“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 pen and ink from his pants pocket and unfolded a sheet of paper. “Git to work,” he said. “You needn't try to turn me, you damned 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 fresh hold on the handle of his weapon. “I'm not goin' to waste time with you. Either you git me Alan Bishop's money or you 'll die. Hurry up!” “Will you keep faith with me--if--if--” “Yes, durn you, why wouldn't I?” A gleam of triumph flashed in the outlaw's eyes. Up to this moment he had been groping in experimental darkness. He now saw his way clearly and his voice rang with dawning triumph. The ex-banker had taken the pen and Pole spread out the sheet of paper on his knee. “What assurance have I?” stammered 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 I would prosecute you. I wouldn't, as God is my judge, but you might be afraid--” “I'm not afraid o' nothin',” said Pole. “Old man, you couldn't handle me without puttin' yorese'f in jail fer the rest o' yore life. That order's a-goin' to be proof that you have money when you've swore publicly that you didn't. No; when I'm paid back Alan Bishop's money I 'll let you go. I don't want to kill a man fer jest tryin' to steal an' not makin' 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 ridin' peert I can let you out before sundown. You may git a late supper at Darley, but it's a sight better'n gittin' none heer an' no bed to speak of.” “I'm putting my life in your hands, Baker,” said Craig, and with an unsteady hand he began 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 twenty-five thousand dollars deposited in the bank by the Bishops. You see I'm not goin' to tote no order fer money I hain't no right to. An' I 'll tell you another 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 fer this, they 'll never make me tell whar you are. I'd wait until you'd pegged out, anyway.”