old man, still gripping Jack's shoulder.

"There's nothin' to tell except that I kept him ever sence--here--right here for two years, with little Jack an' Ephrum, the young n.i.g.g.e.r that was his body servant--he's been our cook an'

servant. He never would leave Cap'n Tom, followed me offen the field of Franklin. An' mighty fond of each other was all three of 'em."

The old man turned pale and his voice trembled so with excitement he could hardly say:

"Where is he, Jack? My G.o.d--Cap'n Tom--he's been here all this time too--an' me awonderin'--"

"Right here, Bishop--kind an' quiet and teched in his head, where the sword-hilt crushed his skull. All these years I've cared for him--me an' Ephrum, my two boys as I called 'em--him an' little Jack. An'

right here he staid contented like till little Jack died last night--then--"

"In G.o.d's name--quick!--tell me--Jack--"

"That's the worst of it--Bishop--when he found little Jack was dead he wandered off--"

"When?" almost shouted the old man.