“Well, now,” the mountain-man pursued, “I been thinkin' this thing over sence you was a-speakin'. That there gal o' yourn she's in a tight box. You're the whitest man I ever run up ag'inst. You've done me better than my own brothers. My own brothers,” he repeated, a look of pain and bitterness knitting those wonderfully pencilled brows above the big eyes. “Fer my part, I'm sick o' livin' this-a-way. When you're gone, an' I'm here agin by my lonesome, I'm as apt as not to put the muzzle o' my gun in my mouth an' blow the top o' my head off--that's how I feel most o' the time. I tell you what you do, Dan: you jest put these here on me an' take me down to Garyville--er plumb on to Asheville--an' draw your money. That'll square up things fer you an' that pore little gal. What say ye?” Into Kerry's sanguine face there surged a yet deeper red; his shoulders heaved; the tears sprang to his eyes; and before his host could guess the root of his emotion the Irishman was sobbing, furiously, noisily, turned away, his head upon his arm. The humiliation of it ate into his soul; and the tooth was sharpened by his own misdeeds. How many times had he looked at the great, kindly creature across the fire there and calculated the chances of getting him to Garyville? Andy's face twisted as though he had bitten a green persimmon. “Aw! Don't _cry!_” he remonstrated, with the mountaineer's quick contempt for expressed emotion. “My Lord! Dan, don't--” “I'll cry if I damn please!” Kerry snorted. “You old fool! Me a-draggin' you down to Garyville! Me, that's loved you like a brother! An' never had no thought--an' never had no thought--Oh, hell!” he broke off, at the bitter irony of the lie; then the sobs broke forth afresh. To deny that he had come to arrest the outlaw was so pitifully futile. “So ye won't git the money that-a-way?” Andy's big voice ruminated, and a strange note of relief sounded in it; a curious gleam leaped into the sombre eyes. But he added, softly: “Sleep on it, bud; I'll let ye change your mind in the mornin'.” “You shut your head!” screeched Kerry, fiercely, with a hiccough of wrenching misery. “You talk to me any more like that, an' I'll lambaste ye--er try to--big as ye are! Oh, damnation!” The last night in the cave was one of gusty, moving breezes and brilliant moonlight, yet both its tenants slept profoundly, after their strange outburst of emotion. The first gray of dawn found them stirring, and Kerry making ready for his return journey. Together, as heretofore, they prepared their meal, then sat down in silence to eat it. Suddenly the mountain-man raised his eyes, to whose grave beauty the Irishman's temperament responded like that of a woman, and said, quietly, “I'm a-goin' to tell ye somethin', an' then I'm a-goin' to show ye somethin'.”