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 fusillade of artillery. “You see that rock behind you, Mr. Craig?” asked Pole. “Well, set down on it. Before we go any furder, me'n you've got to have a understanding.” The old man stared hesitatingly for an instant, and then, after carefully feeling of the stone, he complied. “I thought we already--but, of course,” he said, haltingly, “I'm ready to agree to anything that 'll make you feel safe.” “I kinder 'lowed you would,'' and to Craig's overwhelming astonishment Pole drew a revolver from his hip-pocket and looked at it, twirling the cylinder with a deft thumb. “You mean, Baker--'' But Craig's words remained unborn in his bewildered 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 heer fer a purpose, Mr. Craig, an' thar ain't any use in beatin' about the bush to git at it.” Craig made another effort at utterance, but failed. Pole could hear his rapid breathing and see the terrified gleaming of his wide-open eyes. “You've had a lots o' dealin' s, Mr. Craig,” said Pole. “You've made yore mistakes an' had yore good luck, but 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 beginning 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 'im more than a brother. That man you've robbed of every dollar an' hope on earth. I've fetched you heer 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 twenty-five thousand dollars 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 damn bad fix,” said 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 a helpless man?” The words were like a prayer. “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.