"Same here," agreed Bob; "he was sure a first-rate kind of a crowbait.But Bolivar, he'll pull us through all right.Reckon we'd better be movin' on, hadn't we, Shark? I'll bag this boodle ag'in and we'll hit the trail for higher timber."Bob Tidball replaced the spoil in the bag and tied the mouth of it tightly with a cord.When he looked up the most prominent object that he saw was the muzzle of Shark Dodson's.45 held upon him without a waver.
"Stop your funnin'," said Bob, with a grin."We got to be hittin' the breeze.""Set still," said Shark."You ain't goin' to hit no breeze, Bob.I hate to tell you, but there ain't any chance for but one of us.Bolivar, he's plenty tired, and he can't carry double.""We been pards, me and you, Shark Dodson, for three year," Bob said quietly."We've risked our lives together time and again.I've always give you a square deal, and I thought you was a man.I've heard some queer stories about you shootin' one or two men in a peculiar way, but I never believed 'em.Now if you're just havin'
a little fun with me, Shark, put your gun up, and we'll get on Bolivar and vamose.If you mean to shoot --shoot, you blackhearted son of a tarantula!"Shark Dodson's face bore a deeply sorrowful look.
"You don't know how bad I feel," he sighed, "about that sorrel of yourn breakin' his leg, Bob."The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity.
The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.
Truly Bob Tidball was never to "hit the breeze" again.
The deadly.45 of the false friend cracked and filled the gorge with a roar that the walls hurled back with indignant echoes.And Bolivar, unconscious accomplice, swiftly bore away the last of the holders-up of the "Sunset Express," not put to the stress of "carrying double."But as "Shark" Dodson galloped away the woods seemed to fade from his view; the revolver in his right hand turned to the curved arm of a mahogany chair; his saddle was strangely upholstered, and he opened his eyes and saw his feet, not in stirrups, but resting quietly on the edge of a quartered-oak desk.
I am telling you that Dodson, of the firm of Dodson & Decker, Wall Street brokers, opened his eyes.Peabody, the confidential clerk, was standing by his chair, hesitating to speak.There was a confused hum of wheels below, and the sedative buzz of an electric fan.
"Ahem! Peabody," said Dodson, blinking."I must have fallen asleep.I had a most remarkable dream.
What is it, Peabody?"
"Mr.Williams, sir, of Tracy & Williams, is outside.
He has come to settle his deal in X.Y.Z.The market caught him short, sir, if you remember.""Yes, I remember.What is X.Y.Z.quoted at to-day, Peabody?""One eighty-five, sir."
"Then that's his price."
"Excuse me," said Peabody, rather nervously "for speaking of it, but I've been talking to Williams.He's an old friend of yours, Mr.Dodson, and you practically have a corner in X.Y.Z.I thought you might -- that is, I thought you might not remember that he sold you the stock at 98.If he settles at the market price it will take every cent he has in the world and his home too to deliver the shares."The expression on Dodson's face changed in an instant to one of cold ferocity mingled with inexorable cupidity.
The soul of the man showed itself for a moment like an evil face in the window of a reputable house.
"He will settle at one eighty-five," said Dodson.
"Bolivar cannot carry double."
A BLACKJACK BARGAINER
The most disreputable thing in Yancey Goree's law office was Goree himself, sprawled in his creakv old arm-chair.The rickety little office, built of red brick, was set flush with the street -- the main street of the town of Bethel.
Bethel rested upon the foot-hills of the Blue Ridge.
Above it the mountains were piled to the sky.Far below it the turbid Catawba gleamed yellow along its disconsolate valley.
The June day was at its sultriest hour.Bethel dozed in the tepid shade.Trade was not.It was so still that Goree, reclining in his chair, distinctly heard the clicking of the chips in the grand-jury room, where the "court-house gang" was playing poker.From the open back door of the office a well-worn path meandered across the grassy lot to the court-house.The treading out of that path had cost Goree all he ever had -- first inheritance of a few thousand dollars, next the old family home, and, latterly the last shreds of his self-respect and manhood.
The "gang" had cleaned him out.The broken gambler had turned drunkard and parasite; he had lived to see this day come when the men who had stripped him denied him a seat at the game.His word was no longer to be taken.The daily bouts at cards had arranged itself accordingly, and to him was assigned the ignoble part of the onlooker.The sheriff, the county clerk, a sportive deputy, a gay attorney, and a chalk-faced man hailing "from the valley," sat at table, and the sheared one was thus tacitly advised to go and grow more wool.
Soon wearying of his ostracism, Goree had departed for his office, muttering to himself as he unsteadily tra-versed the unlucky pathway.After a drink of corn whiskey from a demijohn under the table, he had flung himself into the chair, staring, in a sort of maudlin apathy, out at the mountains immersed in the summer haze.
The little white patch he saw away up on the side of Blackjack was Laurel, the village near which he had been born and bred.There, also, was the birthplace of the feud between the Gorees and the Coltranes.Now no direct heir of the Gorees survived except this plucked and singed bird of misfortune.To the Coltranes, also, but one male supporter was left -- Colonel Abner Col-trane, a man of substance and standing, a member of the State Legislature, and a contemporary with Goree's father.The feud had been a typical one of the region;it had left a red record of hate, wrong and slaughter.
