"Too bad; too bad," muttered Uncle Bobbie, when Frank had finished.

"To-be-sure, taint no more'n I expected; gamblin' church members ain't got no call to kick if their children play cards fer money. What'll we do, d.i.c.k?"

d.i.c.k was silent, but unseen by Frank, he motioned toward the door.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Too bad, too bad, muttered Uncle Bobbie."]

Uncle Bobbie understood. "I reckon yer right," he said, slowly, "tares an' wheat--tares an' wheat. But what about them notes?"

"I'll fix Whitley," replied d.i.c.k.

Frank looked at him in wonder.

"Air you sure you can do it?" asked Uncle Bobbie; "'cause if you can't--"

"Sure," replied d.i.c.k; "I'll write him a line tonight." Then to Frank: "You can go now, sir, and don't worry about Jim Whitley; he will never trouble you by collecting the notes."

Frank, stammering some unintelligible reply, rose to his feet.

"Wait a bit young man," said Uncle Bobbie, "I want to tell ye somethin'

before ye go. To-be-sure, I don't think ye'll ever be a very _bad_ citizen, but you've shown pretty clearly that ye can be a mighty mean one. An' I'm afraid ye'll never be much credit to the church, 'cause a feller's got to be a _man_ before he can be much of a Christian.

Pieces of men like you don't count much on either side; they just sort o' fill in. But what ye want to do is to quit tryin' so blamed hard to be respectable and be _decent_. Now run on home to yer maw and don't tell n.o.body where ye've been to-night. Mr. Falkner he will look after yer friend Whitley."

CHAPTER XXII

The sun was nearly three hours high above the western hilltops in the mountain district of Arkansas, as a solitary horseman stopped in the shadow of the timber that fringed the edge of a deep ravine. It was evident from the man's dress, that he was not a native of that region; and from the puzzled expression on his face, as he looked anxiously about, it was clear that he had lost his way. Standing in the stirrups he turned and glanced back over the bridle path along which he had come, and then peered carefully through the trees to the right and left; then with an impatient oath, he dropped to the saddle and sat staring straight ahead at a lone pine upon the top of a high hill a few miles away.

"There's the hill with the signal tree beyond Simpson's all right,"

he said, "but how in thunder am I to get there; this path don't go any farther, that's sure," and from the distant mountain he turned his gaze to the deep gulch that lay at his feet.

Suddenly he leaned forward with another exclamation. He had caught sight of a log cabin in the bottom of the ravine, half hidden by the bushes and low trees that grew upon the steep banks. Turning his horse, he rode slowly up and down for some distance, searching for an easy place to descend, coming back at last to the spot where he had first halted. "It's no go, Salem," he said; "we've got to slide for it," and dismounting, he took the bridle rein in his hand and began to pick his way as best he could, down the steep incline, while his four-footed companion reluctantly followed. After some twenty minutes of stumbling and swearing on the part of the man, and slipping and groaning on the part of the horse, they stood panting at the bottom. After a short rest, the man clambered into the saddle again, and fording a little mountain brook that laughed and sang and roared among the boulders, rode up to the clearing in which the cabin stood.

"h.e.l.lo!" he shouted.

There was no answer, and but for the thread of smoke that curled lazily from the mud and stick chimney, the place seemed deserted.

"h.e.l.lo!" he called again.

A gaunt hound came rushing from the underbrush beyond the house, and with hair bristling in anger, howled his defiance and threats.

Again the horseman shouted, and this time the cabin door opened cautiously and a dirty-faced urchin thrust forth a tousled head.

"Where's your father?"

The head was withdrawn, and a moment later put forth again.

"He's done gone ter th' corners."

"Well, can you tell me the way to Simpson's? I don't know how to get out of this infernal hole."

Again the head disappeared for a few seconds, and then the door was thrown wide open and a slovenly woman, with a snuff stick in one corner of her mouth, came out, followed by four children. The youngest three clung to her skirts and stared, with fearful eyes, at the man on the horse, while he of the tousled head threw stones at the dog and commanded him, in a shrill voice, to "shet up, dad burn ye Kinney, shet up. He's all right."

