he drew his hand down over his face with the fingers hard and close as though he pulled something away. "In time for what?" said Dix.
Abner looked him over. And I could see the muscles of his big shoulders stiffen as he looked. And again he looked him over. Then he spoke and his voice was strange. "Dix," he said, "is it you?" "Who would it be but me?" said Dix. "It might be the devil," said Abner. "Do you know what your face looks like?"
"No matter what it looks like!" said Dix. "And so," said Abner, "we have got courage with this new face."
Dix threw up his head.
"Now, look here, Abner," he said, "I've had about enough of your big manner. You ride a horse to death and you come plunging in here; what the devil's wrong with you?"
"There's nothing wrong with me," replied Abner, and his voice was low. "But there's something damnably wrong with you, Dix."
"The devil take you," said Dix, and I saw him measure Abner with his eye. It was not fear that held him back; fear was gone out of the creature; I think it was a kind of prudence.
Abner's eyes kindled, but his voice remained low and steady.
"Those are big words," he said.
"Well," cried Dix, "get out of the door then and let me pass!"
"Not just yet," said Abner; "I have something to say to you."
"Say it then," cried Dix, "and get out of the door."
"Why hurry?" said Abner. "It's a long time until daylight, and I have a good deal to say."
"You'll not say it to me," said Dix. "I've got a trip to make tonight; get out of the door."
Abner did not move. "You've got a longer trip to make tonight than you think, Dix," he said; "but you're going to hear what I have to say before you set out on it."
I saw Dix rise on his toes and I knew what he wished for. He wished for a weapon; and he wished for the bulk of bone and muscle that would have a chance against Abner. But he had neither the one nor the other. And he stood there on his toes and began to curse-low, vicious, withering oaths, that were like the swish of a knife.
Abner was looking at the man with a curious interest.
"It is strange," he said, as though speaking to himself, "but it explains the thing. While one is the servant of neither, one has the courage of neither; but when he finally makes his choice he gets what his master has to give him."
Then he spoke to Dix.
"Sit down!" he said; and it was in that deep, level voice that Abner used when he was standing close behind his words. Every man in the hills knew that voice; one had only a moment to decide after he heard it. Dix knew that, and yet for one instant he hung there on his toes, his eyes shimmering like a weasel's, his mouth twisting. He was not afraid! If he had had the ghost of a chance against Abner he would have taken it. But he knew he had not, and with an oath he threw the saddle blanket into a corner and sat down by the fire.
Abner came away from the door then. He took off his great coat. He put a log on the fire and he sat down across the hearth from Dix. The new hickory sprang crackling into flames. For a good while there was silence; the two men sat at either end of the hearth without a word. Abner seemed to have fallen into a study of the man before him. Finally he spoke:
"Dix," he said, "do you believe in the providence of God?"
Dix flung up his head.
"Abner," he cried, "if you are going to talk nonsense I promise you upon my oath that I will not stay to listen."
Abner did not at once reply. He seemed to begin now at another point.
"Dix," he said, "you've had a good deal of bad luck...Perhaps you wish it put that way."
"Now, Abner," he cried, "you speak the truth; I have had hell's luck."
"Hell's luck you have had," replied Abner. "It is a good word. I accept it. Your partner disappeared with all the money of the grazers on the other side of the river; you lost the land in your lawsuit; and you are tonight without a dollar. That was a big tract of land to lose. Where did you get so great a sum of money?"
"I have told you a hundred times," replied Dix. "I got it from my people over the mountains. You know where I got it."
"Yes," said Abner. "I know where you got it, Dix. And I know another thing. But first I want to show you this," and he took a little penknife out of his pocket. "And I want to tell you that I believe in the providence of God, Dix."
"I don't care a fiddler's damn what you believe in," said Dix.
"But you do care what I know," replied Abner.
"What do you know?" said Dix.
"I know where your partner is," replied Abner.
I was uncertain about what Dix was going to do, but finally he answered with a sneer.
"Then you know something that nobody else knows."
"Yes," replied Abner, "there is another man who knows."
"Who?" said Dix.
"You," said Abner.
Dix leaned over in his chair and looked at Abner closely.
"Abner," he cried, "you are talking nonsense. Nobody knows where Alkire is. If I knew I'd go after him."
"Dix," Abner answered, and it was again in that deep, level voice, "if I had got here five minutes later you would have gone after him. I can promise you that, Dix.
"Now, listen! I was in the upcountry when I got your word about the partnership; and I was on my way back when at Big Run I broke a stirrup-leather. I had no knife and I went into the store and bought this one; then the storekeeper told me that Alkire had gone to see you. I didn't want to interfere with him and I turned back...So I did not become your partner. And so I did not disappear...What was it that prevented? The broken stirrup-leather? The knife? In old times, Dix, men were so blind that God had to open their eyes before they could see His angel in the way before them...They are still blind, but they ought not to be that blind...Well, on the night that Alkire disappeared I met him on his way to your house. It was out there at the bridge. He had broken a stirrup-leather and he was trying to fasten it with a nail. He asked me if I had a knife, and I gave him this one. It was beginning to rain and I went on, leaving him there in the road with the knife in his hand."
Abner paused; the muscles of his great iron jaw contracted.
"God forgive me," he said; "it was His angel again! I never saw Alkire after that."
"Nobody ever saw him after that," said Dix. "He got out of the hills that night."
"No," replied Abner; "it was not in the night when Alkire started on his journey; it was in the day."
"Abner," said Dix, "you talk like a fool. If Alkire had traveled the road in the day somebody would have seen him."
"Nobody could see him on the road he traveled," replied Abner.
"What road?" said Dix.
"Dix," replied Abner, "you will learn that soon enough."
Abner looked hard at the man.
"You saw Alkire when he started on his journey," he continued; "but did you see who it was that went with him?"
"Nobody went with him," replied Dix; "Alkire rode alone."
"Not alone," said Abner; "there was another."
"I didn't see him," said Dix.
"And yet," continued Abner, "you made Alkire go with him."
I saw cunning enter Dix's face. He was puzzled, but he thought Abner off the scent.
"And I made Alkire go with somebody, did I? Well, who was it? Did you see him?"
"Nobody ever saw him."
"He must be a stranger."
"No,"