The other nodded. "Simpson is sitting on the front porch and I'm supposed to be in bed." Jake chuckled. "Cap an' th' boys air way up th' holler after Bill Davis, an' I'm in the bresh er watchin' you. Now let's git down ter biz right sharp." Whitley soon told enough of his story, omitting names and places, to let his companion understand the situation. When he had finished, Jake took a long pull from a bottle, and then said slowly: "An' ye want me ter put that feller what holds th' papers out o' yer' way?" Whitley nodded. "It'll pay you a lot better than shooting government agents, and not half the risk." "What'll ye give me?" "You can name your own price?" The outlaw's face glittered and he answered in a hoarse whisper, "I'll do hit. What's his name, an' whar'll I find him?" "Richard Falkner. He lives in Boyd City--" Slowly the man who had just agreed to commit a murder for money rose to his feet and stepped backward until half the width of the room was between them. The other, alarmed at the expression in his companion's face, rose also, and for several minutes the silence was only broken by the crackling of the burning wood in the fireplace, the shrill chirp of a cricket and the plaintive call of a whip-poor-will from without. Then with a look of superstitious awe and terror upon his thin face, the moonshiner gasped, in a choking voice, "Boyd City--Richard Falkner--Mister, aint yo' mistaken? Say, ar' ye right shor'?" Whitley replied, with an oath, "What's the matter with you? You look as though you had seen a ghost." The ignorant villain started and glanced over his shoulder to the dark corner of the cabin; "Thar' might be a ha'nt here, shor' 'nough," he whispered hoarsely. "Do yo' know whar' ye air, Mister?" Then as Whitley remained silent, he continued: "This here's th' house whar' Dickie Falkner war' borned; an' whar' his mammy died; an'--an' I'm Jake Tompkins; me 'n his daddy war' pards." Whitley was dazed. He looked around the room as though in a dream; then slowly he realized his situation and a desperate resolve crept into his heart. Carefully his hand moved beneath his coat until he felt the handle of a long knife, while he edged closer to his companion. The other seemed not to notice, and continued, as though talking to himself: "Little Dickie Falkner. Him what fed me when I war' starvin', an' gimme his last nickel when he war' hungry hisself; an' yo' want me ter kill him."--He drew a long shuddering breath. "Mister, yo' shor' made 'er bad mistake this time." "I'll fix it though," cried Whitley; and with an awful oath he leaped forward, the knife uplifted. But the keen eye of the man used to danger, had seen his stealthy preparation, and his wrist was caught in a grasp of iron. The city-bred villain was no match for his mountain-trained companion and the struggle was short.