"Wanter go ter Simpson's at the corners, do ye?" said the woman.

"Wal, yer right smart offen yer road."

"I know that," replied the stranger, impatiently; "I've been hunting turkeys and lost my way. But can't I get to the corners from here?"

"Sure ye kin. Jes' foller on down the branch 'bout three mile till ye come out on the big road; hit'll take ye straight ter th' ford below ol' Ball whar' the lone tree is. Simpson's is 'bout half a quarter on yon side the creek."

The man thanked her gruffly, and turning his horse, started away.

"Be you'ns the feller what's stoppin' at Sim's ter hunt?" she called after him.

"Yes, I'm the man," he answered, "Good-evening." And he rode into the bushes.

Catching the oldest urchin by the arm, the woman gave him a vigorous cuff on the side of the head and then whispered a few words in his attentive ear. The lad started off down the opposite side of the ravine at a run, bending low and dodging here and there, unseen by the stranger.

The hunter pushed on his way down the narrow valley as fast as he could go, for he had no time to spare if he would reach his stopping-place before night, and he knew that there was small chance of finding the way back after dark; but his course was so rough and obstructed by heavy undergrowth, fallen trees and boulders, that his progress was slow and the shadow of the mountain was over the trail while he was still a mile from the road at the end of the ravine. As he looked anxiously ahead, hoping every moment to see the broader valley where the road lay, he caught a glimpse of two men coming toward him, one behind the other, winding in and out through the low timber. While still some distance away, they turned sharply to the left, and as it seemed to him, rode straight into the side of the mountain and were lost to sight.

Checking his horse, he watched for them to come into view again, and while he waited, wondering at their strange disappearance, the men urged their mules up a narrow gulley that was so hidden by the undergrowth and fallen timber as to escape an eye untrained to the woods and hills. After riding a short distance, they dismounted, and leaving the animals, quickly scaled the steep sides of the little cut and came out in an open s.p.a.ce about two hundred yards above the trail along which the solitary horseman must pa.s.s. Dropping behind the trunk of a big tree that lay on the mountain side, uprooted by some gale and blackened by forest fires, they searched the valley below with the keen glance of those whose eyes are never dimmed by printed page or city lights. Dressed in the rude garb of those to whom clothes are a necessity, not a means of display, tall and lean with hard muscles, tough sinews and cruel stony faces, they seemed a part of the wild life about them; and yet withal, there was a touch of the mountain grandeur in their manner, and in the unconscious air of freedom and self-reliance, as there always is about everything that remains untouched by the conventionality of the weaker world of men.

"'Bout time he showed up, aint it, Jake?" said one as he carefully rested his rifle against the log and bit off a big piece of long green twist tobacco.

"Hit's a right smart piece ter ol' Josh's shack an' th' kid done come in a whoop," returned the other, following his companion's example.

"He can't make much time down that branch on hoss back an' with them fine clothes of his, but he orten ter be fur off."

"D'ye reckon he's a durned revenoo sure, Jake?"

"Dunno, best be safe," with an ugly scowl. "Simpson 'lows he's jes'

layin' low hisself, but ye can't tell."

"What'd Sim say his name war?"

"Jim Whitley," returned the other, taking a long careful look up the valley.

"An' whar' from?"

"Sim say St. Louie, or some place like that. Sh--thar' he comes."

They half rose and crouching behind the log, pushed the c.o.c.ked rifles through the leaves of a little bush, covering the horseman below.

"If he's a revenoo he'll sure see th' path ter th' still," whispered the one called Jake; "an' if he turns ter foller hit into th' cut drap him. If he goes on down th' branch, all right."

All unconscious of the rifles that wanted only the touch of an outlaw's finger to speak his death, the stranger pushed on his way past the unseen danger point toward the end of the valley where lay the road.

The lean mountaineers looked at each other. "Never seed hit," said one, showing his yellow teeth in a mirthless grin; "an' I done tole Cap las' night, hit was es plain es er main traveled road an' orter be kivered."