“Oh, yes; I know where it is, Floyd.” “Well, you will do me a favor if you will ride out to Wade’s and tell him I’ll meet him there. He could reach it without coming through town, and we’d escape a lot of prying people who would be in the way.” “That’s a good idea,” said Jones, his strong face lighting up. “Yes, I’ll go tell ’im. I’m glad to see that you are a man o’ backbone, Floyd. Some ’lowed you’d throw up the sponge an’ leave fer parts unknown, but Jeff’s got to tackle the rale stuff. I kin see that, Floyd. Minnie Wade raised a lots o’ devilment, an’ my wife says whatever rumors spread about her was her own fault. But Jeff cayn’t be expected to see it through a woman’s eyes. I wish you was goin’ to meet a man that wasn’t sech a dead shot. I seed Jeff knock a squirrel out of a high tree with his six-shooter that three men had missed with rifles.” “I’ll try to take care of myself, Mel. But you’d better hurry up and get to him before he starts to town.” “Oh, I’ll git ’im all right,” said the farmer, and he went out to the hitching-rack, jumped on his horse and galloped away. The group Jones had been talking to now drew near, their eyes and mouths open. “It’s all off, boys,” Pole said, with one of his inscrutable laughs. “Explanations an’ apologies has been exchanged—no gore today. It was a big mistake all round.” This version soon spread, and a sigh of relief went up from everybody. Fifteen minutes passed. Pole was standing in the front door of the store, cautiously watching Floyd, who had gone back to his desk to write a letter. Suddenly Pole missed him from his place. “He’s tryin’ to give me the slip,” Pole said. “He’s gone out at the back door and has made fer the spring. Well, he kin _think_ he’s throwed old Pole off, but he hain’t by a jugful. I know now which road Jeff Wade will come by, an’ I’ll see that skunk before Nelson does or no prayers hain’t answered.” He went out to the hitching-rack, mounted, and, waving his hand to the few bystanders who were eying him curiously, rode away, his long legs swinging back and forth from the flanks of his horse. A quarter of a mile outside of the village he came to a portion of the road leading to Jeff Wade’s house that was densely shaded, and there he drew rein and dismounted. “Thar hain’t no other way fer ’im to come,” he said, “an’ he’s my meat—that is, unless the damn fool kin be fetched to reason.” CHAPTER VIII