and these things showed about his face. But there was none of these weaknesses in this man.
His face had been pulled into planes of firmness and decision; the slack in his features had been taken up; the furtive moving of the eye was gone. He stood now squarely on his feet and he was full of courage. But I was afraid of him as I have never been afraid of any human creature in this world! Something that had been servile in him, that had skulked behind disguises, that had worn the habiliments of subterfuge, had now come forth; and it had molded the features of the man to its abominable courage.
Presently he began to move swiftly about the room. He looked out at the window and he listened at the door; then he went softly into the covered way. I thought he was going on his journey; but then he could not be going with his boots there beside the fire. In a moment he returned with a saddle blanket in his hand and came softly across the room to the ladder.
Then I understood the thing that he intended, and I was motionless with fear. I tried to get up, but I could not. I could only lie there with my eye strained to the crack in the floor. His foot was on the ladder, and I could already feel his hand on my throat and that blanket on my face, and the suffocation of death in me, when far away on the hard road I heard a horse!
He heard it, too, for he stopped on the ladder and turned his evil face about toward the door. The horse was on the long hill beyond the bridge, and he was coming as though the devil rode in his saddle. It was a hard, dark night. The frozen road was like flint; I could hear the iron of the shoes ring. Whoever rode that horse rode for his life or for something more than his life, or he was mad. I heard the horse strike the bridge and thunder across it. And all the while Dix hung there on the ladder by his hands and listened. Now he sprang softly down, pulled on his boots and stood up before the fire, his face—this new face—gleaming with its evil courage. The next moment the horse stopped.
I could hear him plunge under the bit, his iron shoes ripping the frozen road; then the door leaped back and my Uncle Abner was in the room. I was so glad that my heart almost choked me and for a moment I could hardly see—everything was in a sort of mist.
Abner swept the room in a glance, then he stopped.
"Thank God!" he said; "I'm in time." And 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 to-night 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