“I have my reasons fer believin' like you do,” said Pole. “You say you have.” Pole glanced furtively over his shoulder at his cabin to see that no one was within hearing, then said: “You know Winship is old Fred Parson's nephew. Well, old Fred's always been a stanch friend to me. We moonshined it together two yeer, though he never knowed my chief hidin'-place. In fact, nobody knows about that spot, Uncle Ab, even now. Well, I had a talk with him an' axed his opinion about his nephew. He talks as straight as a shingle, an' he ain't no idiot. He says it's all bosh about Winship takin' away all that boodle.” “He does, does he?” Abner nodded, as if to himself. “Yes, and he don't claim Winship ain't guilty, nuther; he jest holds that he was too small a dabbler in devilment. He thinks, as I do, that Craig run 'im off with threats of arrest an' picked that chance to bu'st. He thinks Winship's in a safe place an' never will be fetched back.” Abner drew himself up straight. “Have you talked to Alan an' Miller on that line?” “Tried to,” grunted Pole, in high disgust, “but Miller says it's no good to think of accusin' Craig. He says we can' t prove a thing on 'im, unless we ketch Winship. He says that sort of a steal is the easiest thing on earth, an' that it's done every day. But that's beca'se he was fetched up in the law,” Pole finished. “We-uns out heer in the mountains kin fish up other ways o' fetchin' a scamp to time without standin' 'im up before a thick-headed jury, or lettin' 'im out on bond till he dies o' old age. You've got sense enough to know that, Uncle Ab.” The slanting rays of the setting sun struck the old man in the face. There was a tinkle of cow-bells in the pasture below the cabin. The outlaw in Pole Baker was a thing Abner Daniel deplored; and yet, to-day it was a straw bobbing about on the troubled waters of the old man' s soul towards which, if he did not extend his hand, he looked interestedly. A grim expression stole into his face, drawing the merry lines down towards his chin. “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” he said. Pole Baker grunted in sheer derision. “I've done fool things whar thar wasn't a thing to be made by 'em. By gum! I'd do ten dozen fer jest a bare chance o' shakin' that wad o' cash in Alan Bishop's face, an' so would you, dern yore hide--so would you, Uncle Ab Daniel!” Abner blinked at the red sun. “The boy's been bad treated,” he said, evasively; “bad, bad, bad! It's squeezed life an' hope out o' him.” “Well, you are a church-member, an' so _fur_ in good-standin',” said Pole, “an' I ain't agoin' to pull you into no devilment; but ef I see any way--I say _ef_ I see any way, I 'll come an' tell you the news.” “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy,” said Abner, and turned to go. He paused a few paces away and said, “I wouldn't do nothin' foolhardy, Pole.” He motioned towards the cabin. “You've got them in thar to look after.”